Brandon Coyle's wife : a sequel to "A skeleton in the closet"

By Southworth

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Title: Brandon Coyle's wife
a sequel to "A skeleton in the closet"

Author: Emma Dorothy Eliza Nevitte Southworth

Release date: November 22, 2025 [eBook #77295]

Language: English

Original publication: New York: G.W. Dillingham, 1878

Credits: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.)

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRANDON COYLE'S WIFE ***

BRANDON COYLE’S WIFE.

BRANDON COYLE’S WIFE
A SEQUEL TO
“A SKELETON IN THE CLOSET.”

MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH,

_Author of “‘Em,’” “The Unloved Wife,” “Unknown,” “Gloria,” “The Hidden
Hand,” “For Woman’s Love,” “A Leap in the Dark,” “The Lost Lady of
Lone,” etc., etc._

[Illustration: [Logo]]

NEW YORK:
_G. W. Dillingham Co., Publishers_,
MDCCCXCVIII.

(_All rights reserved._)

CONTENTS

CHAPTER I. A REJECTED BRIDEGROOM.
CHAPTER II. OUR EXILE.
CHAPTER III. A SHOCK.
CHAPTER IV. THE WANDERER.
CHAPTER V. THE SEARCH.
CHAPTER VI. THE DISCOVERY.
CHAPTER VII. DAWNING DAY.
CHAPTER VIII. MORE DISCOVERIES.
CHAPTER IX. KIT’S HOME.
CHAPTER X. KIT’S DAYS.
CHAPTER XI. A DEMON’S DEED.
CHAPTER XII. A FATAL JOURNEY.
CHAPTER XIII. ENTRAPPED.
CHAPTER XIV. ARRESTED.
CHAPTER XV. HOW THE MURDER WAS DISCOVERED.
CHAPTER XVI. VALDIMIR DESPARDE’S EXAMINATION.
CHAPTER XVII. THE RESULT.
CHAPTER XVIII. A STORM OF TROUBLE.
CHAPTER XIX. THAT SECRET.
CHAPTER XX. AT CASTLE MONTJOIE.
CHAPTER XXI. DREAM OR VISION?
CHAPTER XXII. MYSTERIES.
CHAPTER XXIII. VIVIENNE’S WOE.
CHAPTER XXIV. ARIELLE’S VISITORS ARRIVE.
CHAPTER XXV. THE TEST OF LOVE.
CHAPTER XXVI. A VISIT TO VALDIMIR.
CHAPTER XXVII. ANTOINETTE.
CHAPTER XXVIII. ANTOINETTE’S REPARATION.
CHAPTER XXIX. THE MEETING.
CHAPTER XXX. A LOVE CHASE.
CHAPTER XXXI. FROM BEYOND.
CHAPTER XXXII. DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN.
CHAPTER XXXIII. THE TRIAL.
CHAPTER XXXIV. THE ARRAIGNMENT.
CHAPTER XXXV. THE VERDICT.
CHAPTER XXXVI. VICTORY.
CHAPTER XXXVII. AT DELORAINE PARK.
CHAPTER XXXVIII. THOSE BITTER, BITTER WORDS.
CHAPTER XXXIX. MR. ADRIAN FLEMING’S EXPEDITION.
CHAPTER XL. WHAT THOSE BITTER WORDS MEANT.
CHAPTER XLI. LORD BEAUDEVERE’S STORY TOLD BY A CHRISTMAS FIRESIDE.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

BRANDON COYLE’S WIFE.

CHAPTER I.
A REJECTED BRIDEGROOM.

He’ll be forgotten—like old debts
By persons who are used to borrow;
Forgotten—like the sun that sets,
When shines the new one on the morrow;
Forgotten like the luscious peach
That blessed the school-boy last September;
Forgotten—like the maiden speech,
That all men praise and none remember.
PRAED.

“I am not, I never was, and never can be, the betrothed of Mr. Brandon
Coyle; therefore there can be no marriage ceremony performed now, or
ever, between that person and myself.”

These words fell with a stupefying effect upon the ears of the assembled
company.

“Have we heard aright?” they asked themselves.

“Oh, she is mad!” muttered Brandon Coyle, recovering his speech, of
which the shock had momentarily deprived him. “Her head is turned! Her
words are false as reckless upon the very face of them! The whole
neighborhood knows of our betrothal, indorsed by her grandfather!”

“_My dear!_” said Lord Beaudevere, in a low tone of surprise, pain and
expostulation, while all the company except Net Fleming looked on in
wonder as to what they had heard and seen, and what was to be expected
further.

Brandon Coyle, his lips grimly shut, his face pale, and his eyes on
fire, strode up to the table and fixed his gaze upon the face of the
young lady, as if in his madness he fancied that his look could quell
her.

But she would not meet his eyes. She kept hers fixed on the table, while
she resumed her speech:

“You are all surprised and incredulous; but I will explain and convince
you. At the time Mr. Brandon Coyle asked my hand of my grandfather, the
late earl, he was not free to contract marriage. Neither my grandfather
nor myself knew this fact at the time. My grandfather died in ignorance
of it. I have only known it for a very few days.”

“IT IS FALSE!! It is false as——!!! Some enemy has abused this lady’s ear
with a base slander!” burst forth Brandon Coyle in a fury, as he struck
his clenched hand down upon the table.

“This is very painful! Very painful indeed! This is a serious charge to
bring against your affianced husband, the man once accepted by yourself,
and approved by your grandfather, my dear,” said Lord Beaudevere, in a
tone of remonstrance.

“I do not pretend to know what she means by it!” exclaimed Coyle, in a
voice full of affected sorrow.

“What reason have you for your words, my daughter?” inquired the priest.

“If there be any grounds for this charge, Lady Arielle,” said the
lawyer, in slow and measured syllables, “your friends would like to hear
them.”

“He was married on the ninth of last September to a young woman named
Christelle Ken, of the village of Miston—”

“It is as false as——!!!” exclaimed Coyle, losing all self-control, and
falling into bad language.

“Brandon! Brandon! recollect yourself, my _dear_ boy! Arielle, my child,
this is a very extraordinary charge!” said the baron, who was beginning
to be very much distressed and perplexed.

“I can _prove_ the charge, Lord Beaudevere. This letter was written to
me by his wife. I received it on the day that my dear grandfather was
attacked with his last and fatal sickness. Inclosed you will find the
marriage certificate. Will you pass both to Mr. Brandon Coyle and let
him examine them, and decide whether he will leave me now in peace, or
whether he will compel me to a further exposure of his evil deeds?”

Lord Beaudevere took the letter and handed it to Coyle, who received it
with a scowl.

“A forgery! A falsehood! An impudent imposition!” he exclaimed, as soon
as he had glanced at the contents; and he tore it fiercely into pieces
and threw it upon the floor.

Lord Beaudevere then handed him the marriage “lines” of poor Kit.

“Why do you insult me with this thing? A farce!” he exclaimed, as he
seized and tore the second paper.

“Gentlemen,” he continued, more calmly, “these are miserable tricks of
some enemy bent on injuring me and annoying my promised bride. And but
that they _have_ disturbed Lady Arielle, they would be beneath contempt.
Surely you need not regard such base trifles?”

“Where did you get these papers, my dear?” inquired Lord Beaudevere.

“One moment, my lord. I wish to ask that person if he really pretends to
hold me to any engagement.”

“Most certainly I do,” distinctly answered Coyle.

“And to deny the authenticity of these documents?”

“Assuredly I do!”

“Then you compel me to prove their authenticity by exposing you more
fully,” said Lady Arielle; and turning her head to where Net stood
vailed, she asked:

“Mrs. Fleming, will you come here to my support?”

Net left her seat, walked around the table and stood at the back of
Arielle’s chair, with one hand on the girl’s shoulder.

“Question Mrs. Fleming, my lord. I do not think she will like to tell
the story except in answer to questions,” said Arielle.

At the sight of Net, Brandon Coyle had staggered back and dropped upon a
seat, with every vestige of color drained from his dark face.

“My dear, do you really know anything certain about this strange story
that has been brought to Lady Arielle? Is there a shadow of truth in
it?” inquired Lord Beaudevere, still incredulous and bewildered.

“Mrs. Fleming is my bitter enemy. Her testimony should not be taken
against me!” exclaimed Brandon Coyle, madly.

“I am no man’s enemy, and so little yours that I am pained that justice
obliges me to speak of you as I must do,” said Net, gently.

Then turning to Lord Beaudevere she answered him, saying:

“I know this much—that Mr. Brandon Coyle is either legally married to
Christelle Ken, the daughter of James Ken, the fisherman, of Miston, or
else he has deceived her by a false marriage. Yes, Lord Beaudevere, this
is absolutely true. I could tell you much more to the point if
necessary, but the subject is a painful one. Besides, I do not think Mr.
Brandon Coyle will deny the facts to _me_, to whom he promised ten days
ago that in one week from that date he would do justice to the girl by
acknowledging her as his wife.”

While Net spoke, Brandon Coyle sat shaking with rage and fear as with an
ague. His castles in the air were tumbling all around him, and
threatening even to crush him under their ruins.

“Where is this girl, my dear?” mildly inquired the distressed baron.

“_Ay! where is she?_” fiercely demanded Brandon Coyle. “Produce her! If
she is my wife, let her come forward and face me with the claim! _Where
is she?_”

“Where is she, my dear Mrs. Fleming?” inquired the baron.

“Mr. Brandon Coyle is most probably the only person here who can answer
that question; for, on the very night before the day upon which he had
promised to acknowledge her, she disappeared from my house, and has not
been heard of since. Her parents are in the deepest distress at her
strange absence. Mr. Brandon Coyle probably knows her whereabouts,”
gravely answered Net.

“I know nothing about the infernal girl!” frantically exclaimed Coyle.
“It is a base conspiracy to ruin me!”

Here old Mr. Coyle arose to his feet and advanced until he stood face to
face with his nephew, when—wiping his round, close-cropped, silver-gray
head until it shone like a metallic ball, as was his custom when heated
or excited—he burst forth with a torrent of indignation:

“Conspiracy or _not_ conspiracy, sir, I charge you to disprove these
accusations before you ever dare to set foot in my house again! If they
are true, sir—if they are true, by—” (here the old squire sealed his
earnestness with an oath not to be recorded)—“I will bequeath Caveland
and all my money to found an asylum for unconvicted _thieves_ and
_cut-throats_ before I will leave you one shilling!”

“You are all against me!” fiercely exclaimed Coyle, with the aspect of a
hyena at bay.

“You evil son of an evil father, acquit yourself of this charge, or
never look me in the face again!” exclaimed Old Coyle, turning away, and
trotting back to his seat.

Net, feeling somehow as if she were a witness subpœnaed on a trial in a
court of justice, said:

“Nothing, indeed, but the strongest conviction of duty would cause me to
make the disclosures I am about to do. Mr. Brandon Coyle has said that
he would not know Kit Ken if she were now to enter this room. Yet, I
myself have seen Mr. Brandon Coyle in the company of Kit Ken, under
circumstances that convinced me that he was her lover.

“It was on the night of November the twenty-first, long after midnight
and near morning, when I was awakened out of sleep by the noise of
something falling. Thinking nothing worse had happened than that our cat
had knocked some of the crockery down off the dresser, I arose, lighted
a candle, and went into the kitchen, where I found Mr. Brandon Coyle.”

The old squire groaned aloud and suppressed an oath.

“Bah!” exclaimed Coyle, defiantly. “I explained to Mrs. Fleming, at the
time, how it was! I had arrived from London by the midnight train;
taking the short cut from Miston to Caveland, had come down the church
lane, passing Bird’s Nest Cottage, saw that the careless inmates—women
and children, don’t you know—had left the door open all night, went in
through the darkness to the kitchen to call the negligent servant to
remedy the mistake, and—fell over the coal-scuttle! The noise aroused
the lady of the house, who came forth, and finding me standing in the
middle of the kitchen caressing my aggrieved shin, immediately accused
me of—the fiend knows what! Coming after the silver spoons, I think, was
the first form of the indictment! Of course, as I said before, I
explained the good intention that had brought me to the house; but she
would not believe me! She does not believe me now even though she must
have found her silver plate all right,” he added, in a tone of assumed
jollity and recklessness.

No one, however, paid any serious attention to his words; but Dr. Bennet
requested Mrs. Fleming to proceed.

Net resumed her account of the night’s alarm:

“On my demanding of the intruder the meaning of his presence in my house
at such an unseemly hour, he did, indeed, attempt such an explanation as
he has offered here; but I knew his excuse to be false on the very face
of it, and told him so. I suspected, also, his real errand, and told him
that; I then demanded that he should give me his solemn promise never to
approach my premises again, and never to see or speak to Kit Ken again,
unless it was to make her his wife.”

“And what did the vagabond say to that?” demanded the old squire.

“He asked me what would be the consequence of his refusal to comply with
such absurd demands. I told him that I should go the next day and lay
the whole case before Mr. Coyle, of Caveland, and claim from him, both
as the uncle of the delinquent and as Justice of the Peace for the
neighborhood, protection for myself and household against the
aggressions of Mr. Brandon Coyle.”

“And you should have had it, my dear! You should have had it! I would
have committed the scamp to the county jail if he had been twenty
nephews rolled into one! Why didn’t you come and complain to me, my
dear? Why didn’t you?”

“Because,” said Net, “the man promised all that I demanded. He promised
to acknowledge Kit his lawful wife within a week from that day, and
under that promise he was permitted to leave my house in peace.”

“And he _did_ marry her?”

“He had married her long before that, or he had pretended to do so. The
poor girl, who had some pride in her good name, and could not endure to
lie under suspicion, confessed to me that morning her secret marriage to
Mr. Brandon Coyle on the night of September ninth, the night of the day
of my dear step-father’s funeral. I remember missing her that night and
receiving a lame excuse for her unusual absence. She showed me a paper
that she called her ‘wedding lines’—a sort of irregular certificate of
marriage—the same paper that Mr. Brandon Coyle has destroyed. She also
gave me many details that would have convinced any candid mind of her
truth. She evidently, confidently believed herself to be the lawful wife
of Mr. Brandon Coyle.”

“She believed nothing of the sort! She imposed on you, madame, by a
tissue of artful falsehoods which your own imagination has unfortunately
for truth, very much embellished!” rudely exclaimed Brandon Coyle.

“HOLD YOUR TONGUE, SIR!” vociferated the old squire, beside himself with
rage and shame. “Can you not see that your cause is gone? Can you not
see that not a man nor woman present believes one word you have to say?
Why do you not leave the room and the house? How long do you intend to
stand there heaping disgrace upon yourself and all connected with you?
Leave! Begone! For decency’s sake, go hang yourself!”

“Indeed, I think you had better withdraw, Mr. Brandon,” said Lord
Beaudevere, in a low tone.

“You are all against me! Every one of you! You are all my enemies! I am
basely slandered! Foully maligned! And you believe and indorse my
slanderers and maligners, or you _pretend_ to do so, because you are all
my bitter enemies! I have not a friend in this house to do me justice!”
fiercely exclaimed the desperate villain, and like a wild beast driven
to frenzy, he turned to rush from the room.

In an instant Aspirita Coyle, who had been a silent but angry spectator
of the scene arose and darted to her brother’s side, exclaiming:

“Yes, Brandon! _I_ am your friend! Your sister! If our friends here
abandon you, they must abandon me too! If our uncle discards you, he
shall lose me also! I will never re-enter the doors that refuse to
receive you! I will go with you, my brother, and share your fate!”

She had poured forth all these words with impetuous passion, and now she
caught his arm and turned around, facing the company with eyes blazing
defiance.

“DROP THAT MAN’S ARM INSTANTLY, MISS COYLE!” thundered the old squire.

“I won’t! He is my dear brother!”

“Go, my dear girl. Would you cling to a fallen pillar?” whispered
Brandon, who seemed deeply touched by her fidelity at this time.

“Yes, I would. Since it is my brother! The only one I really love on
earth!” replied the girl.

“OBEY ME, MISS COYLE! Return to your seat this moment!” roared the old
squire.

“I—will—not!” replied Aspirita, slowly and emphatically.

“Go, go, my sister!” urged the young man.

“I’ll see him—_burnt_ first! There!” said Aspirita.

“COME HERE THIS INSTANT, MISS COYLE! You are my niece!—my ward! You must
submit to me!” cried the old squire, leaving his seat.

“I tell you I won’t! What is the use of your roaring?” retorted the
girl. “Come, Brandon! Why are we lingering here? Let us leave the room!”
she added, turning to her brother.

“Aspirita! You would but embarrass me by your presence. Dear child, I
feel your devotion! It is a great comfort to me to find _one_ heart
faithful to mine in adversity! And when I have a home I will send for
you to share it; but until that time you would but embarrass me! Go,
dear! Go,” whispered the young man, in eager, hurried tones.

But still she clung to him, while old Coyle chafed and sputtered, and
began to look dangerous.

“Aspirita,” hastily whispered Brandon, “for the next few days I shall
have no fixed home. I go to hunt up evidence to vindicate my honor. And
I go—_to avenge myself upon my enemies_!” he added, in a hissing tone,
as his white teeth gleamed like a tiger’s under his bushy black
mustache.

“I will not be disgraced by both of you at the same time. If you do not
obey me, and leave that villain’s side instantly, Miss Coyle, I will
find means to compel you to do so!” thundered the exasperated old
squire, trotting towards the brother and sister, with his round face in
a flame, and short, fat arm raised threateningly.

“Go! go! _Pray_ go!” hastily whispered Brandon.

“ONCE MORE! For the last time! Will you obey me?” vociferated the old
man, standing before them with doubled fist.

“I will obey _my brother_. He tells me to go with you, and I will go.
And when he shall tell me to leave you and return to him—I will do so.
_I am of age_—a fact which you seem to have forgotten—and I am at
liberty to do as I please. Good-bye, my dear brother! I hope soon to see
you victorious over all your enemies,” said Aspirita.

Brandon Coyle folded her in his arms for a moment, then released her,
and with a profound, mocking bow to the assembled company, turned and
left the room.

“Be good enough to see if my carriage waits,” said the old man then to
Adams, the footman, who stood with the other servants near the door, and
who immediately left to obey the order.

Lady Arielle, now suffering from the reaction of excitement, pale and
trembling, yet self-possessed and courteous, heard this order given and
immediately walked down to the side of old Mr. Coyle and said:

“Will you not gratify your friends by remaining to dinner? It will be
served in a few minutes.”

“I couldn’t eat a morsel if it was to save my life! Could you?” roughly
replied the old man.

“We have already dined—‘full of horrors’—Lady Altofaire,” said Aspirita
Coyle, with freezing politeness.

“No one can regret and _deplore_ the pain I have been compelled to give
more than I do myself,” said Lady Arielle, with feeling.

“You could not help it, my lady! You could not help it! You must not
regret or deplore anything that has happened! You should thank Heaven to
be rid of the scamp on any terms!” exclaimed old Mr. Coyle.

“I think it is mean and cruel for a man’s own relation to turn against
him!” exclaimed Aspirita.

“I disclaim him as a relation. He is not a Coyle at all! He is the son
of his father,” said the old squire, bitterly. “They have both caused me
grief and shame enough in my time! And _you_, Aspirita, had best keep
silence on this subject! I advise you!”

The girl, hanging on his arm, turned as pale as her dark skin would
permit, and became mute.

“Mr. Coyle’s carriage waits,” said the footman, opening the door.

“Ah! All right! Good afternoon, Lady Altofaire,” said the old squire,
with a bow, as he turned and led off his niece, who merely nodded to the
young countess in leaving.

When the Coyles had gone, Lord Beaudevere rapped on the table, as if to
call the little company to order, and then said:

“It is the desire of the Countess of Altofaire that the subjects just
discussed in this room be not talked of to any one beyond these walls.
Of the reticence of her friends she feels the fullest confidence. And of
the people of her household she hopes the same discreet silence. The
servants may now withdraw.”

In obedience to this direction, the domestics, who had been called
together to listen to the reading of the late lord’s will, now
retired—each one satisfied with, and grateful for, the legacy that had
been left to him or to her, and resolved to be silent upon the subject
of the sensational revelations that had been made that day, and had
broken off the marriage engagement between their young lady and Mr.
Brandon Coyle.

But, oh! the strong, overwhelming temptation to tell such a stunning
story!

The men really resisted the temptation and kept the faith from first to
last.

And the women kept the secret for a few hours; but then the cook, under
an extorted promise of profound secrecy, told it to the pretty
dairymaid, Hannah Horner, as a solemn warning to beware of young men who
were above her in rank, for fear she might be taken in by a false
marriage and spirited away like poor Kit Ken.

And the dairymaid, with mouth and eyes wide open with wonder and dismay,
told the whole story to her mother, old Dame Horner, at the porter’s,
when she went home—for should a girl keep a secret from her own mother?

Dame Horner, who was required to make no promise on the subject,
button-holed and half paralyzed the postman with the story the very
first time he came through the gate.

And the postman told the tale all over the country, wherever he stopped
to deliver or to gather letters.

Thus, in a few hours, the luckless love story of poor Kit Ken had
reached even to the ears of her parents and brothers! And the rough men
of the family were out on the war-path after Brandon Coyle.

But to return to the great dining-hall where the late earl’s will had
been read, and the startling revelations had been made.

Soon after the withdrawal of the servants dinner was announced, and the
company, reduced now to seven persons, adjourned to the small
dining-room, where the table had been laid, and where every one,
excepting Arielle, really enjoyed the courses set before them.

Soon after dinner Arielle and Net found themselves alone for a few
moments, and the former said:

“I have been wanting to ask you, all day, whether you have heard from
Antoinette since I saw you last.”

“Yes, I had a letter this morning just before I left home. She has gone
down to Deloraine Park to spend the winter. She thinks the quietness of
the country and the mild air will do her good. She wants me to join her
there,” replied Net.

“But you will not go?”

“Not at present,” said Net.

An hour later the friends were all assembled in the drawing-room, where,
after drinking tea, the guests were preparing to depart.

Net Fleming went up to Lady Arielle to bid her good-night.

“Must you go? Oh, must you go so soon?” inquired the young countess, in
a sorrowful tone.

“Yes, dear; you know I came with Dr. Bennet. He was kind enough to drive
me here in his gig. He is going now; he has some patients to see this
evening, and I must go home when he goes.”

“But why return at all to-night? Why can’t you stay with me for a few
days? Oh! I need you so much, Net.”

“Dear friend, I would be so willing to do so, but I cannot leave the
children. There is no one that I dare trust them to since poor Kit has
gone,” gently replied Net.

“Bring them here!” quickly exclaimed the lady. “Oh, Net! close up the
cottage, and send home your servant, and come and bring the children
with you, and stay—stay as long as ever you can—stay always, or at least
until Mr. Adrian Fleming returns to take you home. Oh! _do_, Net. Say
you will.”

“But, my dear, shall you remain at the castle? Shall you not go to the
house of your guardian, Lord Beaudevere?” inquired Net, as she drew on
her black gloves.

“To Cloudland? Oh, no, no, no! Why, _he_ is expected back in a few
days—”

“Valdimir Desparde!” exclaimed Net, in astonishment.

“Yes. I did not tell you when I was at the Bird’s Nest, I could not bear
to speak of him. And I cannot go to Cloudland, where I may meet him.”

“Why—when—how did you hear this?” questioned Net, in wonder.

“A letter from him to Lord Beaudevere, announcing his return to—to
vindicate himself. There! do not let us speak of him!”

“But if he can vindicate himself, surely you will be glad to see him,
dear Arielle?” said Net.

“Hush! How _can_ he do so? His wife and child have passed from this
world! Thus he is free to come back. This is his vindication! Bah! let
us drop the subject! I cannot go to Cloudland; that is certain! You must
come, and bring the children and stay with me here, Net.”

“But children might be troublesome to you, my dear.”

“What nonsense! If they should be, I could put them in a pleasant suite
of apartments, half a mile away from me, in this big house! But they
will not trouble me the least! Little children never do: they always
cheer and comfort me! Bring them, Net. When will you bring them? When
shall I send old Abraham with the old family coach for you? To-morrow?
Next day? When, Net?”

“It is not very polite to interrupt a conversation between friends but,
my dear Mrs. Fleming, unless we set out very soon night will overtake us
before we get through the mountain passes,” said Dr. Bennet, coming up.

“Good-night, dear Arielle,” murmured Net, stooping to kiss the young
hostess.

“But you have not told me, when I shall send the family coach for you
and the children! You shall not go until you tell me!” exclaimed the
latter, clasping her friend’s hand.

“On—on Saturday—Saturday afternoon,” answered Net, hurriedly, as she
once more kissed her hostess good-night, and left her to make other
hasty adieux, not to keep her escort waiting.

“Mind! be ready to come on Saturday. I shall be sure to send the
carriage with orders to bring you and the children back if it has to
wait all day and all night too!” said Lady Arielle, following Net to the
door.

“I will be ready, dear! Good-night,” said Net, as she disappeared.

The family solicitor also took leave, and departed in his hired cab to
catch the midnight express for London.

The old priest pleaded his age and infirmities and retired to his den;
Lord Beaudevere and Vivienne remained in the castle over night.

And soon after the friends retired to rest.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER II.
OUR EXILE.

Oh, unexpected stroke, worse than of death!
Must I then leave thee, Paradise? Thus leave
Thee, native soil, these happy walks and shades,
Fit haunt of gods?
MILTON.

Yes, yes! from out the herd, like a marked deer,
They drive the poor distraught! The storms of heaven
Beat on him; gaping hinds stare at his woe;
And no one stops to pray Heaven speed his way.
BAILLIE.

We must now take up the story of our exile, Valdimir Desparde, and
briefly relate what had happened to him in the interval between that
despairful day on which, self-banished, he left his native land and that
hopeful one on which he embarked to return.

He took passage on the _Arizona_, that sailed from Liverpool on the
third of June.

To avoid the possibility of meeting any acquaintance, he took a berth in
the second cabin, and secluded himself within his state room, where,
under the plea of illness, which his pale and haggard countenance
verified, and by the payment of an extra stipend to the steward, he had
his slender meals served him.

Only at night did he venture forth to take a little exercise and breathe
a little fresh air by pacing up and down the then forsaken and almost
solitary deck.

Often, at such hours, with the lonely, starlit sky above, and the
lonely, restless sea beneath, the temptation to suicide strongly beset
him.

To take one plunge! To leave this world of anguish and despair and enter
the other world of—_what_?

He had no fears of that other world—none whatever. So it was no craven
terror that withheld him from “rushing unbidden” into the life beyond
this. But he had the loyalty of a faithful soldier at his post—the
loyalty that would stay and suffer until his Lord should see fit to
relieve him.

It is in hours like these of fierce suffering and fiercer temptation
that the power of a religious training is manifested.

And he suffered a living death in the keenly conscious loss of all he
loved and valued on this earth—reputation, home, country, friends and
bride! What words can portray his desolation? His very great strength to
live and endure did but intensify and prolong his agony.

And still Valdimir Desparde secluded himself in his state room during
the day, and walked the deck during the night. And still the woful days
and sleepless nights went on, and finally brought the ship into port in
the gray of the morning on the fifteenth of the month.

“She’s landed, sir, and the passengers are all getting up and preparing
to go on shore,” said the voice of the steward, as he officiously rapped
at the door of Desparde’s state room.

Valdimir Desparde arose, dressed himself, packed his valise, and came
out on deck.

It was scarcely light, yet many of the passengers were already up and
dressed, and crowding to the side of the ship where the gang-plank had
been laid.

“So this is the new world! Not so very unlike the old world! And both at
this hour and on this scene not unlike one of the visions in Dante’s
Inferno,” said Desparde to himself as he gazed.

Certainly he had not seen the new world for the first time under the
best auspices.

He crossed the gang-plank and stood on the crowded and noisy pier, where
stevedores were already engaged in unloading the ship and piling up the
freight.

A human being more lonely, more desolate, more miserable and despairing
than our exile could scarcely be found on this sin and sorrow-laden
earth. He had no farther interest in this world—no single object to live
for. He scarcely knew where next he should bend his steps. It would have
been well for him then if he had been compelled to labor for his next
meal; if the pangs of absolute hunger with impending famine could have
driven him to occupation. But he had a thousand pounds sterling in his
valise, so that wholesome necessity to work was not upon him.

There were but two possibilities he anticipated with any sort of
interest—the first was the receipt of that promised letter from Brandon
Coyle—“honest, _honest_ Iago!”—which should give him the latest news of
his beloved, his forsaken, his forever-forfeited bride! but he did not
know or even ask himself whether he looked forward to this with more of
desire or—despair! The other one was his visit to New Orleans and
investigation of the old domestic tragedy whose discovery had ruined his
life—an investigation from which he shrank with feelings of the most
intense horror and repugnance, yet towards which he was forced by some
occult, irresistible impulse.

He determined to wait in New York city until he should have received and
answered that letter, and then to set out for that southern city on his
weird errand to “open the ghastly charnel-house” of that dread tragedy
for what further discoveries it might reveal.

But at the present moment he scarcely knew whither to direct his steps.
He thought he would hide himself for a few days, until the arrival of
his letter, in some obscure but decent public house, where no Englishmen
of his rank or acquaintance would be likely to meet him.

But where to find a public house which was at once obscure and
respectable, was a difficult question.

While he was turning over the subject in his mind, his ears were saluted
by a voice of wailing—a voice of lamentation and great mourning, in the
dear, familiar accents of the “North Countrie.”

“Ou, ou, wae’s me!” it cried; “wae’s me, my bonny bairn, what sal we do,
wi’ naebody here to mit us! Wae’s me! wae’s me!”

Desparde turned and saw a young woman in the Shetland peasant’s dress,
short full plaid skirt, black bodice and white cap, standing amidst her
bundles on the pier and holding a baby in her arms. On closer view she
was a very handsome woman of the Juno type of beauty, tall, finely
proportioned, full-formed, with a well-shaped head, gracefully set upon
a stately neck, regular, noble features; fair, blooming complexion, with
large, clear blue eyes and wavy yellow hair.

Desparde’s casual glance became a fixed look, as he exclaimed, in
amazement;

“Why, Annek! Annek Yok! This is never _you_, lass!”

The young woman raised her head and stared at him with her wide open,
great blue orbs for a full minute before she answered:

“Indeed and it is, then, laird, just mysel’ and nae ither! But is it
yoursel’, then, laird, that I see before my een? And is it your bridle
tower, and _where is my bonny Leddy Arielle_?”

As the young woman put this question she sat down on her largest bundle
to recover her breath.

Desparde, still amazed at the presence of this girl, whom he had known
from her childhood as the daughter of a fisherman at Skol, and a special
favorite with Lady Arielle Montjoie, did not answer her question, but
put another:

“Why, how came you here, of all places in the world, Annek? Who is with
you? Where are you going? What are you waiting here on the pier for?”

“Ou, sure I cam i the ship there, by, and there’s naebody wi’ me,
barring the bairnie, and I’m waiting for my guid mon; but he does na
come! But _where’s my leddy_?” inquired the girl, returning to the
previous question.

“Then you are married, Annek?” said Desparde, evading the necessity of
giving her a direct reply.

“Marrit, is it? Ou, ay, laird! Dinna ye see for yoursel’ I am marrit?—
Bless the bairnie—” exclaimed the young mother, suddenly breaking off in
her discourse, and stooping to kiss her child. “Ay, laird, I’m marrit;
and sure I’m thinking ye’ll be marrit yoursel’ and on your bridle tower,
and _where is the bonnie bride_?” persisted the young woman.

“Who did you marry, Annek?”

“E’en just a guid mon and true! Ye mind Eric Lan, wha warked under the
gardener at the castle?”

“Yes, I remember him—a fine young fellow.”

“Weel, it is just him I marrit, eighteen months ago, come the first o’
next month, laird. But where’s my bonny leddy a’ this time?”

“Where is your husband, Annek?”

“Eh, thin in N’yark somewhere. I writ him to mit me here, and I’m
waiting for him noo. Eh! laird, but I was frighted to stand here my lane
in a strange country, and naebody to mit me! But when I saw ye, laird, I
kenned weel that ye’d no let ony ill come till me! Noo, then, _where’s
the bonny bride, laird_?”

“Did you come over in the _Arizona_?”

“Ay, sure, laird! That ship lying there, by! I cam i’ the steerage,
laird! Eh! but the saysickness tuk me aff my feet the first wick! And
‘deed, liard, ye dinna luke that weel yoursel’! Ye will ha’ been saysick
yoursel’! And aiblins the bonny leddy is saysick hersel that I dinna see
her! _Where is my leddy?_”

“Annek, I think you had better not sit here. The pier is very damp and
the air is very unwholesome. It is not good for you or your child that
you should stay here any longer,” said Desparde.

“Where will I gae, then laird? Sure I’m waiting for my gud mon to come
and mit me, and frighted anoo I was to be standin’ my lane here in a
strange country till I saw you, laird! And then I kenned I was safe, ony
gait! And ye’ll be on your bridle tower, laird, and where is the bonny
bride?”

“Annek, my lass, since you must wait here I will not leave you until
your ‘guid mon’ comes,” said Desparde, taking his seat on a deal box at
her side. “So now you may employ the time in telling me about your
marriage and your emigration to this country.”

“Ay, that I will, laird! Eric and me were troth-plighted lang sine, but
we didna think to get marrit sae sune, but ye maun ken, laird, that my
puir auld feyther got drooned in a squall, when he was awa in the boat—”

“Your father was drowned! I am very sorry to hear it, my poor Annek.”

“Ou, ay! It waur the fishermon’s risk and the fishermon’s fate, laird,
but the auld mither was puirly, laird, and she took it sae sare to hairt
that wi’ the cough and wi’ the sorrow she pined awa’ and dee’d, and I
was left my lane.”

“My poor, dear lass!” exclaimed Desparde, for the moment forgetting his
own sorrows in those of the girl.

“Ou, ay, it was waefu’! And ye ken, laird, the Word says it is na guid
for mon to be alane, and sure nae mair is it guid for a puir lass to
live alane in her sheeling when the feyther and the mither hae gane till
their Heavenly hame.”

“I am sure it could not have been,” assented Desparde.

“Sae ye ken, laird. Eric cam’ and took me before the priest, and we were
marrit and cum hame to live i’ the auld sheeling thegither, and we gaed
on weel enoo for the first year, laird; but then the bairn cam and took
a’ Eric’s savings, and the wark give oot i’ the gairden, and as ye ken,
laird, there’s nae muckle chance o’ making a living at Skol, ance
fortune taks a turn agen ane.”

“I know,” said Desparde, sympathetically.

“Eh, but we struggled haird to live before we pairted; but at lang last
my puir lad said he had better gang while he could; so he left the lave
of his bit money wi’ me and got a cast in a fisher’s boat ower to
Dunross, and then he trampped doon to Glasgow and shipped as a seaman
for the voyage to N’yark.”

“Ay?” said Desparde, seeing that she had paused for breath.

“Ay, laird, and it was months before I heard of him. Then cam a letter
wi’ guid news. He had got wark on the public roads at a dollar and
seventy five cents a day, wilk be seven shillings of our money, and as
muckle as he could mak in a week at hame—and he said as sune as he could
save eneugh for my passage out wi’ the bairn he would send me the money
in a bill o’ changes—whilk he did, laird, about four wicks sin’, and ye
may weel believe I didna let the grass grow under my feet till I got the
eight go’den guineas for that bill o’ changes. Eh, the beauties! I
hardly thought the airl at the castle himsel’ had sae muckle money as
that luked like. Eh, but it cost wan o’ the beauties to tak me to
Liverpool, and sax to buy my ticket in yon pig-sty of a steerage, and
noo I hae got but wan beauty left.”

“Did your husband know that you would come by the _Arizona_?”

“Ou, ay! The preest writ til him, for me, to mit me at the landing whin
the ship got in, and it’s him I’m waiting for noo.”

“But, my good girl, the ocean steamers, which are so regular on their
day of sailing, are by no means certain in their days of arrival. Your
good man may not know that the _Arizona_ is in. A man cannot _live_ on
the pier waiting for a ship, you know. And _you_ are staying too long
here for your good. Don’t you know where in this great city your husband
lodges? If you do, I could take you to his place,” said Desparde,
kindly.

“Eh, laird! would ye tak sae muckle trouble? ‘Deed I was i’ the right
nae to be freighted langer when I seed ye, laird!” exclaimed Annek, with
grateful glee.

“Then let me have Eric’s address,” said Valdimir.

“Is it where he lodges?”

“Yes, where he lodges.”

“It will be on the bit letter. Here! I hae keepit it neist my hairt a’
this time,” said the young woman, drawing out a large, clumsy document
from the bosom of her dress and handing it to Desparde.

He unfolded the letter and turned at once to the front page.

“One hundred and—something Mercer street. I cannot make out the two last
figures, but no doubt we can find the house,” said the young gentleman.

“Where will Mercy street be, then, laird?” inquired Annek.

“I do not know. I will call a cab and put you into it, and direct the
driver to take us there. We can store your traps until you can send for
them.”

“Vera weel, laird,” said the young woman, with a grateful courtesy.

Desparde beckoned a porter with a handcart, and engaged him to carry
Annek’s goods and chattels to a warehouse and store them, and then to
send a cab.

Fifteen minutes later Desparde placed Annek and her child in a hack and
took his seat by her side, after directing the driver to go to Mercer
street.

As the hack rolled off it was watched by two wharf loafers, who were
leaning up against a pile of boxes and smoking short pipes.

“If that young gent isn’t Valdimir Desparde, then he’s his double,
that’s all,” said one.

“Who? He that has gone off in the hack with that handsome young
Irishwoman he’s been talking to?” inquired the other.

“Yes; but she’s not Irish—she’s Scotch. Didn’t you hear her talk?”

“Not I. I was looking at her, not listening to her. By Jove! what a
handsome creature she is! Is she his wife, do you think?”

“If she _is_, it is a runaway match, and that is why they have come out
here.”

“You knew them in the old country, then!”

“I knew _him_! I should rather think I did! My father is bailiff of the
Honeythorn estate in his neighborhood.”

“Is he a gentleman, then?”

“Rather! he is the heir of a title and estate.”

“And you think he has ran away with and married—_that girl_? WHEW!!”

CHAPTER III.
A SHOCK.

Heart-rending news and dreadful to those few
Who her resemble and her steps pursue;
That death should license have to rage among
The good, the strong, the loving, and the young.
WALLER.

Faith builds abridge across the gulf of death,
To break the shock blind nature cannot shun,
And lands thought smoothly on the other shore.
YOUNG.

While this conversation was going on between the two loiterers on the
pier, the unconscious objects of their comments were driving rapidly
towards Mercer street.

Arrived at that unsavory thoroughfare, the horses slackened speed, while
the driver began to scan the figures over each door.

They drove very slowly, and by dint of questioning policemen and
comparing notes over the hieroglyphic figures in the address at the head
of poor Eric’s letter, they were at length directed to a large,
three-storied brick building in a rather dilapidated condition, occupied
as a boarding-house and patronized principally by Scotch laborers.

Here the carriage drew up and Desparde offered to get out and make
inquiries.

“Na, na, laird, let me gae too! D’ye think I can stay behint a minute
and my ain guid mon i’ the hoose? Na, na, I’ll gae wi’ you!” exclaimed
Annek, hurrying from the carriage and joining Desparde as he walked up
the ricketty front steps between the half dozen ragged boys and girls
that roosted thereon.

“Does Eric Lan live here?” inquired Desparde of the oldest child, a
bright-looking girl of about twelve years of age.

“Eric Lan?” echoed the girl, with sudden gravity clouding over her sunny
face.

“Yes! Eric Lan! Does he live here?”

“Na, he’s deed!” said the girl, solemnly.

“He’s deed!” echoed the other children, gathering around the inquirer.

“What—what do they say?” faltered Annek, clutching the coat of Desparde
with one hand while she clasped her child with the other.

“Heaven help us, I don’t know what they say.”

“He’s deed! he’s deed! and they put him i’ the Potter’s Field,” repeated
the children, with addition.

“Ou, laird! laird! It is na true! It was na him! It was another mon! He
could na dee, ye ken, he was sae tall and strong! He could na dee and me
coming out till him!” gasped poor Annek, clinging to her child with one
arm and to the coat of her only friend with the other.

“My poor girl! Here comes the landlady, I think She will tell us,” said
Desparde, kindly.

“Wha are ye speering for?” inquired a stout and florid dame of about
fifty years, as she came up to the door, wiping her large, red hands on
a dingy white apron.

“Eric Lan. Can you tell us—” began Desparde, but the landlady cut him
short with an exclamation.

“Eric Lan! Gude guide us! Erie Lan is deed! He dee’d, puir mon— Hech,
lass! Dinna drap the bairn! Luik till her, sir!” exclaimed the landlady,
breaking off from her story and catching the baby from the failing hands
of the young mother.

“She was his wife,” said Desparde, as he supported her head upon his
shoulder, and looked around for some chair or sofa upon which to lay
her.

“Eh! puir young thing! I kenned he expectit her. It’s hard. It’s unco
hard. Bring her intil the house, sir,” said the landlady, leading the
way to a room on the same floor, wherein was a bed.

“Lay her doon here, sir, and I’ll fetch something to bring her too,”
said the woman.

But poor Annek had not swooned. She had lost power, but not
consciousness.

“Na, na,” she gasped, “I will na lay doon. Sit me here, laird,” she
said, as she left his hold and tottered and dropped into a dilapidated
old easy-chair.

Desparde stood over it watching her.

The landlady came in with the baby in her left arm, and half a glass of
whiskey in her right-hand.

“Here, tak this, lass. It will pit some life intil ye. It’s the rale
guid whiskey,” she said, putting the glass to Annek’s lips.

The poor girl took a swallow, that in its turn took her breath. And then
she said:

“Tell me a’. When did my Eric dee?” And then she suddenly broke down and
burst into a passion of tears and sobs, swinging herself back and forth,
and crying between her gasps and catches:

“Ou, my Eric! my Eric! Why did ye iver gae and leave me? Ou, why did ye
dee and leave me? Why did ye no tak me wi’ ye? Ou, my Eric! my ain lad!
Wad I hae deed wi’ ye, my Eric!”

And so she continued, rocking her body to and fro, sobbing, weeping,
crying and exclaiming after the noisy manner of her kind.

Meanwhile the poor baby began to wail and fret, and the kindly
Scotchwoman walked it up and down the floor to quiet it, and finally
carried it out of the room to feed it and put it to sleep.

Valdimir Desparde could not find it in his heart to leave the poor
afflicted young creature before him. He had known her from the time she
was a little, toddling, bare footed bairn in her father’s cot at Skol.
He had seen her nearly every summer while spending the heated term with
the Earl and Countess of Altofaire and Lady Arielle Montjoie at Skol. He
had seen her grow from childhood to womanhood under the eyes of her
venerable lord and lady. He had known her ill-fated young husband almost
as long and as well as he had known herself. Now he deeply sympathized
with her, and he resolved to do all that in him lay to soothe her sorrow
and relieve her wants.

He watched her violent paroxysm of grief in silent sympathy for awhile,
hoping that it would in due time exhaust itself. But seeing no sign of
its abatement he could defer his efforts at consolation no longer.

He drew his chair to her side, took her hand in his, and whispered:

“I wish you to look upon me as a brother, lass. Do not think yourself a
friendless stranger in a strange land, for I will be a friend to you,
Annek. I will send you back to Skol by the next steamer, if you wish to
go. I will send you in the second cabin, so that you will be perfectly
safe and comfortable. I will not leave you, Annek, until I have provided
for your safety and comfort.”

Excessive grief is often very ungrateful, bitterly resenting all
expressions of sympathy, and rudely repulsing all offers of service.

“I dinna want any friends. I want my Eric! Ou, my Eric! Ou, my ain
Eric!” cried the girl, snatching her hand from Desparde’s kindly clasp,
and bursting into more violent sobs and more copious tears.

“Would you like to go back to Skol by the next steamer, Annek?” gently
inquired Desparde.

“Na, na, I dinna want to gang onywhere on this earth! I want to dee! I
want to dee! I want too dee and gae to my own Eric!” she cried, amid
violent gasps that seemed to rend her bosom.

The Scotch landlady now appeared at the door, with the sleeping baby in
her arms; but hearing the uproar of Annek’s lamentations, and fearing it
would awake the sleeper, she turned and took it away again to lay on
some quieter bed.

And then she returned to the room, and going up to the wailing woman
began to essay her plain, commonplace method of consolation.

“Coom, coom, noo, lass! Ye mauna greet sae sair! Ye will be making
yoursel’ ill! Hout noo, ye mauna be fleein’ i’ the face o’ Providence
that gait! Sure, lass, we hae a’ got to dee ane time or anither, and
weel it is for them that are prepared!”

“I wish I was deed mysel’! I wish we were _a’_ deed! I do! I do!” cried
the wild creature, wringing her strong young hands as if she would have
wrung the flesh off their bones.

“Hout, woman, we are na ready to dee. I ken well enoo that I am na. Eh,
but we’ll a’ gae when our time coomes, na fear o’ that! But stap
greeting! ‘Deed and ye’ll mak’ yoursel’ ill.”

“Let me alane! I want to be ill? I want to dee! I want to gae to my
Eric! Ou, my ain Eric! Ou, my ain Eric!”

And here she writhed in an accession of convulsive agony that terrified
the good Scotchwoman, who would have again attempted to soothe her had
not Desparde interfered.

“Best not to notice her. This paroxysm must exhaust itself sooner or
later. Come with me out into the passage and tell me how this strong
young man came to die,” he whispered, as he led the way from the room.

“You know him, then, sir?” said the Scotchwoman, as she stood by his
side in the passage.

“Yes, from childhood I knew them both. They were both born and brought
up on the estate of a dear friend,” replied Desparde.

“My Laird Allfair?” put in the Scotchwoman.

“Altofaire. Yes. I suppose poor Eric spoke of his feudal lord,” said
Desparde, with a sad smile.

“Ay, he did, puir lad!”

“Now what was his trouble?” inquired Desparde.

“Ou, just the fever, sir! The tie-foot fever they ca’ it here; though
why they do, or what it has to do wi’ feet, I dinna ken!”

“Was he ill long?”

“Aboot ten days in his bed, sir. He was ta’en doon twa days after he had
sent the money to the puir lass to coom oot till him—though I’m thinking
he had been no that weel for some time before. Eh, sir, he told me it
would be a month before he could see her; but he counted off the days as
they passed until he got so ill as to lose his mind, and then, sir, gin
you will believe me, he thought she was _with_ him, and he talked to
her, off and on, quiet and loving, till he dee’d. Eh, it waur pitiful!”
said the woman, putting up her apron to her eyes.

“Poor fellow! Did he leave any money or effects that might benefit his
widow?” inquired the young gentleman.

“Nay, sir; naught but a few bits o’ claithes. Certain he had sent every
dollar he could rake and scrape to the lass to bring her over, depending
on getting more every day, for he had constant wark at guid wage; but ye
ken he waur took doon and dee’d in about ten days. We behoved to bury
his body i’ the Potter’s Field, puir mon! Has the puir lass ony siller
o’ her ain, sir, do ye ken?”

“I think only a sovereign—about five dollars.”

“Eh, puir bodie! What will she do?” exclaimed the landlady.

“I will provide for her and her child until they return to their country
and friends,” quietly replied Desparde, unconsciously adding to the
structure of circumstantial evidence against himself.

“Eh, sir, that will be unco generous o’ you.”

“Can you accommodate them here until some arrangements can be made to
send them home?” then inquired Desparde, drawing his portemonnaie from
his breast-pocket.

“Ou, ay, sir, sure! She can hae her puir guid mon’s little room, which
is vacant noo,” replied the woman.

“I find I have only English money here. I had forgotten,” said Desparde.
“But in the course of the day I shall change it, and then will pay you
in advance.”

“Had we no better ask the lass if she be willing to bide wi’ me, sir?”
questioned the woman.

“We had better return to her, at any rate, lest she should think herself
deserted,” replied Desparde, as he walked back into the room where Annek
now sat, quiet with the prostration and stupor of grief.

“Annek,” he said, “are you willing to stay here with this kind woman
until you get better, and some arrangements can be made for sending you
back to Skol?”

“I dinna care whaur I bide, or what becomes o’ me,” muttered the girl.

“Then you will stay here for the present?”

“I dinna care.”

“She will stay, sir,” said the woman.

“Then I will go and send her effects. Like many of the emigrants who
come over in the steerage, she has brought a quantity of bundles,” said
Desparde.

And soon after he left the house, entered his hack, drove to a broker’s
office, changed his English sovereigns for American dollars, and then
drove to the warehouse where Annek’s little property had been stored,
paid charges and dispatched it to Mercer street.

It was now near noon; Desparde had not breakfasted, and, for the first
time since he had received that fatal revelation which had broken off
his marriage and ruined his life, Desparde began to feel very hungry.
For the last three weeks he had swallowed a little food every day, not
because he felt the least inclination to eat, but truly from
conscientious motives to keep life in him and not to be guilty of
suicide.

But this morning he had not thought of his own woes for several
consecutive hours, during which he had been walking and driving about,
actively engaged in the sympathetic service of others, and now he wanted
his breakfast, and he stepped into the first respectable-looking
restaurant he saw, and got it.

After this he drove to Mercer street again, to pay the board of his
protégées in advance, as he promised the landlady to do.

He found Annek still sitting in the room where he had left her, quiet
and sullen with grief. Now, however, she had her baby in her arms and
her bundles on the floor around her.

“They hae just come, sir, and I hae na had time to put them awa. She
canna do aught for hersel’, ye ken, sir. She is just dazed like still,
and no wonder, puir bodie!” said the landlady, in explanation.

Desparde called the woman aside and put two ten-dollar bills in her hand
on account, and took a receipt from which he learned for the first time
that the landlady’s name was Jane Donald.

He returned to the side of Annek and said:

“Mrs. Donald, your landlady here, will do everything in her power to
make you comfortable, my poor girl, and I shall not leave New York until
I have made arrangements for your future.”

“An ye could on’y send me and my bairnie after puir Eric, it’s the gait
I would like to gang,” said Annek.

“What is your child’s name Annek?” inquired Desparde, with the kindly
thought of occupying her with talk about the babe.

“What suld it be but Eric, sir, for the daddie o’ him?”

“Oh! it is a boy, then?”

“Of course it is. Would I be calling a lass Eric? What’s come till ye,
laird, to be speering such a question?”

“Dinna be crass, noo. The gentleman’s a guid freend till ye, lass,” put
in Mrs. Donald.

“I dinna want ony freends,” sullenly replied the girl.

“Dinna mind her, sir; she is a bit daft wi’ her troubles,” observed the
landlady.

Desparde again committed the unhappy young widow to the care of Mrs.
Donald, and left the house to find a lodging for himself.

He had lived, so to speak, in his hack all day. His valise and other
small movables were in there. Now the day was drawing to a close, and he
determined to seek rest. But first he drove to the general post-office,
in the very slight hope that he might find there a letter from Brandon
Coyle that might possibly, even though sent a day or two later than the
day of his own embarkation, have arrived by a faster sailing steamer. He
was disappointed, however; there was no letter in the _post restante_
for “_Jonathan Adams_,” the _alias_ he had left with Brandon Coyle.

Then Desparde drove to a quiet, respectable hotel, in a retired street,
where he registered his name as Jonathan Adams, and engaged a room.

Already the reaction was at hand. The spirits of anguish and despair,
that had been exorcised for a brief season by the angel of benevolence,
now took possession of his soul with a hundred-fold power to torment and
destroy.

Under their full influence he retired to his room and wrote that dark
and desperate letter to Brandon Coyle that has been recorded elsewhere.

He rang for a waiter, and sent the letter to be posted and then locked
himself in and spent the dreadful night in walking up and down the
floor, until near morning, when he threw himself, exhausted, on the
outside of his bed and slept until late in the forenoon.

His first care that day was to go to the post-office, where he found a
letter from Brandon Coyle waiting for him. He could not wait to get back
to his hotel before reading it. He went up to an unoccupied window in
the lobby and opened the envelope and read the letter with devouring
interest.

Brandon Coyle had described the scenes that had followed the flight of
Valdimir Desparde, with a mixture of most artful truth and falsehood,
calculated to utterly discourage the exile from ever dreaming of return.
He had portrayed the condition of Lady Arielle Montjoie very plausibly,
describing her as overwhelmed by his departure, but as having
successfully rallied from the shock, until _then_, at the date of the
letter, she seemed quite herself again.

“In three days! To forget me in three days! It is impossible! She puts
it on! For the sake of her aged grandparents, she assumes a gayety she
does not feel! I am sure of it! _I know her heart!_ Yet, oh, my lost
love! ought I not to hope and pray that this letter speaks the truth
that you have forgotten me! But I am human! I am human! And therefore I
am selfish!” inwardly moaned the unhappy young man, as he thrust the
letter in his pocket and left the post-office.

His own woes did not cause him to forget his poor protégées in Mercer
street. He turned his steps thither and found Mrs. Donald busy setting
the dinner-table for her boarders.

Neither Annek nor her child were visible. When Desparde inquired for
them, Mrs. Donald replied that they were lying on the bed up stairs,
adding:

“The puir lass is vera weak fra sae muckle grieving, sir; and I bid her
rest, but I’ll call her doon and ye wish.”

“No, no, I would not disturb her. I only wish to know from her when she
would like to return to her own country, so that I may engage her
passage back,” replied Desparde.

“Eh, sir! she will not hear o’ gaeing back. I sat wi’ her a bit last
night, after she had gane to bed, and tried to comfort her wi’ telling
her how ye would send her hame to her people; but she winna hear of it.”

“But why, for Heaven’s sake?”

“Eh, then, sir, she says she hae na people of her _ain_ in the auld
countrie. They are a’ deed, she says, and the neebor-folks there be too
poor to help her. She’ll na gae back to starve, she says.”

“Then what on earth _does_ she wish to do?” inquired Desparde.

“She tells me she hae twa brithers out by yonder in New Orleans, an’ she
wants to gae to them, if she can sell her bedding and ither plenishing
for enoo money to take her there.”

“To _New Orleans_, did you say?” inquired Desparde in surprise.

“Ou, ay, sir, just to New Orleans, wha she hae twa brithers i’ the
tobacco trade, weel-to-do, forehanded men. I think mysel’ it is the best
thing she can do, sir, an ye wouldn’t mind sending her there instead of
to Scotland.”

“How very strange. I am going to New Orleans, and I will gladly take
charge of the poor woman and child, and see them safe in their kinsmen’s
home. I hope she will be able to start in a day or two. Tell her this,
if you please, Mrs. Donald.”

“Ay, that I will, sir, and the message will carry gladness to the
widow’s heart, an’ she’ll be ready, sir, na fear o’ that!” replied the
kindly Scotchwoman.

And Valdimir Desparde left the house to make preparations to go to New
Orleans, incumbered by a young woman and child, and thus to add another
ton to the weight of circumstantial evidence that was eventually
destined to crush all his hopes.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER IV.
THE WANDERER.

What exile from himself can flee!
The zones, though more and more remote,
Still, still pursue, where’er I be,
The blight of life, the curse of thought.
BYRON.

I depart.
Whither I know not; but the hour’s gone by
When lessening or nearing shores could grieve or glad mine eye.
BYRON.

There was nothing now to detain Valdimir Desparde in New York, whence
the restlessness of misery urged him to move.

From Mercer street he went back to his hotel, wrote a hasty letter to
his “friend,” Brandon Coyle, instructing him to address his next
communication to Jonathan Adams, General Post-Office, New Orleans,
posted it and then packed his valise for his journey.

Later in the day he went again to the house of Mrs. Donald, and on this
second visit he was so fortunate as to see Annek, whom the prospect of
starting immediately to her brethren had inspired with new life.

The young woman had somewhat recovered from the shock of her
bereavement, and she seemed less sullen, despairing and ungrateful.

She expressed herself ready and eager to proceed on her journey, at any
hour, by land or by water, as the kind “laird” deemed best.

“The steamer _Creole_ leaves at six o’clock this evening for New
Orleans. We will take passage by her, if you like,” said the young
gentleman, kindly.

“Sure and I would rather, laird, an you please,” she said.

And thus it was arranged.

A dray was engaged to take Annek’s effects down to the boat, where Mr.
Desparde agreed to meet her an hour before the ship was to sail.

Meanwhile he went down to the office of the steamer and engaged a
comfortable berth in the ladies’ cabin for the woman and child, and a
state room in the saloon for himself.

At the appointed hour he met her on the boat, and gave the stewardess an
extra fee to take her to her berth, and to make her comfortable during
the voyage.

Annek had invested a part of the money advanced to Mrs. Donald for her
use in buying a decent mourning outfit, and had changed her picturesque
Skol costume of scarlet skirt, black jacket, and gray plaid, for a
sombre widow’s suit of black serge gown and sack, and black crape
bonnet.

This effected a perfect transformation in the young woman’s appearance.

As soon as he had provided for the comfort of his poor protégée,
Valdimir Desparde lighted a cigar and walked aft, to stand and watch the
receding piers of the city as the boat steamed off from her pier.

Annek did not reappear on deck that evening. He saw no more of her until
they met at supper in the saloon, where it happened that they sat on the
same side, but at opposite ends of the table. And these seats they kept
during the whole of the voyage.

After supper the young woman returned to the cabin and Mr. Desparde to
the deck without their having exchanged a word together.

And as the same circumstances happened at every meal, it followed, of
course, that these compatriots and fellow-passengers saw very little of
each other until the end of the voyage.

The _Creole_ arrived at New Orleans on the morning of the seventh day
out.

Mr. Desparde was early on deck watching for the appearance of Annek.

The young woman came up at last, with her baby on one arm and a big
basket on the other.

“Good morning, Annek. Here we are. Most of our fellow-passengers have
gone on shore, but you can get breakfast on board if you choose, and I
would advise you to do so, while I go out and find your people. Tell me
again their names and their places of business,” said the young man, as
he joined the girl.

“Ou, you winna leave me my lane on the boat, laird? I suld be sae sair
frighted to be left my lane!” she objected.

“Oh, come now, my good Annek, you were not frightened to cross the ocean
alone, why should you be afraid to stay here for an hour while I go and
look up your friends?” he remonstrated.

“Will you coom back sune, laird?”

“Yes, just as soon as possible. Tell me the names of your brothers, and
where they live.”

“Ou, it’s just Alek Yok and Jans Yok, and they are i’ the tobacco
trade.”

“Yes,” said the young man, taking note-book and pencil from his pocket
and writing down these names; “but now for their places of business.”

“Eh! sure it ’s here—i’ this city—N’ Orleans they bide.”

“But New Orleans is a great city, my girl. I want you to tell me the
street they live on.”

“The street, is it? Ou, thin, I dinna ken the street. Ou, wae ’s me an’
I suldna find my brithers after a’!” exclaimed the young woman, in
dismay.

“Don’t be frightened. If you do not know their address, I have only to
look in a city directory to find it out. There, go get your breakfast,
and then stay down in the cabin with the stewardess, and do not leave
the boat, on any pretext whatever, until I return for you.”

“Ay, laird; but will ye be sure to coom back?” inquired the girl, in
some trouble.

“Why, of course. Here, you see, Annek, I will leave my valise with you
as a pledge,” said Desparde, smiling at the thought of having to give
security for his good faith to this peasant woman from the Shetlands.

“Eh! then, I dinna want your bag, laird. It is na that. It’s fearsome I
am to lose sight of you,” said Annek, feeling a little ashamed of
herself for her injurious doubt.

Nevertheless Desparde left his valise in her charge, as much for his own
convenience as for her satisfaction.

Then he went on shore and walked into the city, and stopped at the first
drug store he came to for the purpose of consulting a directory.

There he found what he sought:

A. & J. YOK, tobacconists, 7 Leroy Place.

He turned next to the street directory and found that Leroy Place was
quite at the other end of the city—a good three miles off.

He thanked the obliging druggist who had let him consult the directory,
and went out to get a hack. He was fortunate in seeing an empty one
passing the door.

He hailed it, jumped in, gave the order to Leroy Place and was soon
bowling through the principal streets of the city, out towards the
obscure suburb honored by the Messrs. Yok’s enterprise.

A half hour’s rapid ride brought him to Leroy Place, a locality that,
like “Royal Hotels” and “Imperial Saloons,” sadly bewrayed its regal
name. It was a short and narrow street of small shops and humble
tenementhouses.

About half down the street, on the right-hand as the hack approached,
stood the little two-story red brick house occupied by the brothers Yok
as a shop and a dwelling. The figure of a Highlander usurped the place
usually occupied by the Indian Chief.

Here the hack drew up, and Desparde alighted and walked into the shop.

A tall, raw-boned, red-bearded lad “o’ the land o’ cakes” stood behind
the counter.

“What will ye hae, sir?” inquired this canny Scot, seeing that the
stranger gave no order.

“Is Mr. Alek or Jan Yok in?” asked Desparde.

“I am maister Jan, at your bidding, sir.”

“I have brought you news of your sister,” said Desparde.

Jan Yok was interested in a moment.

“Sit ye doon, sir, an you please,” he said, handing a chair over the
counter, of which Desparde immediately availed himself. “Of Ann’k, sir?
The lass was married when we haired frae her last—that will be sune
after the feyther and mither wint to their rest, Gude keep ’em! about
twa years sin’! And hoo is Ann’k an it please you, sir?”

“She is well; but I have sad news to tell of her,” replied Desparde.

“Ou, ay, it wull tak na Solomon to tell what that wull be! It wull be
the auld, auld story! She wull be suffering frae want! I kenned it! I
kenned it! When I haird the auld fowks had gane, I wrote for her to coom
oot till us and we would tak’ care of her; but she had married her lad,
and noo they are a’ in want! I kenned it, sir. I kenned it! But wha be
you, sir, an you please, wha tak sae muckle interest intil the lass?”

“I am one who was an intimate friend of the Earl of Altofaire and a
frequent guest at Castle Skol, and knew Annek from her childhood,”
evasively answered Desparde, who did not choose to give his real name
and did not wish to give a false one there.

“Eh, then, you kenned the auld pleece?” exclaimed the Scot, his healthy
red face in its frame of red hair and beard lighting up with joy at the
sight of one who knew “the auld pleece.”

“Yes, but I must tell you of your sister. Her case is not just what you
suppose, or rather I fear it is much worse. Are we liable to
interruption?”

“Na, not sae muckle at this hour. What’s amiss wi’ Annek, sin’ she is
weel and nae in want?”

“I will tell you,” said Desparde. And he began, and as briefly as
possible he told the short, sad story of Annek’s marriage, maternity,
widowhood, emigration to New York, and voyage to New Orleans.

The brother listened with deep interest and sympathy.

“Eh, puir lass! puir lass! sae young to be burthened wi’ a bairn, and
widowed in a foreign land; though for the matter o’ that, it is better
for her to be here, sir—muckle better! But what wad she hae dune an she
had na found a guid freend in you, sir?”

“I was glad to be of some service to the poor girl,” quietly replied the
young gentleman.

“And she will be on board the _Creole_ waiting for us noo, sir?”

“Yes, she is in the care of the stewardess, who seems to be a good
woman. I have a carriage at the door, and will take you or any member of
the family you would like to send.”

“I will go, sir, as soon as my brother Alek cooms to tak my pleece,”
said Jan, turning to attend a customer—an old woman who came for a
cent’s worth of snuff.

“Where is your brother?” at length inquired Valdimir.

“At breakfast, doon in the kitchen, and a long time he is taking over
it. I’ll just step to the head of the stairs and call him,” said Jan,
leaving the shop by a side door, and shouting:

“Alek! Alek! Coom here! Here’s grawnd news frae hame!”

A sound of many rushing footsteps was heard, and a crowd, headed by
another tall, raw-boned, high-cheeked florid-faced and red-bearded
Skolman, came rushing after Jan into the shop. These were Alek Yok, his
wife Sona, and his four red-haired lads, of ages ranging from nine to
thirteen.

“Wull, what is it, then?” inquired Alek.

“This gentleman brings us news of Annek; her guid mon is gane, and she
hae coom acrass the seas till us. She will be at the steamboat landing
noo, waiting for ane of us to go and fetch her!” said Jan putting the
story of his sister in a nutshell.

A chorus of exclamations and a crowd of questions demanded details, but
Jan cut them all short by saying:

“An ye’ll gae behint the coonter and mind shop, Alek, I’ll get me a cup
av coffee and pit an ait cake in my pocket, and gae along wi’ this
gentleman to fetch her.”

And without waiting for an answer he hurried down stairs, where he
dispatched his morning draught so quickly that he returned to the shop
in three minutes and announced himself ready to go with the gentleman.

They entered the hack, and were driven rapidly back to the steamboat,
where they found Annek sitting in the midst of her luggage, with her
baby in her arms.

There was not much of a scene. The natives of Skol are not so
demonstrative as some of their neighbors.

Jan took her hand and said:

“Hoo is it wi’ ye, lass?”

And kissed her quietly.

Annek cried a little.

Then the attention of both was drawn to the baby.

“Dinna greet, lass. I’m no marrit mysel’ and forehanded, wi’ naebody
depending upo’ me, sae I can be a feyther to the bairn. Eh! he’ll find
kinsmen eno’ wi us! Four braw lads as ever ye set een on, Ann’k, forby
the brither and the guid wife. Eh! we are unco gled to welcome ye,
lass.”

With these and other words of affection Jan cheered his sister, and soon
arranged for the transport of her effects to her new home.

“We a’ leeve thegither, ye ken lass, but there’s room eno’ and to spare
for yoursel’ and the bairn. And hoo did ye lave the guid fowk at haime,
Annek?”

So chatting, the brother put the sister and her child on a spring wagon
laden with her luggage and prepared to start with her for Leroy Place.

On taking leave of her benefactor, Annek had the grace to thank “the
laird” for his protection of her.

As they drove slowly off between piles of freight on the pier, Desparde
heard this question and answer between the brother and sister.

“Wha’s yon gentleman, ony gait? De’il hae me if I know his neeme yet!”

“Oo, I dinna ken. We ay called him ‘the laird.’ He will be ane of the
Montjoies, I’m thinking. He was alang o’ the auld airl at the castle.”

And they drove out of hearing.

Desparde, who had not yet dismissed his carriage, now re-entered it and
ordered the driver to take him to the St. Boniface Hotel, where he
registered his name as Jonathan Adams, New York, engaged a room and
ordered breakfast.

This dispatched, he walked out on his first investigation around the
city. In that crowded metropolis, where he knew no living creature
except the poor woman and child whom chance had made his
fellow-passengers, and her humble relatives from whom he had just now
parted, a feeling of unutterable loneliness, desolation and
home-sickness came over him. An impulse to hurry back to his native
country as fast as steam could take him, and see his friends again, at
any cost to his pride or his principles, tempted him so sorely as to
rouse his soul into a tumult; his only remedy was to throw himself into
some active employment that should absorb all his thoughts. The very
errand that had brought him to the Crescent City—the desire to
investigate his hidden family history, with all the details of the
ghastly tragedy that had ruined his life, morbid as that desire was,
furnished the employment he sought.

He determined to begin his investigation that very day, by going to all
the public libraries, where files of newspapers were kept, and looking
over those of that fatal month and year in which the crime was committed
and expiated.

He first purchased a city directory to have constantly at hand, to find
the places he desired to visit.

Instructed by that guide he went to the Blankonian Library, the largest
as well as the oldest in the city. There he asked of the assistant
librarian the privilege of examining the files of city papers for the
month of July in the year 18—.

He was conducted by a clerk to the alcove where they were preserved and
then left to his search.

Ah! too soon for his peace he came to a copy of the same paper that had
been shown him by Brandon Coyle on that fatal day of his flight.

There again he recognized the ghastly headlines the first sight of which
had stricken him down insensible and unconscious as the fabled head of
Gorgon was said to have slain her beholder:

“THE EXECUTION OF THE QUADROON SLAVE, VALDIMIR DESPARDE, FOR THE MURDER
OF HIS MASTER.”

On this occasion he nerved himself to read the whole revolting narrative
from beginning to end—and even the supplementary remarks of the editor,
adding that a manuscript confession, containing the wonderful history of
this “incarnate fiend’s” career of crime in the United States, in
Canada, and in the West Indies, was in the hands of his spiritual
director and would be immediately given in pamphlet form to the public.

While reading all the details of the last day on earth and the execution
of the great criminal, a subtle doubt, like a first gleam of light
striking into a dungeon, or a first ray of hope rising upon a soul
overwhelmed in despair, entered the mind of Valdimir Desparde—a doubt
whether the demon who bore his family name was really a member of his
family at all.

True, all the circumstances pointed to the hanged felon as the father
of Valdimir and Vivienne. These circumstances have been related in a
former chapter and need not be recapitulated here—they were
overwhelming—convincing; they had driven our unhappy young exile from
his home, his country, his friends, and his promised bride.

But now that he read the story of the crime and the execution in detail,
there was a subtile something running through the narrative that seemed
to contradict them, conclusive as they were.

“These are facts, _facts_,” said Valdimir Desparde to himself—“but I
divine the possibility of a truth, a key that may explain them all away.
If I could only get hold of that confession said to contain the true
autobiography of the man.”

He turned to the papers immediately following the one containing the
account of the execution, and there again he found a clew to what he
sought. It was in the advertising column of new publications, and it
read as follows, in sensational type and notes of admiration:

“Ready! Ready!! Ready!!! The Wonderful Life and Adventures of John Sims,
the Quadroon Slave, alias Valdimir Desparde, Gentleman, who was Executed
for the Murder of his Master. With a Portrait.”

“‘_John Sims?_’” murmured the young gentleman to himself, as the doubt
born of his first reading grew into large proportions. “‘John Sims?’ Was
that the man’s name? And was the other only an alias! If so, how came he
by it? And under which name did he marry—our—Heaven! I cannot believe
it! I must find that confession and learn the whole truth, or I shall go
mad. This doubt is worse than any certainty.”

With the paper in his hands, he went again to the librarian, and
pointing to the advertised pamphlet, he inquired:

“Is there a copy of _this_ in your collection?”

The polite librarian took the paper, glanced at the title of the work
indicated, and then raised his eyes in simple wonder to the refined and
intellectual face of the gentleman who had called for such a rank
specimen of the literature of the gutter, and replied:

“_That!_ Certainly not, sir! We do not lumber our shelves with such very
objectionable garbage as that!”

“I beg your pardon,” said Valdimir Desparde, flushing and turning away,
fully conscious of the false step he had taken, the offense he had given
in asking for such a work in so select a library—the possibility of
which he had forgotten in the eagerness of his pursuit.

“He is some ‘Variety’ playwright, I presume, looking for sensational
material,” said the librarian to himself. Then feeling some compunction
for the severity of his speech to the stranger, he spoke up and said:

“I think the most likely places where to procure the work you want, sir,
will be the second-hand book-stores and the old book-stands, of which
you may find any number scattered throughout the city.”

“I thank you, sir,” replied young Desparde, with a courteous bow; and
then, having replaced the files of newspapers in their places, he left
the library with the intention of following the librarian’s advice.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER V.
THE SEARCH.

They who have never warred with misery,
Nor ever tugged with fortune and distress,
Hath had n’ occasion nor a field to try
The strength and forces of his worthiness;
Those parts of judgment which felicity
Keeps as concealed, afflictions must express,
And only men show their abilities,
And what they are, in their extremities.
DANIEL.

The next few days were spent by Valdimir Desparde in hunting the old
book-stands and second-hand book-stores of the city, at every one of
which he inquired for the pamphlet he so much desired to procure; but in
vain.

Many of the venders of literary litter had never even heard of the work
in question, or the man whose career it professed to relate; others,
upon taxing their memories, were enabled to recollect having heard of
the execution, but it was so long ago—so many men had been hanged since
then—that the tragedy had nearly faded from their minds.

Then Desparde offered to each one of these dealers in old books a large
price for a copy of the pamphlet, if they should be so fortunate as to
find one in any of the collections they were in the habit of purchasing,
either at auction or at private sales, and all promised to be on the
lookout for the required work.

Meanwhile much speculation was rife among these “merchants” as to who
this really very refined and intellectual man—this Mr. Jonathan Adams
(most probably of Boston, Massachusetts)—really could be, and what on
earth he could want with such a book. And various were the conclusions
at which they arrived.

One bookseller thought he was a story writer in search of a plot from
real life; another felt sure that he was a lawyer compiling a book of
famous criminal trials, and wanting more facts connected with this
particular case than he could get from the records of the court, or even
from the newspaper files of the period.

But whatever their differences of opinion in regard to his object in
wanting the book, every one honestly sought hard to find it for him.

But the search proved fruitless.

Then one dealer, more enterprising than his fellows, advertised for the
book, and kept the advertisement standing; but when weeks passed without
bringing any response he stopped it.

Then Valdimir Desparde put the same advertisement in all the city
papers, with the determination to keep it there for months if necessary,
until he should find the coveted pamphlet, that seemed to grow more
precious, and more to be desired, with every difficulty and delay he met
with in his search for it.

To find this work seemed now the one object of his life. He had become
quite morbid on the subject. He might have seemed insane upon it, had
not his clear, sound reason told him that he _was_ morbid in attaching
so much importance to the discovery of that pamphlet, and even caused
him to wonder at the power of the sustained impulse that continued to
drive him in the vain pursuit.

We said the finding of that book seemed to be the one object of his
life; but it was not the only source of his anxiety.

He longed to hear from his home—from Arielle!

He had written to Brandon Coyle on the very same day on which he had
embarked from New York for New Orleans. He had given his correspondent
instructions to address his next letter to the general post-office at
New Orleans.

After the first two weeks in the city he had gone daily to the
post-office in hope of getting a letter, but had always been
disappointed.

Then he calculated the time and found that four weeks at least, if not
five, would be required to elapse between the day of his writing from
New York to London and the day when he might reasonably expect an answer
to his letter to reach New Orleans.

So he waited with impatience, but not with anxiety, for two weeks
longer, going every day to the post-office, however, to inquire for a
letter, _in case_ one might have come by a very swift passage. None
came; and at the end of the two weeks he grew very anxious to know what
could have been the cause of the delay.

When he had last heard of Arielle by the letter he had received from
Coyle in New York she had recovered her health and spirits.

He was still engaged in this vain search when, one day, near the middle
of August, he went to the general post-office, as it was his daily
custom to do, and, on inquiry, he received a letter post-marked London,
and directed in the handwriting of Brandon Coyle.

Too impatient to wait until he should get home to his hotel, he withdrew
to a corner of the lobby, and there he opened and read the letter.

It was that letter from Brandon Coyle inclosing the second letter—the
cruel forgery, the combined work of the evil brother and sister, but
purporting to be a genuine letter from Lady Arielle Montjoie to her
friend, Aspirita Coyle, announcing her ladyship’s engagement to a
gentleman “approved” by her grandparents, and it was “forwarded,” wrote
young Coyle, “from a sense of duty to a friend.”

He had but hastily, breathlessly, glanced over Brandon’s letter, and
gathered that the inclosed one was from Arielle to Aspirita, when,
without any forewarning suspicion of its contents, he eagerly opened and
began to read it, thankful to his correspondent for giving him once more
the joy of seeing the beloved handwriting; but when he came to the
following words, his eyes dilated with amazement and his cheeks paled
with despair:

“You say, dear friend, that you have heard the rumor of my betrothal to
a certain party, and you express your surprise that I could so soon have
forgotten one to whom I once seemed to be very strongly attached.

“Let me, in my turn, declare _my_ astonishment that you should even
_name_ that person to me!

“I feel that it would be degrading to me to waste more thought on one
who has proved himself so utterly false, base, treacherous; so I _have_
consented to receive the attentions of a gentleman, approved by my
grandparents as entirely worthy of esteem and affection.

“We are indeed betrothed, and our marriage will come off in a few weeks.
I bespeak you as my first bride’s maid.”

Valdimir Desparde had not read quite so far as this, in the false,
forged letter, before sense and reason were submerged in the rushing
tumult of heart and brain.

The scene seemed to whirl around him and disappear.

So he lost consciousness.

In the crowd that had gathered no one could identify the stranger.

His pockets were searched, but no cards or letters bearing his address
could be found.

Only the envelope of the letter in his hand bore the address: “JONATHAN
ADAMS, Esq., Post-Office, New Orleans.”

So he was put in a spring wagon and taken to the city hospital.

Here he lay, attended by the hospital medical staff, for days in a state
of insensibility, and for weeks too ill to give any account of himself.

When at the end of a month, he was able to answer questions, he gave his
name as Jonathan Adams, and his address.

He also soon requested to be removed from the public ward to a private
room, for which he declared himself able and willing to pay.

His request was complied with, and every comfort and luxury was supplied
him.

Under these improved circumstances his vigorous young manhood
successfully combatted both bodily and mental ills, and he convalesced
slowly but surely.

On the very first day that he was permitted to sit up, and accorded the
use of pen, ink, and paper, he availed himself of the privilege to
answer Brandon Coyle’s false and cruel letter. That answer has been
recorded in a previous chapter of this story, and need not be repeated
here.

One week from the day on which he first sat up, and five weeks from the
day of his entrance into the hospital, he left it, in full health as to
body, though in hopeless sorrow as to soul.

He no longer cared even to pursue his search for the pamphlet once so
earnestly desired.

Why should he care to unravel the mystery, or vindicate himself, now
that Arielle was irretrievably lost to him?

Nothing now seemed left for him to live for; and yet he lived! If ever

“Conscience does make cowards of us all,”

as the great poet declares, it quite as often makes heroes.

If Valdimir Desparde, with happiness destroyed and hope dead, continued
to live on with the prospect of living for half a century longer, he did
so because he felt it to be his duty to the Divine Life-Giver to hold
and guard His gift through sorrow as through joy, through ill report as
through good report, until He should require it at his hands.

It was a great dread to the young man, this stretch of barren, dreary
life into the long future.

But soon a way of escape opened. Before he went into the hospital he had
heard that a few cases of yellow fever—that periodical scourge of the
Gulf States—had appeared in the thickly crowded portions of the city,
near the water. He had paid little attention to this rumor, his mind
having been at that time engrossed by his anxiety to find the pamphlet
and to hear from his home—even though people were then already leaving
the city, as all who could get away always did on the very first note of
alarm.

During the five weeks of his illness in the seclusion of his private
chamber of the institution, he heard nothing of what was going on in the
outside world. How should he hear, indeed—he, who had no friends in the
city, and, consequently, no visitors at his bedside except his physician
and his nurse.

But when he walked forth from the hospital he scarcely recognized the
city again.

The once crowded thoroughfares were nearly deserted. Many houses were
shut up and abandoned, many of the stores were closed, and an air of
strange desolation and deep gloom pervaded the place.

As he passed street after street on his way to his former lodgings, he
saw that only the druggists and the undertakers seemed to be doing an
active business.

He reached the hotel, re-registered his name, and engaged better rooms
than he had previously been able to secure, for there was a plenty of
space, “and to spare,” in that, as well as in every hotel in the city,
for every one who could fly from the prevailing plague had fled.

Valdimir had been shielded from news of “the fever,” during his
confinement in the hospital; but now “the fever” met him at every
turn—in the office, in the reading-room, in the public parlor, in the
dining-room—everywhere, everywhere, nothing but talk of “the fever.”

In the conversation going on all around him everywhere, Valdimir
Desparde heard of the great destitution and suffering of the sick
poor—of their want of medicine, food, clothing, and most especially
their want of attention. Indeed it was said that there were many cases
of whole families being sick in their houses, with everything else they
could require except attendance.

Here, then, was Valdimir Desparde’s opportunity. He had money—several
thousand pounds, that he had brought from England—lodged in the City
Bank. He had life and health and strength, all to give to the sick poor.
He felt a thrill of _pleasure_ in the thought that he had so much to
give, but scarcely any merit in giving what he valued so little, what,
in truth, he would willingly get rid of, if he could do so in the line
of duty. He would not throw his health and strength and life away, but
he would _give_ them where they could serve humanity.

The next morning Valdimir Desparde offered his services to the Christian
Commission, requesting to be placed on duty among the poorest of the
sick and suffering.

And he had his wish.

For many weeks after this he worked indefatigably among the destitute,
fever-stricken families, supplying their wants from his own purse, and
ministering at their bedsides to their humblest necessities.

One day, when he had just got through with his duties in a house where
all the members of the family had been stricken, and where four had
recovered and two had passed away, he went to the office of the
Christian Commission to report.

“Glad you have come,” said the commissioner then on duty. “Here is a
house—a whole row of houses, in fact—but one house in particular of the
row, where all the family, consisting of eight persons, are ill, with
the exception of two young children. We have not a soul to send them.”

“I will go immediately. Where is the place?” promptly inquired Valdimir.

“It is Leroy Place. The house in question is No. 7, a tobacconist’s,”
replied the commissioner, referring to a memorandum on his desk, and
then passing it to Desparde.

“No. 7 Leroy Place, a tobacconist’s! Why, it is poor Yok’s family!”
exclaimed Valdimir, compassionately.

“You know the people?” inquired the commissioner, looking up from the
book in which he was making entries.

“Yes! I knew them long ago in the old country. I have known them here
also. I will go immediately,” said Desparde, as he left the office.

He called a passing cab and threw himself into it, gave his order,
hurried to his banker’s, drew out a sum of money, thence to a drug
store, laid in a store of such medicines as he knew would be required,
and thence to a provision store for such articles of nourishment as
would be needed, and finally on to Leroy Place.

There the sorrowful but too common sight of deadly illness and deep
destitution met his view. No life was abroad in the place. No man, woman
or child passed in the street, no children played before the doors, no
faces appeared at the windows.

He drew up at No. 7, alighted, paid and discharged the cab, and entered
the shop.

There was no one visible except Donald, the ten-year-old lad, who stood
behind the counter, but looked so sallow and haggard that he seemed
scarcely able to stand.

The shop was in the saddest state of confusion and neglect—the windows,
the counter, the glass case and the boxes all covered thickly with dust,
and the floor was littered with torn paper, shreds, straw, and other
_debris_.

“My poor boy,” said Desparde, pitifully, “you look scarcely able to be
out of bed. Is there no one up but you?”

“Nay, but I maun mind shop,” replied the lad, in a forlorn tone.

“There is not the least need for your doing so; no one is coming here to
buy. Go into the back room now and lie down on that settee I see there,
and I will come and attend to you soon. Now where are the others? I must
see them.”

“Up stairs i’ their beds,” replied the lad, who was willingly obeying
Desparde’s order, and walking feebly towards his place of temporary
rest.

Desparde left the shop by the side door and went up the front stairs
leading to the bed-chambers.

Distressing moans met his ear as he reached the landing, upon which
three doors opened, one from the front chamber, one from the back, and
one from the little hall chamber.

The last mentioned was immediately before him. He entered that little
room first.

Ah! what a sight!

There, extended on the bed, lay the forms of Annek and little Eric,
already past all human help, all earthly want.

“This is a case for the undertaker, not for the nurse,” he said.

And he took from his pocket a roll of black cambric, tore off a strip,
hoisted the window of the room and fastened the black flag to the sash
as a signal for the “dead-cart” to stop as it passed.

Then he went into the next room, where he found Alek Yok and his wife
ill on one bed and two of the boys on the other, while in the back room
beyond lay Jan Yok, dying, and the third boy delirious, and below, in
the back parlor, lay the youngest lad, ill with the premonitory symptoms
of the fever.

I promised to be brief with this part of my story, and I will be so.

That afternoon the remains of Annek and Eric were laid in the earth.

The next day those of Jan Yok were placed by their side.

All the other members of the family recovered.

But it was two weeks before Valdimir Desparde was released from duty in
that house.

By the first of November there was not a single case in the city.

It was while nursing the last patient who came under his charge that
fortune favored Valdimir Desparde in an unexpected manner.

The man was convalescent and seriously inclined. One morning he asked
his kind attendant to bring him a volume of John Wesley’s sermons from a
book-shelf in the parlor.

Valdimir Desparde went to bring it.

The parlor was poor and plain. Three hanging shelves over the dusty
mantel-piece supported three rows of books and pamphlets.

Valdimir, looking for the required volume, took down several books, and
accidentally knocked down a pile of old pamphlets.

In stooping to gather these up from the floor, his eyes fell upon the
title of one of them.

It was the book he had been in search of for the last four months—“The
Wonderful Life and Adventures of John Sims, Quadroon Slave, alias
Valdimir Desparde, Gentleman.”

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER VI.
THE DISCOVERY.

’Tis not to pray Heav’n’s mercy, or to sit
And droop, or to confess that thou hast sinned;
’Tis to bewail the sins thou didst commit,
And not commit these sins thou hast bewailed.
He that bewails and not forsakes them too,
Confesses rather what he means to do.
SHAKESPEARE.

Valdimir Desparde had found the pamphlet he had so long and so vainly
sought; found it after he had given up the search in despair; found it
when he was least expecting or thinking of it! It had suddenly fallen
into his hands as if it had dropped from the sky!

Yet he handled it with a sense of shrinking, as from something morally
unclean!

The next instant, however, his eyes were fixed spell-bound to the
picture on the cover—the portrait of a man whose criminal life and
tragic death was narrated within.

It was a fine, dark face of wonderful beauty and spirit, which not even
the rude wood engraving could spoil.

But it was not the beauty and passion of the face that fascinated the
gaze of the beholder.

IT WAS ITS AMAZING LIKENESS TO HIS FRIEND, BRANDON COYLE!!

It was a stronger and more striking likeness than any photograph he had
ever seen of the heir of Caveland! There were the same beautiful but
rather sensual features, the same symmetrical, low forehead, the same
straight nose and full, curved lips which the short, well-trimmed
mustache adorned, but did not conceal, the same curling black hair,
thick black eyebrows, long and heavy black eyelashes overhanging large,
luminous, languishing black eyes.

In a word, it was the perfectly pictured face of Brandon Coyle, as no
photographer had ever succeeded in giving it!

Valdimir Desparde’s amazement grew as he gazed! He dropped into a chair,
still holding the portrait before his spell-bound eyes.

“What is the meaning of this?” he asked himself again and again, without
obtaining the faintest sign of an answer.

For even then not the slightest forewarning of the ugly fact he was soon
to learn entered his unsuspicious mind.

In his amazement he had forgotten all about the book he had come to
fetch until he was aroused by the shrill treble of his patient, whose
voice was sharpened by sickness, demanding:

“Haven’t you found Wesley’s sermons yet? They are on the bottom shelf,
hanging over the mantle-piece! You can’t miss them!”

Valdimir started up as one awakened from a dream, and snatching the
volume in question from its place, hurried into the adjoining room,
taking also the pamphlet with him.

“Here is the book, Mr. La Motte. And here is a pamphlet that I wish you
would lend me,” said the young gentleman, laying both volumes on the
little stand beside the convalescent’s chair.

La Motte pushed the “Sermons” aside for a moment and took up the
pamphlet to see what it might be.

“I have been hunting for that work for the last four months through
every bookstore and bookstand in the city, and have advertised for it in
every paper,” continued Desparde.

“_This?_” said La Motte, in surprise. “Do you mean _this_? This Life and
Adventures of John Sims?”

“Yes, that very pamphlet!”

“And you might have had a dozen of them. My father-in-law was the
publisher of it!” exclaimed the convalescent.

“Then why in the world didn’t you answer my advertisement when I offered
so high a price for a copy!”

“I never saw the advertisement—wasn’t in the city. Just got back from my
last voyage to the coast of Africa, when I was knocked down by Yellow
Jack! If you want that book you are welcome to it! And a dozen more like
it. My father-in-law died some years ago and his stock in trade was sold
for the benefit of his heirs. A lot of rubbish was left on hand as
unsalable, however, and a few dozens of _that_ among it! Help yourself,
my friend! Take an armful of ‘John Simses’ if you want them!”

“Thanks, very much, but this one book is quite sufficient,” said
Desparde.

“Well, I should think it might be of _him_!” replied La Motte.

“—And while you read ‘Wesley,’ will you excuse me if I look over this?”
demanded Desparde, in feverish anxiety to peruse the pamphlet.

“See here, my young friend,” said La Motte, taking the book of sermons
and putting it out of sight in the stand drawer, “I have lost my
inclination to study the great evangelist now. Your interest in this
fellow Sims has interested _me_! You can take that book away with you,
if you please; but you needn’t take the trouble to read it, because it
isn’t more than half true; or, if it is, the truth is so painted and
varnished as to be hardly recognizable! Now, if you want the _whole
plain truth_ about the fellow, I can give it to you!”

“_You!_” exclaimed Desparde.

“Yes, _I_! Of course, I don’t know why you should care to know it, or
whether you mean to write a novel or a drama founded on it; but I _do_
know I can give you all the real facts, if you want to know them.”

“They—the real facts—are just exactly what I want to know. And you say
you can tell them?”

“Yes. I knew John Sims from the day of his birth to the day of his
death. My father’s farm joined his old master’s plantation.”

“Tell me all you know.”

“Well, his father was a gentleman of high position, great family, vast
wealth and very great pride, and a very domineering will! Yes, sir! His
father was all that, and his mother was a pretty mulatto slave, with a
temper like gun-cotton! Those were his parents, Mr. Adams!”

“Is it possible!” muttered the young man to himself.

“Yes, sir! He was the son of a gentleman, of a very proud and arrogant
race, and yet he was born a slave; for in our part of the country the
children are born into the condition of the mother.”

“I know it,” muttered Valdimir.

“Think, sir, what such a boy, the offspring of such opposite and jarring
elements of character, must have been! Think of the slave son of the
slave mother inheriting the haughty spirit and domineering temper of the
master father! Do you wonder he grew up ‘neither fearing God nor
regarding man,’ and with a hatred of the whole human race burning in his
heart? Do you wonder that, while yet a lad, he became a fugitive from
slavery, and that he ended his career by slaying his young master?—and
let the terrible truth be known, _his brother_—for, sir, they were the
sons of one father. But do you wonder at this?”

“I do not,” replied Valdimir, in a low voice.

“No, nor do I. I only wonder such fearful crimes are not oftener
committed under the same circumstances. Yet no one would have predicated
crime of the little lad we all used to like so well! Why, Johnnie was
the pet of the neighborhood. He was a beautiful boy, with regular
features and large, soft dark eyes, and a shower of long, silky, black
ringlets covering his head and falling around his face. He was the pet
of the plantation and of the farm alike. Everybody loved the boy, and he
warmly responded to all love. He was his pretty, affectionate mother all
over again! But the demon was in him, for all that, sir! His father’s
demon was in him! And being in him, of course it had to come out of
him.”

“Of course,” mechanically assented Desparde.

“Well, sir, when the boy was about thirteen years old, his poor, little,
pretty mother died. He had no brother or sister, no acknowledged tie on
earth but his mother. When she was gone, all ties between him and the
plantation were broken. He availed himself of the first opportunity to
escape from the slavery that was too galling to his father’s arrogance
within him. The opportunity soon came. The family went to Niagara that
summer, as was their custom every year. And for the first time his old
master took Johnnie as his own ‘body-servant.’ The young master was then
at Yale College; but he joined his family at the Falls during the
vacation.”

“I am sure I do not know why I should ask you; but who were the members
of that family at that time?” inquired Valdimir Desparde.

“Well, there was the old master, old Mr. Millerue, his wife, two sons
and three daughters. The young man at Yale was the oldest; the others
were growing girls and boys; and they were all at Niagara together on
this summer of which I speak.”

“Yes, thank you. Pray, go on!”

“Well, I can only tell you from hearsay what happened at the Falls. If
seems that the beauty and brightness of the quadroon boy attracted
attention even there, especially from a Canadian philanthropist, who
first of all, wanted to buy Johnnie and take him to Canada to be
educated; but, bless your life and soul, the Millerues received the
offer as an insult, and young Millerue challenged the Canadian to fight
a duel.”

“And did they do so?”

“Lord, love you, no, sir! The cowardly Canadian handed over the young
Southerner to the police, and he had to pay an enormous fine, or else go
to prison, for sending a challenge. He preferred to pay the fine.”

“And what next?”

“A few days after that the boy was missed and could not be found. Old
Mr. Millerue offered a reward for his apprehension—not as a _slave_, you
observe, sir—for that would have availed him nothing in that latitude;
for as he had voluntarily brought the slave upon free soil, as a _slave_
he could have abandoned his master if he had pleased to do so, and his
master could have had no remedy; but Johnnie was a _minor_, and his
master advertised him as a fugitive or an abducted _ward_, and offered a
large sum of money for his apprehension. You see the point, Mr. Adams?”

“Yes, I see.”

“Well, sir, nothing came of the reward offered; nothing more was heard
of the boy. It was, of course, believed that the Canadian had spirited
him away across the boundary line.”

“An easy thing to do at that point,” observed Desparde.

“Quite easy, sir,” assented La Motte.

“But I wonder that the Canadian was not summoned by writ of _habeas
corpus_ to produce the boy in court,” said Valdimir.

“Yes, sir; but, you see, ‘before you cook your rabbit you must first
catch it.’ You can’t serve a writ on a man until you find him. The
Canadian had disappeared. No, sir; you may depend that everything was
done that could be done by those obstinate, domineering, persevering
Millerues to recover the fugitive, for, besides valuing him highly as a
piece of property, they all liked him very much for himself. They came
home that autumn in a fine rage, and never ceased to rail at the
treacherous Canadian until the illness and death of the old man gave
them something else to think about. The young master came home from
college to attend his father’s funeral, and never returned North. He
remained on the plantation to oversee the overseer, and to protect and
console his mother and sisters; but nothing more was heard of Johnnie
Sims for years after his flight—not, indeed, until he was arrested under
another name. Let me see that pamphlet for an instant, Mr. Adams. Ah,
thank you, that was the name—Valdimir Desparde. It was a queer name, and
I had nearly forgotten it. He was arrested under the name of Valdimir
Desparde, and brought to trial for the murder of his master, then the
younger Millerue.”

The face of our young exile must have betrayed the deep and strong
emotion that shook his soul like a tempest, had he not turned in his
seat so as to place his back to the light, before asking the next
question:

“When and under what circumstances did he assume that alias?”

“Oh, you shall hear, sir! You will see what good use he made of that
aristocratic foreign name. Why, sir, what with his beauty and his
brightness, his college education, and his fine name, he, a fugitive
slave from Louisiana, actually married a young English girl of good
family. Ran away with her, I grant you, but married her all the same!”

“That was terrible!” muttered Desparde, with a shudder.

“It made a sensation down in these parts when it became known, I can
tell you that, Mr. Adams. But—”

“Let me interrupt you for a moment. Did that most unhappy young lady
know the antecedents of the man she so fatally entrusted with her
happiness and honor?”

“No, sir; it appears that she believed him to be a Polish exile of rank.
No, sir, she didn’t know his beginning, but it is certain she did know
his end. He had left her months before in Washington City, where she was
reduced to such extreme poverty that the clergyman, or the physician, or
somebody who attended her in her last illness, wrote over to the old
country to her nearest relation to send her some relief, and he—the rich
relation—came over in person to take her and her two children back with
him. But, Lord love you, sir, she was too far gone in a decline to
undertake the voyage; so the best he could do for _her_ was to move her
to better lodgings and make her comfortable as long as she lived. After
her death that same rich relation took the boy and girl home with him to
England.”

Our exile bowed his smitten head under the force of this corroborating
testimony to the truth of his own early recollections. Did he not
remember the last illness of his mother, the visit of the clergyman, the
letter written by her bedside, the arrival some time later of the
wealthy relative, their removal from squalor to splendor, then the death
and funeral of their mother, and the departure and sea voyage of himself
and his sister under the guardianship of their wealthy relative? Did he
not remember the severe reticence of their guardian upon all subjects
connected with the early life of himself and his sister?

As he remembered these circumstances and compared them with the present
statement of La Motte, the faint hope that had arisen in his heart—the
hope that, after all, the felon who had taken his name for an alias
might really not be anything to him—sank under the overwhelming weight
of the circumstantial evidence. But here a question occurred to him:

“Since all this happened to the ill-fated young lady in Washington City,
and you were in New Orleans at the time, how did you become acquainted
with the circumstances?”

La Motte stared at his questioner for a moment, and then answered:

“Why, through the Washington correspondents of the New Orleans papers to
be sure! Why, sir, do you think such a sensational story as _that_,
connected with a criminal trial, could be corked up in a bottle even?”

“I suppose not. But will you tell me something of this man’s history
between the time of his flight from his master at the age of thirteen
and his execution at the age of thirty-three? Something else, I mean,
beyond the one bald fact of his having run away with a young English
lady whom he courted under a false name. I could, of course, read this
pamphlet, and I shall do so after a while. But, in the meanwhile, I wish
to have _your_ account, which, you say, will be the most truthful of the
two.”

“Yes, sir, for it will be given from my own knowledge, or from evidence
heard by me in court.”

“Then I shall thank you for the authentic narrative, I assure you.”

“One thing I must specify of this young man from the beginning—that,
notwithstanding his really brilliant genius and his college education,
he had the streak of an idiot or a maniac in him, or he never _could_
have acted the mad part he did in conducting himself with such a
reckless disregard of consequences.”

“Is not _all_ crime insanity? Are not all criminals maniacs?” put in
Desparde.

“Hum-m-me!” muttered La Motte, slowly. “All crime may be moral insanity,
if you please, but not mental insanity. What I meant to say of the man
in question is this—that he was not only morally perverted, but mentally
unsound, as you will see before we have done with his story. You want me
to begin with this from the time of his flight from Niagara Falls?”

“I do.”

“Well, Mr. Adams, as it turned out, the master’s suspicion was the
truth—the Canadian _had_ assisted him to flee into Canada. The Canadian
met him at some given point on the route and took him to Montreal.”

“Yes.”

“When they arrived at that city his benefactor interested certain
reformers, philanthropists, and abolitionists in his favor, and they
placed the boy in the Jesuit College there to be educated. And there he
remained for eight years—beginning his education in the lowest class of
the preparatory school, and ascending gradually to the highest, winning
through his whole school and college career ‘golden opinions’ from
classmates, professors and patrons. Ambition seemed to be the ruling
passion of the youth—pride inherited from his father’s haughty race,
sir. You see that?”

“Yes,” sighed Desparde.

“Well, sir, at the end of eight years he graduated with the highest
honors of his college. Ah! were not his philanthropic patrons proud of
their work when they looked at this youth rescued from bondage and
educated to become an honor to his race!”

“I presume they were,” languidly assented Valdimir.

“But I am not so sure they did not alter their opinion about the
possibility of making a ‘silk purse out of a swine’s ear’ before all was
over, sir. However, it was an experiment, and apparently a successful
one. And so the experimentors petted the experiment. After he had
graduated with such distinguished honor, his patrons put their heads
together to provide for his future. They gave him the choice of three
learned professions—law, medicine and theology. He chose the law as
offering the finest field for his talents and his ambition. And, sir, he
was placed in one of the best law schools in the country. There, also,
he did amazing credit to his patrons, and finally graduated with the
highest honors.”

“It is strange that a young man of such brilliant talents and such
excellent patronage should have fallen into such degradation and crime,”
commented Desparde.

“No, Mr. Adams, I do not think that it is strange. If he had been taken
younger—a great deal younger, before he could have had any knowledge of
his birth and parentage—he might have done better. But he was thirteen
years old at the time of the great change in his fortune, with the full
memory of his degraded childhood, and with all his inherited pride. So
the higher he rose in social position the deeper to him seemed the
disgrace of his origin. The more honor he gained in his youth, the more
shame he felt in the memory of his childhood. Thus pride and shame made
perpetual discord in his soul. Surely you can understand this.”

“Yes, I can understand _him_, with the evils of two opposite races in
his organization.”

“Well, after he had been admitted to the bar he opened an office on Main
street; but clients did not crowd to his chambers with the enthusiasm
expected by the young man or his admirers. He got very little to do.
‘Satan finds some mischief,’ etc. You know the proverb. The time that
should have been devoted to knotty law points—to ‘making the worse
appear the better cause,’ etc.—was wasted in amusement. Money that could
not be made by law was won by gambling. He got into bad company; then
into worse. Bah! what is the use of describing every mile-stone that
measures the distance down the broad road that leads to destruction? You
will find it all in that pamphlet in your hand. _That_ part of the story
seems to be faithfully enough related.”

Valdimir looked at the book, but made no reply.

La Motte continued:

“One day all the world was startled by the shock of a tremendous bank
robbery—by far the greatest haul that had ever been known in the
Canadas, and which utterly baffled the police from that day to the day
when that confession you hold in your hand was published—when, of
course, it was too late to bring the robbers to punishment.”

“Do you mean to say that young Sims was concerned in the robbery?”
inquired Valdimir.

“Yes, of course, though he never was suspected of it. That robbery was
not committed by any ordinary burglars, but by young men who held
responsible positions—and who, therefore, were never suspected. However,
a few months after it had been committed, whether it was from fear of
discovery, or what not, Sims determined to leave Montreal. The excuse he
made to his patrons, who were in blissful ignorance of his wild life,
was that he had no success in Montreal, and wished to try his fortune in
Quebec. They gave him letters to persons of distinction in that city. He
went hither, but did not present any of his letters, for the reason that
he did not intend to stay there. He had a very large sum of money in
gold, and he determined to travel and see the world. He sailed for
England, and he spent months in traveling both over frequented and
unfrequented routes. It was at Gibraltar that he made the acquaintance
of a young English gentleman, an officer in the 000th Regiment, then
stationed in the garrison there. Well, it seems that this Captain
Desparde—”

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER VII.
DAWNING DAY.

Courage! You travel through a darksome cave,
But still, as nearer to the light you draw,
Fresh gales will meet you from the upper air,
And wholesome dews of heaven your forehead lave.
The darkness lighten more, till full of awe
You stand in the open sunshine unaware.
R. C. TRENCH.

“Eh?—Stop! What—what name did you say?” exclaimed the hearer, in great
agitation.

“I said Desparde—Captain Valdimir Desparde, of Her Majesty’s 000th
Regiment of Foot—the man whose money, jewels, letters and name he took,
and for whom he passed himself off in this country.”

“How strange!” exclaimed our exile, as the light burst upon him.

“What is the matter? You are agitated,” exclaimed La Motte, in his turn.

“I—I—Captain Desparde was—a near relative,” stammered Valdimir.

“Oh, indeed! Then it is enough to upset you!” said Sims’s biographer,
who would then have asked many questions upon the subject had not his
young hearer besought him to proceed at once with his narrative.

“To think of you being mixed up in any way with this! No wonder you
wanted to get hold of the confession. Well, Mr. Adams, it appears that
this Captain Desparde was himself descended on one side from English
nobles, and on the other from Polish princes, and that his early youth
had been passed in Poland; but his family had come to England after the
suppression of the last attempt at revolution there, and that by the
help of his English relatives he got a commission in the English army.
His regiment was stationed at Gibraltar at the time he first met our
adventurer.”

“Yes, you told me that.”

“Well, sir, it appears that this Captain Desparde was a very wild young
fellow himself, and kept very wild company. But you might have judged as
much from the fact of his acquaintance with John Sims.”

“I should think so,” assented Valdimir.

“At all events they were great cronies, although the Anglo-Pole, being
the most skillful gambler of the two, won a good deal of the quadroon’s
money. Now came a crisis. The captain had applied for three months’
leave of absence, which he confidently expected to get and which he
intended to spend by running over to the United States and making a
short tour there. He had never been to America, he had no friends or
acquaintances over there, but still he wished to go. He provided himself
with letters of introduction from persons of distinction in London to
their peers in society in New York and Washington; also with funds for
his voyage. He was only waiting for dispatches from the Horse Guards
with his coveted furlough. But when the dispatches came at length they
contained no leave of absence for the young captain, but, on the
contrary, orders for the regiment to sail at once for Calcutta. Well,
sir, all this the captain told his boon companion that night, and in his
vexation got so drunk that Sims had to take him home to his quarters and
remain with him through the night. That night it was that the robbery
was successfully effected; but days passed before the loss was
discovered; they were in the bustle incident upon embarkation. There was
not much opportunity for thorough investigation. The regiment sailed and
the matter of the robbery was left in charge of the police. Not the
slightest suspicion attached to John Sims. He, with his booty, took
passage on a coasting vessel for Havre. And from Havre he sailed for New
York. On reaching the great American metropolis he took rooms at a
first-class hotel, registering himself as Captain Desparde. Then he
sallied forth to present his stolen letters of introduction. One of the
first letters he presented was from a gentleman in the north of England,
by the name of—of—Just let me have that pamphlet a moment, Mr. Adams,
for I really cannot recall the name just at present; but it is in the
book.”

Valdimir handed it over.

“Ah, thank you. Yes, here it is,” said La Motte, turning over the pages
and stopping at one. “A gentleman of the name of Coyle—Christopher
Coyle, Esq, of Caveland, to his brother, Donald Coyle, banker, New York.
That was it. Mr. Adams! Bless my soul, sir! you are ill! Jove! I hope
you haven’t got the fever!” cried La Motte, who, in returning the
pamphlet to Valdimir, was shocked to perceive the extreme agitation of
the young man.

“No, no, no! go on!” exclaimed the latter, urgently.

“Yes, but see here, you know! This is not agoing to do! You are shaking
like an ague! It always comes on with an ague! Let me try to get out to
the next door and have the people send for the doctor for you! I could
do that much for the man who has nursed me through my illness,”
remonstrated La Motte.

“No, no, no! I assure you I am not ill, or in danger of being ill—in
body, at least! It is the surprise—the shock! You must know that Mr.
Coyle of Caveland is an old and intimate friend of my family,” said
Valdimir, feeling that some explanation of his emotion must be made
before La Motte could be induced to go on with his story.

“Oh, ah—indeed—yes. By Jove, though, it looks like a good many of your
friends got mixed up in the life and adventures of Johnnie Sims,” said
La Motte.

“A good many _did_,” Valdimir acknowledged.

“Which, of course, accounts for your anxiety to get hold of his
confession! All right.”

“And now will you go on with the narrative, Mr. La Motte?”

“Of course I will. Well, Sims presented his letters of credit—both
social and financial—and they were all equally honored. It must have
been fun for the rogue, however, to have Mr. Donald Coyle go with him to
the banker’s on whom his bills of exchange were drawn, to identify him
as Captain Valdimir Desparde—for, of course, sir, as I told you before,
Sims first of all presented his letter of introduction from Mr. Coyle of
Caveland to Mr. Donald Coyle of Wall street, who received his brother’s
young friend with the greatest cordiality, and offered every service in
his power—the hospitality of his home, among other favors.”

As La Motte spoke, day seemed to be dawning in the long, dark night of
the young exile’s despair, and to grow lighter and brighter with every
moment and every word.

“Well, Mr. Adams, John Sims, ‘Captain Desparde,’ as he called himself,
became a frequent visitor at Mr. Donald Coyle’s house. That gentleman
had ‘one fair daughter and no more.’ Why should we tell the story that
is as old as that of Eve and the serpent? The dark, brilliant Creole
fell in love with the fair English girl, or with her fortune, or with
both. He wooed her very much as another dark gentleman wooed his love—by
telling her hair-raising, blood curding, marrow-freezing stories, and
making himself the hero of them all! He told her romances about his
maternal grandfather, the Polish Prince Valdimir Zarinski, and himself
in the fights for freedom—

‘Where they all, side by side, had striven
And o’er the dead their coursers driven,’

until the girl’s head was turned completely, and she reciprocated his
passion, and gave him leave to ‘speak to pa.’ Mr. Coyle made no serious
objection to the marriage, but some little difficulty about the
settlements, requiring also to see some authenticated statements of
Captain Desparde’s estate, or prospects, or means of supporting a wife,
outside of his pay in the army, which the old man declared to be
insufficient—difficulties which the impatient young couple cut short by
an elopement!”

“So this John Sims really married a Miss Coyle?” said Valdimir Desparde,
“with the sigh of a great deliverance.”

“Yes, he actually married a Miss Coyle! Poor, unfortunate girl! After
the runaway marriage the young couple went to the old man to ask
forgiveness. They were too late! The shock of his daughter’s elopement,
coming upon top of other severe troubles, was too much for the father to
bear. They brought on a fit of apoplexy of which he died.”

“That must have been a terrible blow to the erring daughter,” said
Valdimir.

“Yes, I should think so. To run away and get married, and come
immediately back to ask forgiveness, and to find her father dead! It was
the first of a series of severe penances she had to pay for her mad and
fatal act!”

“You spoke of other troubles that had affected Mr. Donald Coyle,” said
Valdimir.

“Ah, yes! But they were not known or suspected while he lived. After his
death it was discovered that he was utterly insolvent! His creditors
seized everything—house, furniture, clothing. His daughter was left
penniless. When she had got over the first excesses of her grief and
remorse, she explained to her husband that although her father’s fortune
was gone, yet she was the sole heiress of her uncle, Mr. Christopher
Coyle, of Caveland, who would have taken care of her if she had not been
married, and she even proposed to Sims to take her over to visit this
uncle. But, of course, Sims would as soon have jumped into the fire. For
to have gone to Caveland, where the _real_ Captain Desparde was well
known, would have been to expose himself as an impostor and subject
himself to arrest and prosecution. He was even afraid to remain in New
York lest some traveling Englishman who knew Captain Desparde should
discover him to be a fraud. He left the city with his young wife, and
for the next six years they traveled from city to city throughout the
civilized world, where he sometimes went by one name and sometimes by
another, for he lived by gambling, swindling, and—stealing. At last,
after six years of such adventure, he fetched up at Washington City,
where he took rooms at a good hotel, and registered himself and party as
‘Captain Desparde, wife, and two children.’ Here he gambled, and won
money, and lived in style, though not in the best company, for he was
known as a gambler, and suspected as an adventurer.”

“It was there, I have heard, that his Nemesis met him,” said Valdimir.

“Yes, sir; it was in Washington City that his Nemesis met him, in the
form of our member from his master’s district. I told you the fellow had
a strain of idiocy or mania in him; if he had not had would he ever have
ventured to go to Washington City, where it was at least _possible_ that
some Southerner who had known him as a boy might meet and recognize him
as a fugitive slave?”

“Perhaps his many years’ immunity from suspicion or arrest had made him
reckless. Perhaps also he placed too much confidence in the change of
his personal appearance,” suggested Valdimir.

“It may have been so, sir. But as to the change in his personal
appearance—to be sure, he had grown taller and stouter—but a remarkable
face like his retains its character always, and can never be forgotten,
or fail to be recognized. This was really what happened to him in
Washington. Our member met him at the faro-table and recognized him at
once—having known Johnnie from childhood up to his thirteenth year, and
seen him almost daily in the interim—and what is more, he saw that Sims
had also recognized him, and trembled. But mark you, sir, how well our
member—Mr. Dubourg—acted his part. He gave no sign of recognition, but
treated ‘Captain Desparde’ with all the respect he would have paid to
any other gentleman whom he had socially met. But mark you again! That
very night a letter went off to Louisiana to warn Mr. Eugene Millerue
that his fugitive slave, John Sims, was then in Washington, and a
detective was employed by Dubourg in the interests of his friend, to
keep sight of ‘Captain Desparde!’”

“Who fled, of course.”

“Oh, you may safely swear that! He was not deceived by the fair
politeness of his master’s old neighbor, whom he knew so well. He was
not thrown off his guard by bows and smiles. He stood ‘not on the order
of’ _his_ going, but went ‘at once.’ He left wife and children behind
him, and started for New York that night, probably intending to catch a
steamer for Liverpool. However, fate, or his luck, had turned, or
something was amiss with his destinies. On the train he was taken
suddenly ill—so ill, that when it reached the Baltimore station he had
to be lifted from the cars and conveyed to a hospital, followed by the
detective, in plain clothes, who had ‘shadowed’ him from Washington. He
was virtually a prisoner from that moment. He was very ill with malarial
fever for three weeks, watched over by the detective, who remained in
the neighborhood, in the pay of Dubourg, and visited the patient every
day as a friend. His wife was not notified of his condition. The man
himself did not desire it. He was flying for freedom, or intending to do
so, as soon as he should be able to go, and he could not be encumbered
with wife or children, so he did not ask that she should be told of his
illness. Nor did Mr. Dubourg think it at all proper that anything should
be said to her on the subject. He had seen her at the hotel. He told all
about it when he got home. He had seen that she was well educated and
lady-like, and was told that she was English by birth. He believed that
she had been trepanned into this degrading marriage, and he judged,
under the circumstances, that the sooner she lost all trace of this man
the better it would be for herself and her unfortunate children. So he
would not have her notified of that which was known only to himself and
the detective.”

“It was a difficult question to decide,” said Valdimir.

“It would be to _you_, sir, but it was not to him. He considered the
marriage unnatural and monstrous, and the lady a victim of a hideous
wrong! Well, sir, at the end of four weeks, just when John Sims was
preparing to renew his flight, officers sent by his master arrived at
Baltimore, armed with authority to arrest John Sims, alias Valdimir
Desparde, as a fugitive slave, and convey him back to Louisiana. Oh! but
there was a desperate scene!”

“It must have been,” assented Desparde.

“Why, Mr. Adams, he utterly denied that he was John Sims, or a slave, or
a native of Louisiana; claimed that he was a gentleman, descended from
Polish princes and English nobles, an officer in the British army and
then on his travels through the United States; said that he had never
heard of John Sims or of Mr. Eugene Millerue in his life! He threatened
the officers with prosecution for false arrest; threatened the
authorities with the interference of the British minister; threatened
the country with a war with England for the audacity of attempting to
enslave a British subject! Talked like an outraged prince!”

“All of which was to be expected,” said Valdimir.

“But all of which was in vain,” continued La Motte. “Mr. Millerue had
sent men who were able to identify Sims to the satisfaction of the State
authorities, and he was delivered over to the officers. Then a very
cruel scene ensued. Feeble as the man was from his long illness, he made
a desperate resistance and was only overpowered by main force, and then
handcuffed like a criminal and taken away.”

“Sims was a lawless adventurer, no doubt; but it was not upon _that_
account he was taken, but on account of his being a fugitive slave,
which makes all this seem very terrible to me—an Englishman,” said
Valdimir.

“No doubt it does, sir.”

“Excuse me for interrupting you. Pray proceed.”

“Well, Mr. Adams, they took Sims back to Louisiana and lodged him in
jail in New Orleans, where—he being more dead than alive—they took off
his handcuffs, and they sent for his master, Mr. Eugene Millerue. And
now, sir, comes the most revolting part of the story.”

“The murder,” muttered Valdimir.

“Yes, sir, the murder. It happened in this way: Mr. Eugene Millerue came
up from the plantation to take his slave, whom he found ill on a pallet
in the prison-cell at New Orleans. He stood over him, pitiless, cruel,
sneering. He taunted him with his assumed position and his real one;
asked him how a fine gentleman of his epicurean habits could reconcile
himself to labor in the cotton fields under a slave-driver. Now, Mr.
Adams, I should explain here that the turnkey who had opened the cell,
and who stood within the door, was the eye and ear witness to this
interview.”

“Yes, go on.”

“Well, sir, Sims was silent, sullen, and immovable. Then the master
asked other taunting and exasperating questions of the fallen and
humiliated wretch, whose only refuge was in continued silence. Eugene
Millerue, I must say it, had the temper of a demon! He was determined to
make Sims speak, and finally he threatened the man with the _lash_! Then
Sims suddenly raised himself from his pallet in a sitting position, and
looked around as if in search of some weapon, but saw none. Millerue,
who seemed to divine his thoughts, laughed scornfully as he repeated
that the overseer’s whip should soon reduce him to submission. Then it
was that Sims spoke for the first time and said:

“‘Who dares to degrade me with a blow shall die for it!’

“‘Ah, indeed! Is it so?’ Millerue retorted, and raising the riding-whip
he carried in his hand, he brought it down across the face of Sims with
a sharp force that laid the flesh open.

“Then, with the strength and swiftness of frenzy, Sims sprang from his
pallet, seized the heavy stone pitcher of water that stood by his side
and struck it down upon his master’s head with a mighty force that
crushed in the skull and laid him lifeless on the floor! It was the
spasmodic effort of a man goaded to madness! When the sudden deed was
done, the murderer reeled back and fell upon his pallet in a swoon. All
this was the work of an instant, done and over before the turnkey could
spring into the cell and cock his pistol!”

“_Oh, horrible!_” muttered Valdimir Desparde, covering his eyes as if to
shut out the vision.

“Well, sir, the alarm was given! The whole place was in arms! The still
swooning quadroon was handcuffed and carried to a stronger cell in the
‘murderers’ row.’ The body of Millerue was conveyed to the warden’s
office and the coroner was summoned. You know what followed! Sims was
brought to trial, convicted and executed for the murder of his master.”

“And—the unfortunate wife and children?” inquired Valdimir.

“I thought I had told you of their fate, sir. Soon after they were left
destitute by the attempted flight of Sims, they were turned out of their
hotel, and their luggage seized for arrears of board. By the sale of her
few remaining jewels the unhappy wife sustained herself and children for
a little while in cheap lodgings; but the news of her husband’s real
position and tragic fate reached her through the newspapers and gave her
her death-blow. She fell into extreme illness and utter destitution.
Then it was that her attending physician, I think at her request, wrote
over to old Mr. Coyle of Caveland, who within a month after came in
person to the rescue of his niece, made her comfortable while she lived,
and after her death, took her boy and girl back with him to England.”

CHAPTER VIII.
MORE DISCOVERIES.

Though looks and words
By the strong mastery of his practiced will
Are overruled, the mounting blood betrays
An impulse in its secret spring, too deep
For his control.
SOUTHEY.

Joy? That word does not express it. No guiltless martyr of
circumstantial evidence, unjustly convicted and condemned to death, ever
felt such deep rapture on being at once vindicated and released as did
Valdimir Desparde on being delivered from the imputed dishonor, worse to
him than any other fate.

Yet through this deep rapture, suddenly sped a shaft of pain. This was
the thought of his lost love. The discovery had come too late to effect
a reconciliation and reunion with her! He would go back to England, and
vindicate himself to the satisfaction of every one, but—he could not
recover his lost bride! He had forsaken her on her wedding morning, and
without giving any explanation of his act! And she had naturally and
properly resented his conduct by casting him forth from her thoughts and
accepting the attentions of a worthier man, approved by her
grandparents. Thus she was lost to him forever!

As he thought of this, how much he deplored his fatal reticence with his
friends as to the cause of his flight!

But it was too late now for such regrets!

He had kept the secret from them for _their_ sakes! He had even allowed
his betrothed bride to think evil of him, that she might the sooner
forget him and recover her peace of mind.

This he had supposed to be the generous and noble course of conduct. And
in this course he had been encouraged by his only confidant, Brandon
Coyle!

Brandon Coyle?

At the recollection of that name a new difficulty occurred to the mind
of Desparde. Had Brandon Coyle—had that cherished and trusted friend of
many years consciously deceived and betrayed him? Or—had Coyle, being in
ignorance of his own and his sister’s early history, been also misled by
the strong circumstantial evidence that seemed to fix the shame on
Desparde and which had even convinced the last-mentioned unhappy man of
the fact?

He could not tell.

That Brandon and Aspirita Coyle were the children of that debasing
marriage between the quadroon and the English girl was now reduced to a
certainty; but how much Brandon knew or suspected of the fact was an
uncertainty. If he, Brandon, knew the secret of his own origin,
and—favored by the strong circumstantial evidence—had sought to shift
the shame upon the shoulders of his stainless friend, to deprive the
latter of home, country, friends, bride, honor, everything that man
holds dear—then was Brandon Coyle a villain of the basest order, worthy
of his degraded parentage.

But if he was _not_? If he had been kept in the same ignorance of his
early life as Valdimir Desparde had been kept in concerning his own? If
he had been really deceived by the strong circumstantial evidence into
believing the apparent facts, as he had represented them to Desparde?

Then indeed was Coyle to be deeply compassionated.

And then and there the magnanimous man, the true gentleman, resolved
upon one course—that in vindicating himself, he would guard, if
possible, the secret of Brandon Coyle, at least until he should have
proof that Coyle knew the truth, yet consciously and intentionally
deceived him.

That same night when his patient was asleep, Desparde wrote the first
letter to England under his real name since his flight. It was addressed
to Lord Beaudevere and announced the young man’s intended return by an
early steamer, to vindicate his own course and to re-establish himself
in the esteem of his friends.

Two days after this he left his now recovered patient in the care of the
landlady, drew his balance out of bank and left for New York, _en route_
for London.

He was leaving the breakfast-room of his hotel, on the morning after his
arrival, and was approaching the hat-stand in the hall to recover his
hat, gloves, and so forth, before walking out, when he perceived at the
news-stand beside it, a gentleman whose form and air seemed familiar to
him. The gentleman had his back turned, however, and was bending down
turning over the leaves of a newspaper.

Valdimir Desparde stopped suddenly and gazed at the stranger, who
presently lifted up his head and looked around.

There was an instantaneous mutual recognition, and the two men sprang
eagerly towards each other with outstretched hands and delighted eyes,
like friends meeting on a foreign shore, as they simultaneously
exclaimed:

“Fleming!”

“Desparde!”

“_You_ over here!”

“Deuced glad to see you, old fellow!”

“When did you leave the old country, Fleming?”

“Oh, dear, ages ago! or it seems ages to me! I left England about the
middle of last August! This is the middle of November! Only three months
since after all! Yet it seems to me three years! I have ‘done’ the great
Western world in this time, don’t you know? Seen the Rocky Mountains,
the vast prairies, the Father of Waters, the great lakes, Niagara Falls,
the St. Lawrence, the Thousand Islands, Tammany Hall, the State House in
Philadelphia, the Capitol in Washington, and—there, I think that
completes the list; but, then, one has to go over so much ground to see
so little in this new country.”

“The middle of August! Then it is some time since you left home; but you
have heard, in the interval?” inquired Desparde.

“Oh, yes, I hear every week. They are all well, I think—at least all
except the two in whom I feel a particular interest.”

“And who are they?” inquired Desparde. “But stop!” he exclaimed. “We are
in rather a public place for a conversation. Have you had breakfast?”

“Yes, just left the table.”

“Are you disengaged?”

“Quite at your service, or at that of anybody else who has more business
with me than I have with all the world.”

“Then perhaps you will come with me to my room, where we can talk
freely.”

“Certainly! Lead the way!” said Fleming.

The two young men left the hall and ascended to the bachelor’s den on
the fourth floor, where the clerk of the house had thrust the future
peer of “England’s realm.”

“Well, Desparde,” began Adrian Fleming, as soon as they were seated,
“how is it with yourself? You have been in this country nearly six
months! How is it with you and with the wife and bairns?”

“Wife and bairns!” echoed Desparde, elevating his eyebrows.

“Yes, certainly! You are married, are you not?” demanded Adrian,

“Married? No, no more than _yourself_!” promptly replied Valdimir.

Adrian Fleming laughed harshly at the comparison Desparde had ignorantly
made.

“If you are married no more than _myself_—well, no matter. But come now,
old fellow, between friends, what have you done with the bonny Scotch
lassie and bairnie who accompanied you in your flight?” inquired Fleming
in a chaffing tone.

“Scotch lassie? Bairnie?” repeated Desparde, in perplexity. “Upon my
honor, Fleming, I do not know to what you refer?”

“Oh! then,” replied Adrian, in a more serious tone, “I refer, of course,
to the rumor of your marriage to a young woman of humble parentage as
the true cause of your leaving England so suddenly.”

“WHAT!” exclaimed the young exile. “Was such a rumor as THAT current in
England?”

“Most certainly it was circulated and accepted there as the truth. But I
infer from your tone and manner that it was false?”

“As false as anything ever invented by the father of lies! _Who_ set
this report in circulation, may I ask?” demanded Desparde.

“I—_think_ it was your friend, Mr. Brandon Coyle,” replied Fleming after
some hesitation.

“Brandon Coyle!” exclaimed Valdimir Desparde. “Impossible! He was in my
confidence. He knew the true reason of my flight. He knew it from the
first. He knew it was _not_ the reason that you say rumor has assigned.”

“_Indeed!_ Then I must have been mistaken in supposing it to have been
Coyle,” answered Fleming, slowly and thoughtfully.

“But,” gravely inquired Desparde, “what could have suggested to you the
idea that Brandon Coyle started this false report?”

“Now that is just what I am trying to remember. But it was three months
ago, you see. Ah! now I have it! I had heard the rumor without having
heard its origin, until I reached London on my way to Southampton to
take the steamer. I stopped a few days in London, and while there called
on the Coyles, who were then in town. I also invited Miss Coyle to ride
with me in the Park. And in the course of that ride the subject of your
absence came up, and Miss Coyle told me that her brother had received a
letter from you, confessing your marriage to a lassie of low degree, and
giving _that_ as a reason for your sudden self-expatriation.”

“Aspirita Coyle told you _that_?” fiercely demanded Valdimir.

“She did indeed. Moreover, she added that she had coaxed the letter from
her brother’s possession and inclosed it in one from herself to Lady
Arielle Montjoie, who was then at Skol. She said that she had done this
from a sense of duty.”

Valdimir Desparde uttered a fierce, half suppressed oath, and made a
gesture of desperation.

“I must infer, then, that you never wrote such a letter?”

“Never! If such a letter as you describe was inclosed to Lady Arielle,
it was a base forgery!”

“Who could have been the forger?” mused Fleming.

“_Ah, who?_” bitterly inquired Desparde, as the conviction of his false
friend’s duplicity settled on his mind. “I tell you, Fleming, that I
have been not only the victim of overwhelming circumstantial evidence,
but of villainous machinations by those who have attempted to turn that
evidence to their own profit by my ruin.”

“‘Circumstantial evidence?’ _What_ circumstantial evidence, for Heaven’s
sake?” demanded Fleming, slowly, and with great perplexity.

“If you have time to listen I will tell you. My story will explain my
sudden and seemingly inexcusable departure from England on the very eve
of my marriage; but I warn you that it is not a short one. Have you time
for it?”

“‘Time for it!’” echoed Fleming. “Certainly I have. If I had not I would
make time. Go on.”

As briefly as was practicable, however, Valdimir Desparde told the story
of the cruel deception that had been practiced upon him, with all the
circumstantial evidence that had supported the imposition, and that had
driven him a fugitive from his native land.

“By Jove, Desparde! What I wonder at the most, in all this wonderful
story, is just _yourself_!” exclaimed Adrian Fleming, staring at his
companion.

“But why at me?” inquired the latter, in perplexity.

“Ah, Desparde! You have been the victim of your own easy credulity, no
less than of circumstantial evidence manipulated by designing villainy.”

“Yet there _is_ something mysterious, and therefore suspicious, in the
guarded secrecy that surrounds the early life of my sister and myself,”
said Valdimir, sadly.

“Well! but old Beaudevere, who is the very soul of honor and chivalry—a
very Don Quixote of England in the nineteenth century—told you himself
that no reproach to any of you lurked in this secrecy—and therefore, of
course, there cannot be.”

“No, I trust and believe that there cannot be any reproach, since he
declares that there is not.”

“But for all that I should insist upon having that secret out of the old
gentleman before effecting a reconciliation with Lady Arielle,” added
Fleming.

“‘A reconciliation with Lady Arielle?’” mournfully echoed Valdimir.
“Have I not told you that she is lost to me forever?”

“Stuff and nonsense! I don’t believe it!” roughly replied Fleming.

“But—but she is on the very brink of marriage with a gentleman—”

“‘Every way worthy of her ladyship and highly approved by her
grandparents!’ Is not that the formula?”

“Yes, or something like it,” sighed Valdimir.

“What is your authority for that story?” abruptly demanded Fleming.

Desparde started. Brandon Coyle was his authority for that story, and
after a short hesitation he said so.

“Stuff and nonsense. Arielle will forgive you as soon as she hears your
explanation, if she has not forgiven you already, which is the more
likely! Why, man! when I left England three months ago she was reported
to be in a decline—”

Here Valdimir started and changed color.

“Do not be alarmed! _You_ are the fortunate physician destined to
restore her to health! She was actually pining away and dying for love,
like an old-fashioned maiden in an old-fashioned ballad! You can soon
cure her of that malady,” laughed young Fleming.

“Is that true? Oh, Heaven, can that be true?” muttered Valdimir, in low,
earnest tones.

“_I_ tell you that it is true, and I hope I am better authority than Mr.
Brandon Coyle! Desparde, when do you sail for England?”

“To-morrow, by the _Colorado_. And you, Fleming?”

“To England? Ah, Heaven knows! I sail by the first Southern Pacific
steamer for Rio Janeiro. I shall not probably see the ‘cliffs of Albion’
for many years to come,” answered Adrian.

“But the fair Antoinette? How will she like this long absence?” inquired
Desparde, who, at the time of his own flight from England, believed as
many others did, that Adrian was the accepted suitor of Miss Deloraine,
of Deloraine Park.

The face of young Fleming suddenly clouded over.

“Ah! do not mention her!” he said, with a deep sigh.

“How, is the engagement broken off?” Valdimir impulsively inquired, and
then he immediately regretted his hasty question.

“The engagement never existed, except in the imagination of gossips. It
is worse than that, Desparde! Antoinette Deloraine, the young and
beautiful heiress of an estate worth fifty thousand pounds a year, with
everything to make this life delightful and attractive, is dying—”

“Dying! Gracious Heaven, Fleming, how you shock me! Dying!”

“Yes; slowly, but _surely_!”

“Of what malady, for mercy’s sake?”

“Of that hereditary decline that carried off her mother and her father!
How could she escape? It is a painful subject, Desparde! But you may
remember that when you asked me if all our friends in England were in
good health when I last heard from home, I told you that all were well
except two in whom I felt the greatest interest, meaning Lady Arielle
Montjoie and Miss Deloraine. But you can be consoled in knowing that
Lady Arielle’s malady is not of the fatal type of her friend’s illness.”

After this the friends walked out together and spent the forenoon in
visiting various public places of interest about the metropolis.

The next morning Valdimir embarked on board the steamship _Colorado_,
bound for Liverpool.

Adrian Fleming went with his friend to see him off, and secured a
promise from him that at an early day after his arrival in England he
would go down to Fleming Chase and call upon Sir Adrian and Lady
Fleming.

“For you know, dear old boy, that no amount of letters from their
good-for-nothing son will give them half so much satisfaction, as a
visit from a friend who has lately interviewed him,” added the young
man.

Valdimir Desparde gave the required promise, and the friends parted five
minutes before the ship sailed.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER IX.
KIT’S HOME.

Amid the city—
The great humanity that beats
Its life along the stony streets,
Like a strong, unsunnéd river,
In a self-made course is ever
Rolling on, rolling on!
She sits and hears it as it rolls—
That flow of souls,
Made up of many tones that rise
Each to each as contraries.
E. B. BROWNING.

While Valdimir Desparde is approaching the shores of England as swiftly
as steam can bring him, we must return and look up our “Missing Link.”

In Church street, Chelsea, London, there is a clean and unpretentious
house kept by a retired butler and cook, who had made money in service,
then married, and invested their funds in “furnished lodgings to let.”

On a dreary, drizzling day early in December, when the London fog and
mist made twilight at noon, a neatly fitted up front parlor in this
house was occupied by one person, a handsome blonde woman, tastefully
attired in a blue silk dress with white lace fichu and cuffs, and with
her wealth of splendid golden ringlets looped up at the back of her head
with knots of blue ribbons and lace. Sapphires set in pearl and gold
blazed on her bosom and on her arms; but the sapphires were not bluer
nor brighter than her eyes, the pearls no fairer than her skin, nor the
gold more shining than her hair. She wore a heavy gold wedding ring.

A regal princess she would seem until she should open her mouth, when
she would instantly betray herself to be really a very illiterate and
silly peasant woman.

She was seated in a large easy-chair upholstered in pale buff satin, her
well-shaped, black velvet slippered foot rested on a hassock, and her
elbow on the sill of the front window, from which she gazed out upon the
lowering sky, drizzling mist, and the wet tops of umbrellas continually
passing along the sidewalks.

She was idle, lonely, sullen and miserable. She was utterly weary and
disgusted with being a lady. She had no culture, no accomplishments, and
no companions. She could not occupy herself with music, drawing, fine
needle-work, reading, or even with gossip. She would gladly have gone
down into the kitchen, tucked up her finery, borrowed an apron, and
helped Mossop, the hard-working maid-of-all-work, to wash the dishes or
pare the potatoes; but as such a proceeding might have lowered her in
the eyes of her landlady, the prim Mrs. Perkins, she refrained, and sat
in wretched solitude and idleness.

Now, how came our poor Missing Link to this miserable pass, exchanging
her lovely cottage home in the beautiful lake and mountain country for
this dreary lodging-house

“In the crowded city’s horrible street?”

To explain this we must go back a few weeks to the night of Kit’s sudden
disappearance from “The Birds’ Nest.”

It may be remembered that Kit had been moody, sullen, and intractable
from the time she had spelt out the meaning of that paragraph in the
_Fashionable Intelligence_ which had announced the marriage engagement
of the Lady Arielle Montjoie and Mr. Brandon Coyle.

She was not at all convinced by “Mistress Net’s” earnest and indignant
denial of the truth of the statement, and even the bare possibility of
the event it pretended to announce.

The matter troubled her. She brooded over it. Then she secretly wrote
that strange, ill-spelled letter to the Lady Arielle Montjoie, warning
her ladyship against contracting marriage with Mr. Brandon Coyle, and
declaring her own prior and exclusive claim as the wife of the gentleman
in question. This letter she put in her pocket and took to church with
her on the following Sunday morning, and, after the service, she
secretly gave it to her youngest brother, with a half-crown to secure
his fidelity, and with instructions to take it to Castle Montjoie and
deliver it with his own hands to the Lady Arielle. But it was a week
before the boy could get a half-holiday from his place in the stables of
the Dolphin Inn to convey the letter to its destination, and even then
he was not allowed access to the presence of Lady Arielle, but was
necessitated to send the letter up by the hands of her ladyship’s maid.
However, the epistolary bombshell reached her in safety, and caused the
explosion elsewhere recorded.

But before that fatal or fortunate explosion the Missing Link was lost.

It will be recollected that on the evening of her disappearance the
unfortunate girl had seemed unusually depressed; that she had begged to
be allowed to put the babies to bed, for that night; she had stayed with
them until they went to sleep, and had then come into the parlor and
seated herself on a low foot stool in the chimney-corner and had asked
to be permitted to sit there until her mistress should retire; how Net
had kindly endeavored to win from her the cause of her depression, but
could get no satisfaction from Kit beyond the senseless repetition of
the nursery refrain:

“‘Heavy, heavy hangs over my poor head!’”

Nor was this any evasion on the part of the poor girl. Kit had really
nothing to tell that her mistress did not already know.

She could not herself give any reason for her despair. Kit was suffering
under a presentiment of evil and could not define her position better
than by a repetition of the old nursery refrain.

She had refused to make her bed in her mistress’s room that night, as
she had always refused before.

But when, at last, Net dismissed her maid and went to bed, Kit did not
ascend to her own little room.

She fastened up the house and sat down over the kitchen fire, with her
feet on the iron hearth, her elbows on her knees, and her head bowed
upon the palms of her hands.

She was suffering under such fearful despondency that she dared not go
to the solitude of her own room. Here, in the kitchen, she was at least
within the call of Mistress Net and the children.

Kit sat there a long time. She heard the clock strike eleven—twelve—one;
but still she dreaded to retire to bed.

It was only a few minutes after one, when she was startled by a low
pecking at the window—no louder, indeed, than the sound that might have
been made by the beak of some small bird; yet Kit started and stared
with an impulse of flight, but was immediately arrested by the sound of
a familiar voice.

“Don’t be frightened! It is I. Open the door!” whispered the voice
through a crevice of the window.

Kit recognized the tones of Brandon Coyle, and impulsively, without a
thought, she sprang up and obeyed.

“All abed and sound asleep, I suppose?” said the man, as he stepped into
the kitchen and closed the door.

By this time the girl had recovered the possession of her senses, and so
she answered:

“Yes, but yo hev no roight to kem here until to-morrow! Yo promised
Mistress Net yo wadn’t kem agen until yo kem to-morrow to tek me away as
yor woife, so yo did!”

“Hush! don’t speak so loud, girl! That woman may be lying awake and may
hear you, and come out here, and I do not want to see her again.”

“Yo hed no business to kem, then! It’s _her_ house, and yo promised her
not to kem until yo kem to-morrow to tek me away as yor woife and mek a
leddy o’ me!”

“Well, but, Kit, suppose, my beauty, that I do better than my promise,
and instead of waiting until to-morrow, I come to-night to take you away
as my wife?” demanded Coyle, with a sly smile.

“Oh!” exclaimed the surprised and delighted idiot. “Is thet it? Then
Oi’ll call Mistress Net.”

“Didn’t I tell you that I do not want to meet that woman? Just remember
how she treated me the last time we met. Do you suppose it would be so
pleasant for me to meet her? No, Kit. I come now to take you away and
introduce you at once to my uncle and my sister as my wife, Mrs. Brandon
Coyle. Come, now. You may take your wedding ring from the ribbon around
your neck and put it on your finger, where it rightly belongs, and you
never need to hide it again. Come, now. Get your bonnet and shawl and
come along. You needn’t take any luggage. Your plain clothes would not
do to wear at Caveland in the country, nor at Coyle House in town. Come,
my girl. Hurry!”

“But—but—but—” stammered the perplexed and bewildered simpleton—mayn’t
Oi tek leave o’ Mistress Net and the babies?”

“What? Wake them up this time of night? No. Besides, I tell you I won’t
meet that woman to be insulted by her again. You _know_ she insulted me.
You can write to her and explain. Come, come; get your things on.”

“But—but—she will be mazed! She will be frighted! And it will be breking
my wurrud to her! Oi promised not to see yo till to-morrow, Friday, when
yo wud tek me away as yor woife,” expostulated Kit.

“Nonsense! It is to-morrow _now_. It is Friday now—it is after one
o’clock in the morning,” exclaimed Coyle.

“Oh, so it is!” acknowledged Kit.

“So you see I keep my promise to come and take you home to my family
to-day,” said Coyle, triumphantly.

“So yo do,” admitted Kit; “but is it no an unco airly hour to tek me
home? They’ll noo be oot o’ their beds for half a day yet!”

“Why, do you think they are at Caveland?”

“Ay! where else wud they be?”

“They are at Coyle House, Westbourne Terrace, London—a splendid place,
Kit. And we shall go up to town by the two o’clock express, and arrive
about eight, in time to reach Coyle House and dress to meet the family
at breakfast. But you must hurry, I say, or we shall miss the train.”

“Oh! if Oi could—if you wud let me—just say ged-bye to Mistress Net and
the childer!”

“I cannot! I will not! And look here, Kit. Take your choice. Come along
with me _now_, or _never_. If I go away alone this morning, I will never
come back again to ask you a second time. Now, or never!” exclaimed
Coyle, sternly.

“Ou, then, if thet’s the case it’s _noo_!” replied the unlucky girl; who
then hurried up to her room, put on her hat and shawl, and came down to
join her worst enemy.

“Here, wrap this closely around your face and head,” said Coyle, drawing
from his pocket a thick gray vail.

“Oi never wore a kivering over moy face in all moy loife,” objected Kit.

“I know it, but you will have to wear this,” persisted Coyle, clumsily
tying the vail over the girl’s hat so as to conceal her features.

Then they left the cottage together by the back door, that fastened
itself after them with a spring.

“Ou, Gude forgie me, ef Oi had only bid ged-bye to Mistress Net and the
bairns!” sighed Kit, when she found herself walking briskly down the
lane by the side of Brandon Coyle.

“You can write from London and explain,” replied the latter.

“And a fist Oi mek o’ writing!” exclaimed the girl.

At the entrance of the lane they found a post-chaise and a pair of
horses waiting.

Brandon Coyle put his companion in this and took a seat by her side.

“Back to Keighly!” he ordered the driver, as the latter closed the door.

The man mounted to his seat and drove off.

“Keighly? Where’s Keighly? Annot yo going to Miston Station to tek the
train?” inquired Kit.

“No! the two o’clock London express does not stop at Miston. We must go
on to Keighly,” said Brandon Coyle.

But in fact his true motive in going on to the next station and taking
this special train was to cover up his tracks in this course.

He himself, and even Kit, were too well known in Miston for them to
venture to get on the train at that station, unless his intentions
towards the unfortunate girl had been perfectly honest.

For this reason, early in that afternoon he had gone by train to Keighly
and hired this post-chaise from the White Bear Tavern, and had come over
to Miston Church Lane to take Kit away. He had no sort of doubt that his
personal influence and power over the poor simpleton would induce her to
go with him. He had only to catch her when she was alone. He had,
therefore, timed himself so well that it was after midnight when he
arrived at Church Lane.

He had left the post-chaise at the entrance of the lane and had walked
down to the cottage.

He had expected to find that Kit, as well as all the rest of the family,
had retired, and that he would have to awaken her, as he had been once
accustomed to do by throwing up pebbles at her window panes.

But he found to his surprise that there was a light in the kitchen.

Going around by the back way and peering through a crevice in the window
shutter, he had seen Kit sitting moodily, as we have described her, over
the kitchen fire. He had succeeded in attracting her attention without
disturbing the rest of the little household, as we have seen.

His plan had been perfectly successful, and now he had the wretched girl
in his power to carry her whither he should please.

Fifty minutes’ rapid drive brought them to the Keighly Station, where
Brandon Coyle had just time to pay and discharge the post-chaise and
purchase tickets for himself and his companion when the train for London
thundered into the station.

He secured a coupé for himself and his companion, placed her in it, and
seated himself by her side just as the train started. It was the
express, and had only stopped thirty seconds.

Kit was terribly flurried and frightened. She had never been on a train
before in all her life, and the rapid speed of the flying express seemed
to whirl away her breath and her senses. It was sometime before she
could get accustomed to the motion, or be made to believe that if she
let go the straps on the side of the carriage she should not be shaken
to death.

But there came a reaction, and the next effect of the speed upon the
nerves of the Missing Link was to swing her into a profound sleep that
lasted many hours, giving her companion an opportunity to smoke and doze
until the train reached Peterborough, where it stopped for breakfast.

Brandon Coyle awoke his slumbering and stupefied companion and took her
out to breakfast in the refreshment-room of the station.

There he was half amused, half shocked at the enormous meal of pork
steaks, eggs, muffins, marmalade, coffee and milk consumed by the
handsome animal.

After breakfast they returned to their coupé, and the train started.

CHAPTER X.
KIT’S DAYS.

Our waking dreams are fatal! How she dreamed
Of things impossible upon this earth!
Of joys perpetual, in perpetual change;
Of stable pleasures on the shifting scene,
Eternal sunshine in the skies of life!
How richly were her noon-tide trances hung
With gorgeous tapestries of pictured joys—
Joy behind joy in endless perspective!
Till at Fate’s call * * * *
Starting she woke to find herself undone!
YOUNG.

The bustle of arrival at Paddington Station startled Kit from profound
slumber.

Waking up, she indulged in the long, loud yawn of the hard-working,
sound sleeper when suddenly aroused. Staring around upon the novel scene
and coming slowly to her senses, she exclaimed:

“Whar upon the face of the yeth be Oi?”

“You are in London. Come, bestir yourself! Straighten your hat, arrange
your shawl,” answered Brandon Coyle, who was beginning to gather up his
valise, rug, umbrella, and so forth.

But Kit only stretched her shapely arms out at full length and opened
her handsome mouth with a yawn that threatened to swallow Paddington
Station and a noise that brought the guard to the door to know if
anything was amiss.

“No!” roughly answered Coyle. “Only this fool, who does not know how to
behave herself!” he added in a tone so low that it did not even reach
Kit’s ears. “Call a cab for me, if you please,” he concluded, putting a
shilling in the guard’s hand.

“OOUW-OOOH!” sounded Kit, with a powerful yawn.

“Be quiet, can’t you?” rudely exclaimed Coyle.

“No, Oi can’t, then! I’m no half awake yet! Oi’m just as sleepy as a
dog!” answered Kit, clapping her hand before her red lips and trying to
suppress another yawn, which, however, broke forth with all the more
force for the attempt.

“You are too intolerably vulgar even for a fish wench!” exclaimed Coyle,
angrily.

“Wull, then, whoy dunnot yo mek a leddy o’me, then Oi wuddunt be
voolgar!” retorted Kit.

“I fear that would be past my power,” answered the man, with a harsh
laugh.

And now as Kit had arranged her disordered dress, he helped her to step
down from the car to the platform, where they stood waiting for the cab,
which soon came up.

“To Piccadilly! I will tell you where to stop!” were the directions
given to the driver when Coyle had seated himself beside his companion
in the cab.

And to Piccadilly they were driven.

Coyle, regardless of his companion, took out his cigar, lighted it and
began to smoke.

Kit had no suspicion that she was affronted by the act. How should she?
She had been brought up in tobacco smoke, and had been accustomed to see
her father, uncles and grandfathers all smoking together in one small
keeping-room, without having been smothered or sickened, and this from
the day she was born until the day she entered the service of “Mistress
Net.” So she took no exception to her “’usband’s” smoking.

She amused herself by staring out of the windows at the fine shops and
great buildings, and asking what this, that or the other thing was.

At first Coyle took pleasure in imposing on her ignorance by giving her
absurd answers.

“Wot’s yon?” inquired Kit, pointing to a great theatre.

“Oh! that’s St. Peter’s Cathedral. You have heard of St. Peter’s in
Rome, haven’t you?”

“Oi dunno. Oi’ve heerd of Rome, though. Be Rome in Lunnun?”

“Surely.”

“Wot’s thet?” continued Kit, pointing to a splendid bazaar, with white
marble facade and many plate-glass windows.

“The Capitol at Washington. You’ve heard of that?”

“Oi hev heerd of Wash’ton. Be Wash’ton in Lunnun, too?”

“Of course it is.”

“Oi’m thenking a’ the wurld be in Lunnun toon, beant it?”

“Most of it is.”

“And wot’s yon?” inquired Kit, pointing to a reformatory.

“Come, be quiet, I want to finish my cigar,” replied Coyle, in a tone
that silenced Kit.

Brandon Coyle finished his cigar and threw it away.

Then he ordered the driver to draw up before an imposing looking
edifice—Apsley House, the town residence of the late Duke of Wellington.

“Is that Coyle Hoose, where moy fowk-in-law live?” inquired Kit, staring
at the place with an awe-stricken appearance.

“Yes, that is Coyle House,” replied Brandon, not hesitating to lie in
order to deceive his simple-minded companion. “That’s Coyle House; but I
must get out first and rap to see if any of the servants are up. It is
very early, you see, and there may be no one stirring yet. I may have to
rap some time before I succeed in rousing any one.”

“Well, noo, I wud rather get oot,” said Kit.

“No, no; it is very damp. The fog has turned to a drizzle. You must stay
here until I get the door open.”

“Very well; but moind you doan’t slip in the hoose and shet the door and
leave me oot here. Oi’ll watch yo!” said Kit, who was always distrustful
in the wrong place.

With a grating laugh Coyle left the cab and went up to the portals of
Apsley House and rang.

A tall footman—looking like a grenadier in regimentals, except in his
powdered head—opened the door, and a porter rose from his chair in the
hall.

“I called to inquire after the duke’s health this morning,” said Coyle,
in a low and respectful tone.

“His grace is better this morning. His grace passed a quiet night. Sir
Henry Cooper saw his grace at a late hour,” answered the porter.

Brandon Coyle left his card and returned to the cab.

Poor Kit was already on the step, ready to get down.

“Resume your seat—SIT DOWN!” exclaimed Coyle, in a peremptory tone,
seeing Kit hesitate.

“Beant the fam’ly oop yet? What slug a-beds they must be,” said Kit.

“The family are all out of town. Gone down to Brighton for my uncle’s
health,” said Brandon, as he pushed Kit into her seat and placed himself
beside her.

“Now, wot wull yo do?” inquired the crestfallen girl.

“Take lodgings until they return,” answered Coyle.

“And mek me a leddy?”

“Oh, yes; to be sure; make you a lady.”

“Where now, sir?” inquired the driver.

“To Church street, Chelsea,” answered Brandon Coyle; and the cab was in
motion again.

All that little farce of going up and ringing at the door of Apsley
House had been got up for the deception of poor Kit. And the temporary
indisposition of the great duke—for whose health innumerable callers
inquired through all the hours of the day—had afforded the opportunity.

Kit never suspected the deception, but she did inquire as they drove on
towards Chelsea:

“Why cannot yo and me go doon to Brighting to um there?”

“Because I choose to wait for them here,” replied Coyle.

When they reached Church street, Chelsea, Brandon Coyle looked out and
directed the driver to draw up before a neat red brick house of three
stories that stood about the middle of the block.

He was met in the hall by the landlady.

“Well, Mrs. Perkins, are our apartments ready?”

“Quite so, sir,” answered the latter.

Brandon Coyle went back to the cab, helped Kit out, and led her into the
house.

When both had got rid of the railroad dust and cinders, they met at the
breakfast table, with such appetites gained in their long night ride as
made them forget every other care in life but that of satisfying hunger.

It was while they were still at the table, that Coyle rang and requested
the presence of Mrs. Perkins.

The landlady came promptly.

“This is my wife, Mrs. Brandon Coyle, Mrs. Perkins,” said the man.

“I’m sure I’m very proud to know the lady, sir!” said Mrs. Perkins, with
a courtesy.

After breakfast the landlady and her guest went out in a cab
together—not to Regent street or Oxford street, by any means, but to
much cheaper and less fashionable quarters, where, nevertheless, to
Kit’s inexperienced eyes, the splendor of the shops seemed to exceed the
gorgeousness of all the palaces in all the fairy tales she had ever
heard.

Brandon Coyle had given her thirty pounds at starting, and she brought
back a carriage load of finery, but not one penny of the money.

In a paroxysm of almost breathless delight she made her toilet for an
early dinner. She put on a pale blue silk dress, with white lace fichu
and under-sleeves, and had her beautiful light hair dressed and tied
back with bows of light-blue ribbon.

As the girl walked into the drawing-room her lover gazed at her in
admiration and delight.

“How do yo loike me noo?” inquired Kit, with a radiant smile that
lighted her blue eyes into splendor and enhanced her beauty
immeasurably.

“I like you very much, Kit,” answered the young man, laughing at her,
though he admired her.

At dinner Kit ate fast and voraciously, telling her companion to fill
her soup plate _full_ and not put her off with two or three mouthfuls.
She ate her soup audibly, with deep, grateful “ha’s” between each
spoonful, and committed other atrocious crimes against good manners,
much to the disgust of her “’usband,” who did not, however, venture to
find fault with her, as he wished at present to keep her in a good
humor.

Immediately after dinner he told Kit that he was going out on business,
but would be back in an hour.

So Brandon Coyle threw himself into a cab and drove down to the city,
and went into the Burlington Arcade, where he selected a “splendid” set
of imitation sapphires, in imitation pearls and French gilt—a set which,
had they been real, would have cost as many thousand as, being only
imitation, they cost pounds.

He returned early, according to his promise, and found Kit standing at
the window staring at the passers-by. She had no other occupation, poor
soul.

“Kit,” he said, taking a seat, “I have bad news for you.”

“Oh!” exclaimed the girl. “Is the old squoire dead? And must Oi tek off
all these pretty things and wear ugly black?”

“No, not so bad as that; but the old squire is very ill at Brighton, and
my sister has sent a telegram to say that I must come down to him
immediately if I wish to see him alive.”

“Wull, then, we will go noo; but, moind yo, Oi’m no going to put off my
pretty blue gownde with the long tail, and go in black for him—Oi’m no!
The old squoire is none o’ my blood kin, only my fowk-in-law,” said Kit.

“Well, and you needn’t. But I must go away immediately, Kit. It is a
long drive to London Bridge Station, where I wish to catch the six
o’clock train.”

“Wull, Oi’ll be ready in a minute.”

“But you needn’t go, Kit. As you said, he’s no blood relation of yours.”

“Wull, he’s my fowk-in-law; besides, Oi want to go.”

“If you _go_, Kit, you cannot wear that pretty ‘gownde,’ you know. And
you would have to wear black.”

“Oh!”

“Nor could you wear these splendid jewels. Look what I have brought
you!” he said, taking the parcel that he had laid upon the mantel-shelf,
untying it, and opening a red morocco casket lined with white satin, and
displaying splendors that dazzled the eyes and dazed the brain of poor
Kit.

“Be they moine?” exclaimed Kit, in a tone of enraptured awe, as she
gloated over the treasures.

“Yes, yours. Let me clasp the necklace and bracelet on you,” answered
Brandon Coyle, suiting the action to the word.

“Oh! but this Lunnun toon be a gret pleece! a gret pleece!” muttered
Kit, in a voice of profound conviction, as she surveyed herself in the
long mirror, after the highly amused Coyle had decorated her with the
full set of flashing sham jewels.

“Yes, the greatest place in the world to produce such gems as these!”
said the laughing man.

“They must cost a mint o’ munny.”

“Three—thousand—guineas!” slowly and gravely lied Coyle, for they had
just cost three guineas, “and were very dear at that.”

“Eh! Gude save us! Oi dinnot know there was so much munny in all the
wurld!”

“And now you know you have got that much on your own person, and now I
hope you will believe that I love you and mean to make you a lady.”

“Oi’m thenking yo hev med me a leddy,” answered Kit, turning around and
around between the window and the glass so that the light might set her
“sapphires” in a blue blaze.

“And now you will let me go alone to my dying uncle. You would rather do
so than take off all these beautiful things and put on your ugly old
black gown to accompany me.”

“Ou ay, Oi would thet!” frankly acknowledged Kit.

“All right, then; I’ll go. My cab is at the door,” replied Coyle,
eagerly seizing his hat.

“Hold on a minnut!” cried Kit.

“What now?” demanded Coyle, impatiently.

“Be these splendid things moine, for _sure_?”

“For sure.”

“And yo wunnot iver tek them away from me?”

“Never.”

“And ken Oi wear ’em all the toime?”

“Day and night, if you like.”

“Then Oi’ll wear ’em all the toime except when Oi’m in bed, and get the
glide o’ them.”

“Just so. Is that all?”

“Yes.”

“Then I’m off. Good-bye!”

“Good-bye. When wull yo be beck?”

“To-morrow, or next day, as soon as all is over,” answered Brandon
Coyle, from the stairs.

For the first few days of her “’usband’s” absence Kit seemed happy
enough in wearing and enjoying her fine clothes.

She gloried in the possession of no less than four silk dresses—all
thin, flimsy, and cheap, but of delicate and beautiful colors, well
suited to her own lovely complexion. And sometimes she put on all four
of these, one after another, in a day.

In this way she amused herself for several days, and then grew weary of
the monotony.

Late one night Kit was surprised by the return of her “’usband,” who
told her that his uncle was still very low at Brighton, his death being
expected every hour, and that he, Brandon Coyle, had only run up to town
to tell her this, and that he would have to go back by an early train
the next morning.

“Whoy dunnot yo tek me doon to moy fowk-in-law, at Brighton? Oi’m tired
of my loife, biding here and seeing nubbuddy and doing nothing!”
demanded Kit.

“Because there’s fatal illness in the house and you would be in the way.
Besides, do you know what is the matter with my uncle?”

“Noa!”

“He’s got the small-pox!”

“Save us and sain us!” cried the girl, turning pale with terror. “Keep
your distance then! Oi’m no moind to hev moy beauty spoiled by _yo_!”

“Don’t be afraid! I took a bath in the sea and put on a complete new
suit of clothes before I came here,” replied Brandon Coyle, laughing.

And so he trifled with the credulity and fears of the simple creature,
who believed him or not, as her mood happened to be.

The next morning Coyle left her again.

In her misery she went and made a confidant of her landlady, telling the
good woman frankly of her own humble origin and of her secret marriage,
of her impatience to be introduced to her “fowk-in-law,” and of her
“’usband’s” threat to shut her up in a mad-house.

Three days after this, on a dark and drizzling morning in December, Kit
sat, as we have described her, dressed out in her light-blue silk, white
lace fichu, and “sapphire” and “pearl” jewels, leaning on the
window-sill and looking out upon the dreary street, and wishing herself
back at Miston, when, without warning, the door opened and Brandon Coyle
strode into the room.

He was just off a night journey from that terrible scene that ensued
upon reading the Earl of Altofaire’s will, immediately after his
lordship’s funeral, which ended in the exhibition of poor Kit’s
ill-spelled letter to Lady Arielle Montjoie, and the consequent exposure
of Brandon Coyle’s evil deed, and the destruction of all his hopes.

Kit started with surprise at his sudden appearance, and arose to meet
him; but shrank back again appalled by the pallid skin, set teeth,
lowering brow and gleaming black eyes that seemed to pierce her through.

His face was the face of a fiend, and there was _murder_ in his eyes as
he glared at the ignorant, half idiotic beauty, who, with all her
simplicity, had contrived to confound all his plans and destroy all his
prospects.

“Gude Lord! Wot’s the matter? Is the old squoire deed?” inquired Kit,
who had never in all her life seen such a terrible look on any human
face, and could not read it aright.

“Yes—the—old squire is dead,” replied the man, struggling hard to
compose his tell-tale features to their ordinary expression; for, until
he had met the girl’s affrighted eyes, and heard her exclamation, he had
been unconscious of how much his face betrayed him and terrified her.

He did not wish to alarm her; to have done that would have interfered
with his immediate plans in regard to her. He must now quiet her
terrors, by putting her thoughts on the false scent that she herself had
suggested.

“Yes,” he repeated, “the old man is dead, and he died a dreadful death.
I cannot get over it,” and with this he walked to the farthest window
and looked out, to conceal his face from her until he could compose it.

“Ou, weel,” said Kit, kindly, “dinna tek it so very haard. He _was_ an
old mon, and beloike his toime had come.”

“Yes,” said Coyle, without looking around. “And his going off just now
certainly makes everything easy for us. I am his heir. I can walk right
in and take possession of Caveland now, and take you with me.”

“Oh, when?” exclaimed Kit, eagerly.

“Immediately. You must go and get ready to leave London with me by the
four o’clock train this afternoon. We are to go down to Caveland, where
the remains have been sent and where the funeral is to take place. I am
going out on business, but will return for you in time.”

“Oi wull go pack up at once!” exclaimed Kit, hurrying from the room.

He looked after her as she disappeared, again with murder in his eyes—

“While in his thoughts her hours were numbered.”

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XI.
A DEMON’S DEED.

Forthcoming events cast their shadows before.
FOLK LORE.

I see a hand ye cannot see,
That beckons me away;
I hear a voice ye cannot hear,
That says I may not stay.
ANONYMOUS.

Brandon Coyle since his exposure and disgrace at Castle Montjoie, had
but two objects in view:

To wreak a signal vengeance on the beautiful simpleton whom he had
betrayed by a false marriage, yet who with all her simplicity, had had
fatal cunning enough to write that warning letter which had arrested his
marriage with Lady Arielle Montjoie and ruined all his prospects of
prosperity.

And then to leave England and seek his safety and his fortune in the New
World.

To secure these objects he was compelled to act promptly.

Immediately on leaving Montjoie Castle he had hurried on to Caveland as
fast as his horse could carry him.

On reaching his own room he had summoned his valet, ordered him to
gather up and pack his valise, with a couple of changes of underclothing
and all his jewels, together with a small traveling dressing-case.

Then having put on his ulster and cap, he threw himself into his
dog-cart and ordered the groom to drive him to Miston Station.

There he secured the midnight London express and reached Paddington at
seven o’clock the next morning and Chelsea at eight.

After successively frightening, amazing and delighting the poor,
excitable creature, he left the doomed woman to get ready for her fatal
journey, and went out to prepare the way for his own deadly revenge and
speedy escape.

He threw himself into a passing cab and told the cabman to drive into
the city.

He stopped the driver at a coffee-house, where he got out and called for
a private room and writing materials.

Here he drew from his pocket a blank check cut from his uncle’s
check-book at Caveland.

Having the art of imitating any handwriting perfectly at command, he
spread the blank check out on the table before him, and filled it up for
five thousand pounds sterling, and signed it with his uncle’s name.

Then he re-entered his cab and directed the cabman to drive to Bunson
Brothers, bankers, Northcote street.

On his arrival at the bank he went up to the paying teller’s window,
where two or three men were standing, and where he had to wait his own
turn to be served.

Yet when that turn came he hesitated and quailed, not from any twinges
of conscience, but from absolute fear!

He felt the situation. He was about to commit a forgery, which, if
discovered, would send him to penal servitude for life! He had often
presented his uncle’s checks for large amounts to be cashed at that very
window, by that very teller.

But the voice of the paying teller sealed his fate.

“What can we do for you, Mr. Brandon?”

“Cash this, if you please,” said Coyle, deciding quickly, with the
desperation born of despair.

He received the money, put it in a large pocket-book, and that into his
breast-pocket, and left the bank.

On reseating himself in his cab he ordered the cabman to drive to
Osborne & Son, brokers. Here he exchanged the bulk of his English funds
for American money. Having concluded this affair he left the office,
sprang into his cab, and bade the driver to go to the agency of the
Cunard Line of Ocean Steamships.

Reaching that office he got down, went in and secured a berth in the
first cabin of the _America_, which was to sail from Liverpool to New
York the next morning.

He took the precaution to get out his tickets under an assumed name—one
that, seen in the list of passengers, might appear as a typical American
name—George Washington Brown.

Having concluded this business he next went to a hairdresser’s, where he
had his own luxuriant blue-black locks trimmed as closely as fashion
would permit.

Then he drove to a theatrical wig-maker and procured from him an auburn
wig and auburn whiskers—a color which would suit his black eyes as
naturally as did his own raven locks.

These he put carefully away in his pocket to be used as occasion should
call for them.

His next visit was to an outfitting establishment, where he purchased a
suit of sea-clothing and another valise, which he filled with all the
articles likely to be wanted on his voyage.

His last two acquisitions were deadly in their significance. He took the
precaution of procuring them at shops far distant from each other.

From a druggist in the Borough he purchased a three-ounce bottle of
chloroform, and from a hardware dealer in Oxford street he bought an
Italian stiletto, or small dagger, three-edged, fine and sharp, and
folding into a case handle for convenience in carrying. These articles
he closely concealed in his bosom as soon as he found himself alone.
Then he went to “Véry’s,” where he ordered the most luxurious luncheon
the house could afford.

And having partaken of this with as much relish as if he had not
committed a forgery, and was not meditating a murder and a flight for
life, and having drank a bottle of champagne and several glasses of
brandy and smoked two cigars, he settled his bill, re-entered his cab
and drove back to Church street, Chelsea.

Kit, meanwhile, had not been idle one moment.

Full of excitement at the idea of returning to her native village as
Mrs. Brandon Coyle of Caveland, a “rale leddy and nobbut else,” poor Kit
ran up to the room where she kept her boxes and rang for the servant to
take down such as she required, and made preparations to leave.

Little did she care for the supposed death of the old squire, except as
it appeared to favor her own interests.

Kit generously gave away much of her showy ornaments to poor Jane
Mossop, and had scarcely got through when the latter was called down
stairs to help her mistress.

Kit was then left alone, and being a little tired sat down to rest in
her easy-chair.

And now a strange mood came over the girl—a reaction from the wild
delight she had experienced in the immediate anticipation of being “med
a leddy,” and going to rule as such at Caveland; a reaction into a deep
depression, for which she could not account; a presentiment of coming
calamity which she could neither comprehend nor banish—one of those
dark, foreboding moods to which the poor beauty had been lately subject.
Such a one as had overcome her on the last evening of her stay at Net’s
cottage.

She sat and brooded over the situation until her weak brains were
utterly bewildered.

Suddenly through her mental confusion came an inspiration that instantly
restored that confusion to order.

She got up and rang the bell.

The landlady herself came up to answer it.

“Oi want yo to get me pen, ink, and paper, and a postage stamp,” said
Kit.

The landlady left the room for the purpose, and presently sent up the
required articles by Jane Mossop.

When the girl had placed them on the table and retired, Kit locked
herself in the room and sat down to write a letter.

Witless Kit could be as cunning as a fox, upon occasion.

She wrote a long, explanatory letter to her late mistress, Mrs. Adrian
Fleming. She gave that lady a narrative of her flight from the Birds’
Nest, her journey to London, her residence at Mrs. Perkins’
lodging-house, Church street, Chelsea, and of her impending journey down
to Miston to attend the funeral of the late Squire Coyle, and then to be
“set up” as the lady of Caveland.

But she also expressed her doubts and fears of Brandon Coyle, because of
the rumors she had heard of his engagement to Lady Arielle Montjoie, and
the threats he had made of putting her—Kit—into a mad-house.

She concluded by beseeching Mistress Net, in case she—Kit—should not be
heard from at Caveland, to “take the law” of Mr. Brandon Coyle, and make
him tell what he had done with her, and bring her “to the fore” to prove
whether she was crazy enough to be locked up in a mad-house.

Such was the substance of the letter.

She enveloped it, and directed in a clear, though large and clumsy hand
that nearly covered the face of the envelope, to

“MISTRESS NETT FLEMMING, Miston, Kumberland.”

She sealed this letter and ran down stairs with it to the kitchen, where
the landlady and her maid-of-all-work were both busy cooking.

“No. Kem here; Oi want to speak to yo in proivate,” said Kit, leading
the way to the basement hall.

“Well, then, ma’am?” inquired the landlady, following her.

“Yo see this letter?” inquired Kit.

“Certainly, ma’am.”

“You tek this letter and keep it boy yo, safe for one wik! If Oi get to
Caveland _safe_, Oi wull wroite to yo, do yo hear?”

“Yes, ma’am, and I shall be very glad to hear from you.”

“Noo listen agen. If yo _don’t_ get any letter from me, yo’ll know thet
summat hev happened to me—”

“Oh! dear, ma’am, I hope not.”

“Oi hope not, too, but nobuddy can tell. So moind, noo, wot I say to
yo—if yo dunnot get a letter from me in one wik’s toime, yo may be
sartain sure Oi never get to Caveland at all! And noo listen good. Yo
must pit thet letter into the post, and it wull go to my dear Mistress
Net Fleming, and she would hunt me up.”

“But—my dear—lady!” said Mrs. Perkins, in a tone of expostulation
against fancied dangers and vain precautions.

“Do yo moind wot Oi want yo to do?” inquired Kit.

“Yes, my dear ma’am; but it all seems so uncalled for! Of course, ma’am,
I will take the letter and be very careful of it, and I will follow your
directions in all respects.”

“Thet’s it! Yo remember and do thet, and yo’ll get yor reward,” said
Kit, as she turned and ran upstairs with a somewhat lightened heart.

“And noo Oi’m all right!” she said to herself, as she dropped into a
rocking-chair by the window, and looked out idly at the passers-by, in
the drizzling rain that still continued to fall.

Her self-congratulatory soliloquy was cut short by the loud striking of
the clock and the simultaneous entrance of Brandon Coyle.

“Are you ready?” he inquired.

“Oh, yes! readdy and wulling!” promptly answered Kit. “Is it toime to
start?”

“We have no time to lose. Put on your bonnet and sack and also your
waterproof cloak, while I go and settle with Mrs. Perkins. The cab is at
the door.”

Mrs. Perkins and Jane Mossop met her in the hall to bid her good-bye.

And then Brandon Coyle put her into the cab and ordered the man on the
box to drive to the Paddington Station.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XII.
A FATAL JOURNEY.

An awful sign stands in her house of life,
An enemy—a fiend—lurks close behind
The radiance of her planet. She is warned!
COLERIDGE.

I see a trifler smiling
As in delighted visions on the brink
Of a dread chasm!
HEMANS.

When they reached the Paddington Station Brandon Coyle alighted, paid
and discharged their cab, and led Kit into the waiting-room to remain
while he went to take the tickets.

A few minutes later he returned and gave her his arm to the middle
compartment of a first-class carriage which was empty.

The short December afternoon was drawing rapidly to a close.

The rain had entirely ceased, and the clouds were breaking up, and as
they reached the open country the sun was setting behind the western
hills.

Not a word had been spoken between the passengers since they left the
station.

Kit leaned from the window and gazed at the setting sun very much as she
used to gaze at it from the nursery windows at the Miston rectory.

Soon the transient glory of the after-glow faded entirely away, and the
gray twilight came on.

Still Kit looked from the window. Star after star came out.

“Seems loike they were loighting the candles one after another up there,
doan’t it?” she inquired.

Coyle grunted some sarcastic but inaudible reply.

At the next station the guard opened the door of their compartment and
lighted the lamp.

When the train moved on again, Kit drew in her head. The light within
the carriage prevented her from seeing anything in the darkness outside.

They were passing through a flat, dreary portion of the country, in the
hour when no lights gleamed from the windows or doors of wayside
dwellings, when all without was dark, still and gloomy; no sights to be
seen but heavy, heavier and heaviest shadows, no sound to be heard but
the low monotonous thunder of the swiftly-rushing train.

Within the compartment nothing but the railroad lamp, reflected by its
silver sconce, and shining down upon the crimson paddings, gilded
cornices, gay tassels and gleaming little mirrors of the fixtures, and
upon the sullen form of Brandon Coyle, wrapped in his dark ulster and
with his black cap pulled down half over his face. He was apparently
sound asleep.

So poor Kit fell into thought, and this mood brought even to her some
spirit of self-questionings and self-rebukes.

For the first time she reflected on the anxiety and distress she must
have caused them all, even the old grandmother who had brought her
up—anxiety and distress in which they must have lived all this time of
her absence, during which she had never once written to relieve them
with the news of her safety.

And with this thought the poor girl fell asleep, in penitence for her
own impulsive evil doings, fell asleep softly, sweetly,
unsuspiciously—but nevermore to awaken in this lower world.

Another hour of darkness passed on.

The rush and thunder of a huge freight train coming from the opposite
direction startled Brandon Coyle from his fitful slumbers.

He rubbed his eyes, waited until the deafening noise of the freight
train passed away, and then drew out his watch and looked at it.

An exclamation of dismay burst from him.

“_Now ——!_” he cried, with a terrible oath. “It wants a quarter to
twelve! In another ten minutes we shall pass the junction! No time to be
lost now! It must be done at once!”

He stooped forward and looked at Kit. She was leaning back in her
corner, sleeping soundly, like a baby, with her beautiful golden hair in
disorder and her face turned up to the light—a healthy, blooming,
peaceful, lightly breathing face.

Any beholder might have loved and pitied it for its infantile beauty and
simplicity and its utter helplessness in sleep.

But there was no pity in the cruel, murderous eyes that glared upon it
then.

“I might do the job now, without having to use the chloroform, only she
is so closely wrapped up I could not get at the right spot for a swift
and sure blow without waking her and—getting up a noise perhaps. Let me
see.”

He began to examine her clothing; but the thick fronts of her waterproof
cloak, wrapped and twined around her folded arms, could not be disturbed
without waking her.

“_The throat_,” he muttered to himself; but then her long scarf vail was
doubled over her hat and wound around her neck with the long shining
tresses of her luxuriant, dishevelled hair in a way that could not be
disarranged without rousing her. Still, however, he gazed and gloated
over that throat.

“It is but a flimsy thing,” he said, and he put his hand upon the vail
very lightly.

There are sleepers whom the loudest thunder could not awaken, but whom
the lightest touch would arouse.

Kit was one of these. She stirred at the feather-like touch of her own
scarf vail as it was moved by Brandon Coyle. She stirred, and he shrank
away.

“It won’t do!” he muttered to himself. “I must not risk waking and
frightening her—a struggle would be fatal to my purpose, at least to my
escape. No, I must put her in the deeper sleep of chloroform and then
finish the work. And all this before the train reaches the junction.”

He hastily consulted his watch again.

“Only eight minutes left! I must be quick!” he muttered.

He had turned very pale and was breathing hard.

He seized his brandy-flask, took a long drink, and then replaced it.

Next from his breast-pocket he took the bottle of chloroform and a piece
of sponge, which he proceeded to saturate with the deadly sedative. Then
he held it to the nose of the poor, sleeping beauty—lightly at first,
until she had breathed in enough to make it safe for him to press the
sponge over her nose and mouth and over her whole face with a fold of
her cloak.

When he was satisfied that she was quite insensible he put away the
anæsthetic quickly and as quickly drew forth a fine, thin, sharp
stiletto.

With his left hand he invaded the folds of her cloak, and then the
opening of her sack and basque, until he felt the warm bosom and the
beating heart—beating slowly and feebly under the effects of the
chloroform. Here he held the fingers of his left hand, while with the
coolness and caution and ruthless cruelty of a demon, he guided the
point of his fine stiletto, in his right-hand, to the vital spot, and
drove it in up to the hilt!

The slain girl shuddered through all her fine frame, and then grew still
in death; yet it must have been only a mechanical spasm. She could have
felt no pain, and known no change until she awoke in the upper world.

Brandon Coyle, with his face pale and rigid, his teeth set, his eyeballs
starting from his head, his whole frame trembling, stood holding the
hilt of the dagger in his hand and gazing upon his victim for a minute,
and then he slowly drew the dagger out, and wiped it on an inner fold of
her cloak, and he hid it again in his bosom.

He took another drink of brandy and drained his flask.

Then his next care was to pose the body so that it might appear to be
sleeping.

He did this with great ingenuity and effect—sitting her up, reclining on
her right side, with her head supported by the corner of the carriage;
then he folded her waterproof cloak loosely but completely around her
form, so as to conceal the crimson witness that was spurting like a
little fountain from her wound. Then he covered her face with her vail,
and put her traveling-bag in her hand, bending the fast stiffening
fingers around the handle, and placing it in such a rest that it could
not drop.

Having done this, he sat down and contemplated the effect.

He smiled grimly, even while he shuddered.

The illusion was perfect in his eyes, and might, he thought, deceive any
one who did not attempt to arouse the apparent sleeper. She seemed a
young woman who had deliberately tucked herself up and covered her face
for a comfortable “snooze,” and had taken excellent care to grasp a fast
hold on her traveling-bag while she indulged in a nap.

He had seen hundreds of women asleep in such a position.

The warning whistle of the engine told him they were now approaching the
junction, where the Liverpool down train would pass in a few minutes.
And by that train he meant to get off and escape to the steamer that was
to sail for New York.

He gave a last look at the _tout ensemble_ he had arranged. He thought
he could not improve it.

He gathered together all his “traps,” and then lowered the light of the
lamp, and waited for the stopping of the train, which was already
slowing into the station.

He saw that the Liverpool express was coming in from the opposite
direction.

As soon as the train stopped he opened the door of his compartment,
sprang out, and shut it again.

“All right, sir! I will lock it and keep it for you,” said the obliging
guard, turning the key and then going off to other carriages, for a
large number of people were getting off and as many getting on the
train.

Brandon Coyle hurried across the platform to the refreshment-room, and
through that to the ticketoffice, where he purchased a through ticket to
Liverpool, and then he flew as if he felt the foul fiend behind him, and
thrust his ticket into the hand of the guard, who naturally ascribed his
agitation to haste and anxiety to catch the Liverpool express, and so
hurried him into a carriage just a moment before the train started.

In the meantime the guard of the Northwestern Express on the other track
waited near the door of the reserved compartment for the return of his
generous passenger.

Presently out from the refreshment-room came a gentleman in an ulster
and a traveling cap—a gentleman whose general appearance was so exactly
like Brandon Coyle’s that in the imperfect light the anxious guard took
him to be the man for whom he was looking.

“All right, sir! Here you are! Look sharp, please, sir! The train’s
off!” he exclaimed, unlocking and throwing open the door of the reserved
compartment.

The stranger nodded and sprang into the compartment, wherein there was
but one other passenger—a woman, apparently fast asleep.

The stranger politely seated himself on the opposite seat, at an angle
farthest from her.

The guard closed the door and the train started with its living and its
dead.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XIII.
ENTRAPPED.

See how the hopes of life resemble
The uncertain glory of an April day,
That now doth seem all sun and brightness,
And then a tempest takes it all away.
ANON.

Thus doth the ever changing course of things
Run a perpetual circle, ever turning,
And that same day which highest glory brings,
Brings also to the point of back returning.
DANIELS.

The steamship _Colorado_, by which Valdimir Desparde had sailed for
England, reached Southampton in the gray dawn of a dreary, drizzling day
early in December.

Having no luggage to detain him at the customhouse, he hastened
immediately from the ship to the telegraph office, from which he sent a
dispatch to Lord Beaudevere at Cloudland, notifying the baron of his
safe arrival at Southampton and his immediate departure for Miston, and
requesting his cousin to send the dog-cart to meet him at the station on
the following morning.

From the telegraph office he hurried to the London and Southwestern
Railway Station, where he procured a through ticket, in conjunction with
the London and Northwestern and branch lines to Miston.

He had just time then to snatch a hasty breakfast in the
refreshment-room before taking his seat in a first-class carriage, just
an instant previous to the starting of the train.

His companions in the compartment were old gentlemen, each absorbed in
his _Times_, and a young curate buried in his book, whatever it might
have been.

Never had homesick exile returned to his native land with more joy in
the present and more confidence in the future than did Valdimir
Desparde.

He rode all that day, and late into the night, without any accident to
break the monotony of his journey, except the brief stoppings of the
train at the stations, where sometimes he left his compartment to
stretch his limbs, or to get a cup of coffee or a sandwich.

It was midnight when he reached a certain junction where he was to
change trains.

As he left his compartment to cross the open space that lay between the
two tracks he met a man hurrying from the opposite direction, whose
general appearance seemed so familiar to him that he turned to look
after him; but the man had already disappeared in one of the carriages,
and the train was moving.

He passed through the refreshment-room to get an apple, and had scarcely
emerged from the opposite door when he was hailed by a guard who stood
at a first-class carriage, with:

“All right, sir! _Here_ you are! Look sharp, sir, please! She’s off!”

Never dreaming that the guard mistook him for another person, and
thinking only that the man meant to hurry his motions, Valdimir Desparde
ran up to the open door, and was immediately shoved into the
compartment, which was closed again simultaneously with the moving off
of the train.

He saw that there was but one other passenger in this compartment—a
tall, large woman, closely wrapped in a black waterproof cloak and a
black hat, with a black gauze scarf vail wrapped around her head and
face. She was leaning back in the right-hand corner of the back seat,
and clasped a traveling-bag which rested on her knees.

Her unnatural stillness caused the young man to look at her with some
attention; but she only seemed to be most comfortably and soundly
asleep. Whether this woman were young or middle-aged, handsome or
homely, Valdimir could not see, and did not care.

As a matter of courtesy he took a seat as far as possible from
her—diagonally across on the opposite side.

The light of the lamp was burning at its lowest; another turn downward
must have put it out.

It was just as the murderer had left it to conceal his crime for a few
hours.

Valdimir, believing that the female passenger had turned it down to
favor her own slumbers, and not caring to read, or to do anything but
indulge in happy thoughts, left it so, and leaning back, closed his
bodily eyes upon this contracted scene, only to open his mental ones
upon the immediate future that arose in imagination before him—the happy
meeting with his friends, the joyous reconciliation with his betrothed,
the brilliant wedding, the blessed union.

Meanwhile the train thundered on.

An hour passed. The train stopped at some large station. People got off,
and people got on.

The guard put his head in at this compartment.

“Can I do anything for you, sir?” he inquired.

“No, thanks,” answered Valdimir Desparde, in a low voice.

“Can I do anything for the lady?”

“No, I—think not. She seems to be sound asleep,” replied Desparde, a
little hesitatingly, as he was answering for another.

“All right, sir,” and the man closed the door. “Yes, mum! This
compartment _is_ engaged!” he replied, the next moment, to a lady who
came to the door.

Valdimir arose to say that there were four vacant seats; but he was too
late—the guard had marshaled off the lady to another carriage.

The train started again.

Desparde looked across at his companion. How very profoundly the woman
slept. Not all the noise of the thundering train nor the shrieking of
steam whistle when it was about to stop, seemed to disturb her in the
least. She had never moved a hair’s breadth through all the racket and
confusion.

Valdimir gazed at her now in wonder for a few moments, and then his
happier reveries claimed him, and he closed his eyes and gave himself up
to them.

Another hour of peace within the compartment, while all was thunder and
flight without, and then the train, with much whistle-shrieking,
“slowed” into a station.

Still the sleeping woman slept so profoundly as not to be disturbed by
all the dreadful noise and confusion.

Valdimir Desparde looked at her again with increased wonder. She had not
changed her position by the fraction of an inch.

“Poor soul, how tired out and exhausted she must have been!” said
Valdimir to himself.

“Change carriages for Miston!” shouted the guard from the other end of
the platform.

Desparde started at the welcome sound. He had not suspected that they
had reached this junction.

He caught up his valise and left the carriage, closing the door behind
him.

The first gray light of dawn was rising above the eastern hills.

“I shall reach home by sunrise! A good omen,” said Desparde to himself,
as he crossed the familiar tracks to the other side of the way-station
at which the Miston train was waiting.

A guard opened a carriage door, touched his hat, and said:

“Happy to see you back, Mr. Desparde.”

“Ha! Bartholomew! Is this you? I am very glad to see you! You are the
first acquaintance—the very first—I have met since my arrival in
England!” exclaimed Valdimir Desparde, with a slight start of pleasure.

The thunder of the departing train which Desparde had just left, and
which had started again on its Northern flight, completely drowned the
reply of Bartholomew.

“How are all our people at home?” inquired Valdimir, when the din had
ceased, and as he took his seat in the carriage.

“All well, sir,” replied the man, standing with one foot upon the
step—“except, of course—You may have heard what has happened at the
castle, sir?” he inquired, suddenly breaking off his sentence to ask the
question.

“No, indeed! I have heard nothing at all lately. What _has_ happened?”
anxiously demanded Valdimir.

“Well, sir, it was to be expected, of course! His lordship was very old,
and his departure should not grieve anybody; but the Earl of Altofaire
is gone, sir!”

“_Indeed!_ I am very sorry! How and when did that happen?” demanded
Valdimir.

“Apoplexy—a week ago, sir,” briefly replied the man.

“I am _very_ sorry to hear that! And the widowed countess, how does she
bear it?”

“Not widowed at all, sir. Didn’t live for it! The countess—went nearly
five months ago. Lungs, sir!”

“And—and—the Lady Ari—”

“Excuse me now, sir! Hate to leave! But must attend to business. What
class, ma’am?” exclaimed the guard, as he closed the door, jumped off
the step and ran to give a lady passenger a seat.

Valdimir sank back into his place, very sorry; not very much surprised
to hear of the departure of an aged pair who had attained more than
fourscore years, but very anxious to learn the condition of his
betrothed, Lady Arielle Montjoie.

There was no one in the compartment with him. That was not an unusual
situation on the Miston Branch Railroad. Few first-class passengers were
accustomed to travel on this road at this hour.

Valdimir would have liked to learn from that guard, if he could have
done so by _reading his mind_, what the people of Miston thought and
said about his own sudden flight and long absence; for upon this
subject, now, since meeting this man, he was feeling sensitive.

Ten minutes more, and the train drew into Miston Station.

In a tumult of emotion Valdimir Desparde looked out.

There were not many people to meet the train at this early hour. As
before said, there were but few travelers come by it.

The fly from the Dolphin Inn was there, and Jack Ken was on the box.

Valdimir wondered whether his cousin, Lord Beaudevere, had received his
telegram from Southampton, and if so, why he had not sent the dog-cart
for him; but seeing no sign of the latter, he left the carriage,
determined to engage the Dolphin fly to take him on to Cloudland.

But as he stepped down from the door he found himself in the arms of
Lord Beaudevere, who had just that instant come up.

“Welcome home, my dear, dear boy! Welcome home!” exclaimed the baron,
shaking the hands of his young relative with much emotion. “Welcome
home, my dear Valdimir! But oh! you—you rascal! you ought to be hanged!
What have you got to say, I wonder, why sentence of death should not be
passed upon you?” demanded the baron, equally ready to laugh or cry.

“Nothing whatever, my dear lord. I throw myself on the mercy of the
court, to ‘head or to hang,’ or to pardon, as it sees fit,” exclaimed
Valdimir, responding cordially to the greeting of his cousin.

“Come, come, now! You must walk with me to the carriage. It is on the
other side of the road. Couldn’t bring it nearer on account of the
horses. Cut up like demons at the sound of the train. Come; where are
your traps?”

“I have nothing but my valise, Beaue.”

“Here, boy! take this and carry it on to the Dolphin Inn. Look sharp,
now! And tell _them_ to look sharp about the breakfast. Come, clear out
with you! You needn’t wait for a passenger here. You see you won’t get
any. The train is off!” said the baron, as he took the valise and threw
it over to Jack Ken on the box of the fly.

Jack touched his hat and started for the inn at the same moment that the
train left the station on its way further north.

The two gentlemen walked across the road to the spot where the
Beaudevere carriage stood, and where the horses had a relapse into
hysterics at the noise made by the departing train.

As the noise died away, however, the animals became quiet.

“How is my sister? I have not had a chance to ask you before,” said
Valdimir, when they were seated side by side, and the carriage was
rolling along the highway towards the inn.

“Vivienne is well and happy since we got your letter announcing your
speedy return to vindicate yourself. She was wretched enough before
that, I tell you!” exclaimed the baron.

“My dear sister! Ah! I have a long story to tell you, which will
certainly rather awaken sympathy than condemnation.”

“Oh, I dare say. I dare say. But cut it now! You look utterly used up,
and must have breakfast before anything is explained,” said Lord
Beaudevere, a little coldly, for though he had zealously defended his
young cousin in the presence of the Earl of Altofaire and Lady Arielle
Montjoie, yet he really in his soul resented that supposititious low
marriage of Valdimir Desparde.

“And how is—I would like to inquire after one whom—” began the young
man, hesitatingly; but the baron helped him on.

“Do you mean the Lady Arielle Montjoie? Well, she is very delicate—has
been so ever since you—But we will let that pass,” said Lord Beaudevere,
breaking off in his turn.

“I see, Baron, that you still condemn me! But when you shall have heard
my story, I dare to believe that you will not only pardon but approve my
course,” said Valdimir, quietly.

“Very likely! Very likely! I do not really wish to blame you, my boy!
You mortified us all very much, to be sure, but then you certainly broke
no law of God or man! I know all about it, Valdimir, my lad!”

“_You_ know all about it, Beaue?” inquired the young man, in incredulous
surprise.

“Oh, to be sure! Do you suppose, after your mysterious flight, that we
did not set private detectives on your track and discover your
whereabouts?”

Valdimir stared at his cousin in silence.

“We heard that you had embarked for New York under the name—the
intensely Yankee name of Jefferson Adams, or Washington Monroe, or
something of the sort—I have forgotten exactly what.”

“Was it Jonathan Adams?” inquired Valdimir, with a curious smile.

“Ah, that was it! Jonathan Adams!”

“What cannot detectives discover!”

“And, my boy, your sister and myself crossed the ocean after our stray
sheep to find you and bring you home.”

“My dear Beaue!”

“Yes, we did! We went over to New York to find you and bind up your
wounds, whatever they might be, and bring you home to the fatted calf
and the rest of the penitent prodigal’s reward; but we came home again
with a wasp in each ear!”

“What was that?” inquired Valdimir, with curiosity.

“The news that you had left New York for New Orleans, accompanied by
your wife and child. And as that wife and child did not enter into our
plans, or even into our knowledge, we ’bout ship and came back to old
England.”

Valdimir stared at the speaker in mute amazement, and when, at length,
he could speak, he merely muttered the words:

“‘Wife and child?’”

“Oh, yes, that girl from Skol you used to be so kind to! You see we know
all about it! It is the old story! Old as Adam and the forbidden fruit!
You were young, she was pretty, and—and—well, she _was_ your wife! I’ll
do you the justice to believe that!”

“But the girl was not my wife!” exclaimed Desparde, still in amazement
at the charge.

“Not your wife! Then you ought to be hanged, sir! I say now in earnest
what I said before in jest: you ought to be hanged if the companion of
your flight and the mother of your child was not your wife!” indignantly
exclaimed the baron.

“Who told you that this woman and babe were my wife and child?” inquired
Valdimir, without losing his temper in the least degree.

“The detectives we put upon your track!”

“My dear Beaue!” said Valdimir, “you never were more misled and deceived
in your whole life. I do assure you, upon my word and honor, that that
young woman and child were no more to me than they are to you, or to old
Father Peter Lucas at the castle. Now, Beaue, whatever folly you may
have suspected me of, you never could have suspected me of
untruthfulness; and when I tell you this, you know I speak the truth.”

“And—and—Annek Yok of Skol was nothing to you?” inquired the baron, half
relieved and half perplexed.

“No more than she was to you or to—the pope,” laughed the young man.
“What I admire is the acumen of these astute private detectives, and the
easy credulity of their patrons and victims.”

“My dear boy, I have wronged you, and I beg your pardon. But perhaps you
will tell me what circumstances could have misled the detectives into
making such a false report of you; and—what—on—earth—took you off on
such a tangent if the embarrassment of a misalliance did not?” inquired
the puzzled baron.

“I will tell you the false appearances that probably misled the
detectives, or more likely those that informed the detectives, for this
is a short story; but I must wait a more convenient season to explain
the cause of my flight from the country—which cause, as I said before,
will more than justify me in your eyes.”

Valdimir then gave a brief narrative of his unexpected meeting with
Annek Yok on the wharf on the morning of their landing in New York, to
which port she had emigrated with her child to join her husband; of her
embarrassment at not being met by him;—of his own—Valdimir Desparde’s—in
finding Eric Lan’s boarding-house, where he learned that the man had
died of typhoid fever only a few days previous; of the keen distress of
the young widow, and her resolve to go with her child to her brothers in
New Orleans, whither Valdimir himself was bound, and whither he took the
two forlorn ones, protecting them until he left them in the care of
their relatives.

He ended his narrative by telling of the death of the mother and child
from yellow fever.

“My brave boy! And so your good deeds have actually been distorted and
misrepresented to your hurt,” warmly exclaimed the baron.

“Did this story reach the ears of Lady Arielle?” inquired Valdimir.

“Ay, you may depend it did! And, by the way, it reached _her_ through a
different channel! Oh—”

“Not by the detectives’ report?” inquired Desparde, with an access of
curiosity and interest.

“No; but through a letter purporting to come from yourself. Oh, I
suspect there has been some grand villainy at work!”

“A letter—from _me_?” inquired Valdimir, in perplexity.

“Yes—a letter purporting to come from you to Mr. Brandon Coyle,
confessing your low marriage as the cause of your flight! This letter
was sent by Miss Coyle to Lady Arielle Montjoie.”

“It was a base forgery!” indignantly exclaimed Valdimir.

“I assuredly now believe it to have been such. It only seemed plausible
at first because it appeared to be genuine; it corroborated the
detectives’ story, and it was forwarded through the Coyles, whom we had
no reason then to suspect.”

“Brandon Coyle is a villain!” burst forth Desparde.

“An unmasked villain _now_, my boy! He has left the neighborhood, I
believe. Certain discoveries of his misdeeds have driven him away. But
here we are at the Dolphin, and we must defer all serious conversation
until after breakfast,” said the baron, as they drew up before the
ancient hostelry.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XIV.
ARRESTED.

Cold news for him;
Thus are his blossoms blasted in the bud,
And caterpillars eat his leaves away.
SHAKESPEARE.

They alighted and were immediately greeted by the whole force of the
house and stables, from the landlord down to the bootblack, all coming
to welcome the return of the wanderer and to proffer their services to
him.

“Don’t run over us, good people!” exclaimed the baron, taking out his
portemonnaie. “There! there’s a sovereign to drink Mr. Desparde’s
health! Now let us pass!” exclaimed the baron, as he threw the coin down
to boots for the benefit of the crowd, who immediately cheered and
dispersed, leaving only the landlord and the headwaiter.

“Why should we not just as well drive on to Cloudland?” inquired
Valdimir Desparde, who was pleased, but embarrassed, by this public
ovation.

“Because I left Cloudland, fasting, before day this morning to come here
and meet you. And having ridden ten miles fasting, through the morning
air, I have no mind to ride ten miles fasting back. This is on my own
account. You, riding night and day, have come a railroad journey of
several hundred miles, and you look—begging your pardon for my candor—as
if you had been exhumed, in a good state of preservation, from a vault!
Come in!” replied the baron, leading the way into the house, followed by
the landlord and the headwaiter.

He paid no attention to them, but hailing a neat chambermaid who was
passing, he called out:

“Here! Ann! Jane! Mary! whatever your name is, my dear! Show Mr.
Desparde to the bedroom I engaged for him, where he can get rid of some
of the railroad dust! And here! Send up his valise! Young Ken has it in
charge.”

The chambermaid of the country inn, having none of the pertness of her
city sisters, courtesied and blushed and courtesied, until the baron
ceased to speak, and turned away from her; after which she modestly and
respectfully showed the traveler to his apartment.

Twenty minutes after Lord Beaudevere and Mr. Valdimir Desparde were
seated at a breakfast that might have satisfied in quantity the enormous
appetite of the hungriest Arctic explorer, or in quality the delicate
palate of the most fastidious epicure; as why should it not, when the
sea, with its treasures of fish and the forest with its wealth of game
was at hand, to supply the demand.

The meal was served in a private parlor, whence the baron had banished
all the servants, saying that he would ring if they should require any
attendance; for “Beaue” wished to continue his confidential talk with
his returned wanderer.

Beaue ate slowly and appreciatively, asking and answering questions
between times.

“Now will you tell me, Valdimir, what really _did_ take you flying off
to the uttermost ends of the earth, and that upon your very wedding
morning, when you were to be married to the girl you loved, the girl
approved by all your friends as you were approved by all of hers? You
say the cause of your flight was justifiable, and even your motive
commendable; you cannot feel any hesitation in explaining it.”

“My dear Beaue, it is a long and complicated narrative, and involves,
among other matters, the necessity of some explanation on your part of
the mystery—I hate the word; it sounds so affected or melo-dramatic; but
I am obliged to use it—the mystery that involves my own and my sister’s
birth and parentage and early life! Are you ready now to give me that
explanation, Beaue?”

“Bosh!” exclaimed the baron, in an irritable manner, “there is no
mystery surrounding your birth and parentage and early life! How should
there be? Could the heir presumptive of the Barony of Beaudevere be
of—doubtful parentage?”

“Certainly not! Yet, dear Beaue, there _has_ been a mystery made of mine
and my sister’s, which hitherto I have vainly implored you to clear up,
and which you will clear up for us, I feel sure,” said Valdimir, fixing
his earnest dark eyes wistfully upon the face of his cousin.

“Boy, you will ruin my digestion! That is what you will do, and it is a
serious misfortune to have dyspepsia at my time of life! And what in the
deuce has the mystery—confound the mystery!—involving yours or anybody’s
early life to do with your mad flight across the ocean on your
wedding-day, for which you ought to be shut up in the lunatic asylum for
the rest of your life?” hotly demanded the baron. “There is no more
secret history in your childhood than there is in the—in the—foalhood of
that colt we see kicking up its heels in the paddock,” said the baron,
looking around for an illustration, and then pointing through the
window.

But Desparde noticed that Lord Beaudevere was agitated, and he knew that
there was something behind that the baron kept hidden.

“Very well, Beaue, we will drop the subject for the present. Some time
to-day, after we have got back to Cloudland and seen Vivienne, you and I
will shut ourselves up in your study and we will have it out with each
other. I will give you the whole story of the cause of my sudden flight,
and you shall tell me the story of my infancy, which has ‘no secret
history at all,’ but which is well known to all the world—except the
person most concerned,” laughed Valdimir.

“Let us talk of something else,” exclaimed the baron. “Let us talk of
something else while they are putting the horses to the coach. You have
heard of the old earl’s death, I presume?”

“Yes; accidentally, from Bartholomew, the guard. It was sudden, I
understand.”

“Rather. He was seized with apoplexy on the occasion of a small dinner
party. I was present at the time. He had been feeling unwell, however,
and had taken no wine at all at dinner. So this attack was not
precipitated in that way.”

“How did Lady Arielle bear the shock?”

“With great fortitude, although she was known to have been devotedly
attached to the old man. Net Fleming is staying with her. _There_ is a
fine young woman, Valdimir.”

“Net _who_?”

“Net Fleming. Oh! I forgot. You have much news to hear yet. Net Starr,
the rector’s step-daughter, is now Mrs. Adrian Fleming.”

“Ah! _Indeed!_ I met Fleming in New York. He never told me he was
married,” said Valdimir, in some surprise.

“Met him in New York, did you? I knew he was abroad, but imagined he was
on the Continent, somewhere; didn’t know he had crossed the ocean! Never
told you of his marriage to little Net Starr? That was strange!
Eccentric fellow! I sometimes think he is a little cracked,” observed
the baron.

“If so, it is with vanity! Married Net, did he! Not half good enough for
Little Mammam! When were they married?”

“Last August, just before the death of the rector! There! that is
another piece of bad news I had to tell you. The good Dr. Starr is gone.
Died very suddenly; heart disease!”

“I am _very_ sorry to hear it!” exclaimed Valdimir.

“Well! what in the deuce do you want, sir? Did I not tell you I would
ring if we required any attendance?” demanded the baron of the
headwaiter, who had now entered the room without knocking.

“Beg pardon, my lord, but here are two parties asking to see Mr.
Desparde, my lord,” replied the man, in an apologetic tone.

“Two parties? How in the deuce should any ‘parties’ know of Mr.
Desparde’s return or presence here? Who are they?” hotly demanded the
baron.

“My lord, they are officers of the law.”

“Officers of the law? What officers of the law?”

“A constable and a bailiff, my lord.”

“I imagine it is all a mistake; but you had better tell the men to come
in,” said the baron.

“They are here,” replied the waiter; and in truth the officers had been
there, behind the waiter, all the time, never having lost sight of the
man who was “wanted,” from the moment the door had been opened at their
command.

They walked into the room and took off their hats to the baron.

The first was a tall, robust, red-bearded man of about forty years of
age—one of the constables of the county—the other was a stout,
black-bearded young fellow of about twenty-five, the conductor of the
London and Northwestern train of the preceding night, who was
immediately recognized by Desparde.

“It _is_ something in connection with my railroad journey, after all!
But if there has been accident, or assault, or robbery, I am not able to
give the slightest evidence in the case, for I certainly know nothing
about it, whatever it may be!” said Valdimir, in a laughing “aside” to
his cousin.

“Well, my men, you wished to see Mr. Desparde. There is the gentleman
you seek, and I hope your business with him can be briefly concluded,
for he has just returned from abroad, and my carriage is waiting to take
him home,” said the baron, as he indicated his cousin.

The constable bowed in respectful silence, and then turning to the
conductor, inquired, slightly pointing to Desparde:

“Is this the party?”

“Yes, that is the man,” replied the latter.

“My name is Desparde. What can I do for you?” demanded the young
gentleman.

“I have a painful duty to perform,” said the constable, hesitatingly;
then plucking up his courage he laid his hands on the young man’s
shoulder, and said quickly: “Valdimir Desparde, I arrest you in the
queen’s name. You are my prisoner.”

“WHAT!” exclaimed the young man, starting back from the degrading touch,
and glaring at the constable with flashing eyes and pallid face—pallid
not from fear, but from intense amazement and indignation.

“What in the demon’s name is all this about?”

“Will you have the goodness to specify the charge upon which Mr.
Desparde is arrested?” haughtily demanded Lord Beaudevere, now firmly
believing the warrant for arrest had been issued under some strange and
grievous misapprehension.

“Yes, my lord,” gravely replied the constable. “We arrest Mr. Desparde
on the charge of murder.”

“_Murder!_” echoed Lord Beaudevere.

“MURDER!” exclaimed Valdimir Desparde.

They were both too much astonished to add another word.

“Yes, my lord; yes, Mr. Desparde; the murder last night in a railway
carriage of a young woman who was his traveling companion on the London
and Northwestern Railway,” exclaimed the constable.

In an instant the whole truth flashed upon the mind of Valdimir
Desparde.

The apparently sleeping, strangely motionless woman who had been his
sole companion in the compartment by which he had traveled from the
Grand Junction to the Miston Junction.

He stood confounded, aghast, as much like a detected criminal as a brave
and innocent and an honorable man could look.

“In the name of Heaven, Valdimir, what is the meaning of this? I know,
of course, that you are as guiltless of that charge as I am myself! I
need scarcely tell you that! But what does this mean? Can you throw any
light upon this matter at all?” inquired the baron, in great distress.

“I do not know, my lord! I feel like an unconscious sleep-walker caught
in a man-trap,” answered the young gentleman.

“Was there any woman alone in the carriage with you, then?”

“There was a woman, who was the sole occupant of the carriage into which
I was shown by this same conductor,” said Valdimir, indicating the man,
who responded by a nod, “and who seemed to be fast asleep. But whether
she were young or middle-aged I really could not say. Her figure and
attitude were not those of an old woman.”

“How long were you alone with this woman!”

“From midnight until the dawn of day—that is to say, from the time I
took the London and Northwestern at the Grand Junction until I changed
carriages for Miston—a period of six or seven hours, I should judge.”

“And did she sleep all that time?”

“She appeared to sleep most profoundly. She never moved one inch all the
way. At the Miston Branch I left her in precisely the same attitude in
which I had found her when I entered the compartment some hours before
at the Grand Junction. I thought it strange at the time that she should
have slept so long and so profoundly.”

“I beg pardon, my lord! But if I might suggest, having some experience
in these cases, I would advise your lordship not to lead the young
gentleman on to talk of this affair just at present. He might do himself
a mischief,” said the constable, good-naturedly.

“Why, confound you, sir, do you suppose Mr. Desparde has anything to
conceal in this matter?” demanded the baron.

“I don’t know, my lord; but I think he had best not make any more
admissions. And—pardon me, my lord, but we must be moving on. I don’t
want to be disrespectful, but I must do my duty,” added the officer.

“I think, Baron, that the shortest way out of this difficulty would be
to go immediately before a justice of the peace—especially as it seems
we have no alternative,” said Valdimir, with a laugh.

There was no laughter in Lord Beaudevere’s tone as he turned to the
constable and inquired:

“Where will you take him?”

“Before Justice Gatton, sir, who issued the warrant, at Yockley, where
the murder was first discovered.”

“You will go by train?”

“Yes, my lord, by the 10:10 from the Miston Station, and we have not got
too much time to catch it.”

“Very well, I will go with Mr. Desparde and see him through this
misadventure, for it is nothing else. Wait a moment.”

Then the baron rang for writing materials and wrote a hasty note to Miss
Desparde, telling her that her brother had reached Miston in perfect
health and excellent spirits, but that they were both called to Yockley
on unexpected business and could not return to Cloudland before evening.

“There!” said the baron, handing the note over to Valdimir Desparde, “I
think that will prevent Vivienne from feeling any anxiety on our
account, unless she hears the worst from rumor.”

“I do not think she will do that. These men have been discreet. Even the
waiter that admitted them did not know they bore a warrant,” replied
Desparde.

This was true, and so a few minutes later, Yates, the coachman, was sent
back with the carriage to Cloudland and the note to Vivienne Desparde,
and Valdimir Desparde, accompanied by his cousin, Lord Beaudevere, was
on the train going North, in custody of the constable, without having
left any suspicion behind him that the heir of Cloudland had been
arrested on the terrible charge of murder.

CHAPTER XV.
HOW THE MURDER WAS DISCOVERED.

All murders past do stand excused in this—
And this so sole and so unmatchable
Shall prove a deadly bloodshed but a jest,
Exampled by this heinous spectacle.
SHAKESPEARE.

Fearless he sees who is with virtue crowned
The tempest rage and hears the thunder sound—
Ever the same, though fortune smile or frown.
GRANVILLE.

It was inevitable that the murder of the girl in the railway carriage
must have been speedily discovered.

It was broad daylight when the train reached Yockley.

A group of ladies and children stood on the platform waiting to get
seats.

The guard, seeing them, and knowing that the “reserved” compartment,
“reserved” no longer, was the only vacant one on the train, went and
opened the door, put out the lamp, and turned to the new passengers.

“Ladies’ carriage, guard,” said the matron who appeared to be the mother
of the group.

“All right, mum, here you are! Only one lady in the carriage, and no
gentlemen. Plenty of room, mum!” answered the official, lifting the
children in one by one, and then assisting two young ladies and finally
the matron into the compartment.

The last mentioned was stout and clumsy, and pitched about for a moment,
and then stumbled and fell; but in falling she threw out her hand to
save herself, and struck upon the form of poor Kit.

Something “swashed” as she afterwards described it, like wet clothes in
a wash-tub when pressed upon.

She recovered her equilibrium and dropped into her seat; but that of the
poor murdered girl had been disturbed, and the body swayed helplessly
and sank heavily against the matron, who gave it a vigorous “hunch,” as
she exclaimed:

“Sit up, my dear! Or _wake_ up, if you are asleep—you _scrouge_ me!”

But at the same instant the woman looked at her glove, and the young
lady on the opposite seat looked on the supposed sleeper, and both awoke
the welkin with piercing shrieks, shriek upon shriek, as they burst open
the door and sprang tumultuously out of the carriage, followed by the
terrified and screaming children.

The whole station was aroused and came crowding to the door of the
compartment around the distracted group of women and children.

“What’s up? what’s up?” demanded the guard, who was the first on the
spot.

“Oh, in there! in there!” was all the pale and trembling women could
utter.

“It is—it is—” began one of the young girls; but she could get no
farther.

“In the compartment—in there! It’s dead! It’s a corpse!” cried a child
of twelve years old, who seemed to have better possession of her senses
than all the rest.

The startled guard entered the carriage—but sprang back as if he had
been shot!

He closed and locked the door, and rushed across the track to the office
of the station-master.

The train was to be delayed for five minutes, and this delay must be
telegraphed up and down the road to insure the safety of all on that
route.

Then back to the bloody scene, followed by station-master, ticket agent,
policemen, porters and passengers.

And the compartment was opened and its horrors revealed.

The babel of voices was hushed now!

Some one had taken a door off its hinges and brought it to the spot.

The guard and a constable entered the compartment and raised the body of
the unfortunate girl, and bore it out and laid it on the door. Two
porters were called to lift it, and while the constable made way through
the crowd, it was borne across the track and into the largest room of
the railway station.

The carriage containing the fatal compartment was detached from the
train, switched off the road and run into a safe place to await the
action of the coroner, and the carriages next before and after were run
together and locked, and so the sequence was complete again.

The guard of that train was detained as a witness and another guard was
put on duty, and then the train went on its way.

All this was done with railway celerity and within the stipulated five
minutes’ grace.

The sun was now above the horizon, and all Yockley—that is to say, the
industrious and laboring portion of Yockley—was up and about its
business. But little business was done after the news of the murder in
the railway carriage was bruited abroad.

The coroner had been promptly summoned, but the crowd gathered before
the coroner came.

By order of that officer, the body was removed to the Tawny Lion Tavern,
where it was laid out in the large public hall, used often for such
purposes in case of railway accidents, and a jury was summoned and
impannelled to hold an inquest.

A _post-mortem_ examination was ordered by Coroner Locke, and made by
Dr. Lowe, the village practitioner, and his assistants, who proved that
death had been caused by a wound through the heart, inflicted by some
fine, sharp, three-edged instrument.

The witnesses were Mrs. Bottom, Miss Bottom, and Miss Ann Jane Bottom,
who had first discovered the dead body in the carriage, and who, with
all the children of their party, had had their journey temporarily
interrupted, and were now stopping at the Tawny Lion, in attendance on
the inquest.

On a long table, some few feet in front of this one, lay the body of the
murdered girl, covered over with a sheet.

One witness, the guard who had been on duty that fatal night, was
already called to the stand and undergoing examination.

To the questions of the coroner he answered:

“Name, Thomas Potter; occupation, guard on the London and Northwestern
Railway. Was on duty last night.”

“Will you tell the jury what you know of this case?” inquired the
coroner.

“Yes, sir. Was on duty, as I had the honor of saying, last night. Train
left Paddington Station at 3:50. Just before she left observed a
gentleman in an ulster, with his black cap pulled down low on his brows;
had a lady in a long, waterproof cloak, on his arm; was looking for
seats and the train about to start. I showed them to an empty
compartment, and asked the gentleman if he would like to reserve it, for
I thought the two were bride and groom.”

“Never mind about your thoughts, guard; let us have the facts,” said the
coroner.

“Yes, sir. Gentleman _did_ reserve the compartment to himself and his
companion. I didn’t notice the gentleman’s face to recognize it then,
sir, for the train had not left the station and the light was bad.”

“Did you recognize him afterwards?” inquired one of the jurymen.

“Later on, sir, I did; but it was much later on; for, though the
gentleman got out at one or two stations, he kept the collar of his coat
up and the visor of his cap down, so that I did not recognize him; but
really I did not take much notice. It was not until we got to the Grand
Junction that I saw him to know him. He got out and went into the
refreshment-room, and stayed a few minutes, and then came out again; and
as I opened the door for him he turned down the collar of his ulster and
took off his cap, as if he was too warm, and then I saw he was Mr.
Valdimir Desparde.”

The announcement of this name caused a murmur of surprise throughout the
crowd, for the Baron Beaudevere and the heir of Cloudland were known all
along this line.

“Are you sure of what you say, witness?” inquired the coroner.

“Perfectly sure, sir! I wish to Heaven I wasn’t! I have known Mr.
Valdimir Desparde by sight ever since he was a boy. He used to travel by
this route many times a year.”

“Remember you are under oath.”

“I do remember it, sir; and I can swear to the fact that the gentleman
who reserved the compartment on my train last night for himself and the
young woman who was afterwards found murdered on it, was Mr. Valdimir
Desparde, and no other,” replied the guard.

“And from the time that Mr. Desparde reserved this compartment at
Paddington, until the time when the murder was discovered at Yockley
Station, did any other person except Mr. Desparde and the young woman
who was his companion enter that compartment?” inquired the foreman of
the jury.

“Not a single soul, sir.”

“How can you be sure of that?”

“Because, the compartment being reserved, I watched it at every station,
locked the door when the gentleman came out, and unlocked it again when
he wished to come in.”

“How was it, then, that you admitted so large a party into this reserved
compartment as this one that discovered the murder?” inquired the
coroner.

“Because I had missed the gentleman ever since the train left the Miston
Junction, and after it had passed several stations I discovered that he
was nowhere on board of her. When we reached this station and found a
large party of women and children, and not a vacant seat on the train
except in that reserved compartment, where there were seven empty, and
one occupied only by a sleeping woman, I opened the door and put them
into it, and had scarcely gone ten steps away before they all burst
shrieking out of the carriage. The murder was discovered.”

Many more questions were put to the guard, without changing the aspect
of the old facts as related by him, or eliciting any new ones.

His testimony was very damaging to Valdimir Desparde.

Miss Ann Jane Bottom, being called upon to testify, went into hysterics
and had to be taken out.

Miss Maria Bottom had not noticed anything at all until she was hustled
out of the compartment by her screaming mother and sister.

But the inquest was not over yet. The jury wished to examine the inside
of the carriage, that up to this moment had remained locked and guarded
by a constable.

Way was cleared for them to leave the hall, and they went in a body to
the station where the carriage was left.

The compartment was then as thoroughly searched as its shocking
condition would permit; but nothing was found in it except a small gold
pencil-case marked with the initials V. D., and a traveling-bag
apparently the property of the dead woman.

These things were taken possession of by the coroner and carried back to
the hall in the Tawny Lion, where the inquest was resumed.

Then it was thought advisable that the body of the murdered girl should
be viewed, that it might if possible be identified by some one.

Accordingly arrangements were made so that the crowd should file in an
orderly manner by the right-hand door, pass around the table on which
the body was laid, and down and out by the left-hand door.

This procession occupied a full hour.

But among the hundreds of curious people that viewed the body only one
recognized it. This was a young man named Edward Hetley, who had once
been a railway porter at the Miston Station, since transferred to
Yockley.

He identified the body as that of Christelle Ken, the daughter of James
Ken, fisherman on the Miston coast.

When the inspection was over and all the testimony taken, the coroner
summed up the evidence.

He was a plain, straightforward man, this village coroner, and his
speech was brief and to the point.

The case was a very simple one, he said, and would give the jury but
little trouble.

The “intelligent jury” consulted about ten minutes, and returned a
verdict in accordance with the evident facts of the case, to the effect
that—

“The deceased, Christelle Ken, came to her death through a wound in the
heart, inflicted by a sharp-pointed instrument held in the hands of
Valdimir Desparde.”

As soon as the verdict was made known, the magistrate present, Mr.
George Gatton, issued a warrant for the apprehension of Valdimir
Desparde, and dispatched a constable, accompanied by the railway guard,
to Miston for the purpose of executing it.

At the same time a notification of his daughter’s death was sent to
James Ken.

When the hall was cleared of men, the women of the house were admitted
to it. They brought with them hot water and clean white clothing to
prepare the remains of poor Kit for the coffin in which it was to be
sent home to her friends.

The women, when they had done their work, silently covered it over and
withdrew from the hall, leaving it in perfect order.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XVI.
VALDIMIR DESPARDE’S EXAMINATION.

No change comes o’er his steadfast brow,
Though ruin is around him;
His eye-beam burns as proudly now
As if the laurel crowned him.
CHILD.

He, undismayed
And calm, can meet his coming destiny
In all its pleasing or appalling shapes.
WATTS.

At the baron’s request, and, therefore, of course, at the baron’s
expense, the Yockley constable had taken a whole compartment for the
accommodation of his party on the train that left Miston Station for
Miston Junction at 10:10 that morning.

At the Junction where they changed carriages for Yockley he had done the
same thing on the same terms, thus securing privacy for his party, and
protecting them from the glances and the comments of any
fellow-passengers.

It was twelve o’clock when they reached the Yockley Station, where, to
their great annoyance, they found a large crowd assembled.

Seeing the multitude, the constable sent the guard out alone to engage a
close cab.

When this was done the party alighted quietly, entered the cab, and were
driven off, unsuspected by the mob.

Meanwhile, the cab containing the party was driven rapidly towards the
suburbs of the village and through a piece of woods to “Gatton’s Hope,”
the seat of Joseph Gatton, Esq., one of the justices of the peace for
the shire, and before whom the preliminary examination was to be held.

They drove up a winding avenue that led through the grass-grown and
sparsely wooded park, and drew up before a substantial gray-stone house
of three stories, with three rows of windows on the front and a broad
pair of doors in the middle of lower front.

The constable and the guard alighted first, followed closely by Lord
Beaudevere and Mr. Desparde.

The constable knocked and the door was immediately opened, and the whole
party was at once admitted by a footman in waiting, who led them to a
large room in the rear of the hall, known as the Justice Room, and
furnished with oaken book-cases filled with law literature, stout oaken
benches and chairs and a long table, placed crosswise at the farthest
end, covered with green cloth and laden with law books, blank-books, and
stationery of every description.

Behind this table, in three high-backed chairs, sat three men. The one
in the middle was Squire Gatton, a tall, thin, florid-faced, red-haired,
and red-bearded man, with a careworn but not unkind face.

On his right was a brother magistrate, Burke of Burkehurst, a typical,
old-fashioned round-bodied, bull-necked, bullet-headed country squire.

Near them sat Coroner Locke, who had conducted the first inquest at the
Tawny Lion Tavern.

Seated in chairs at some little distance in front of the table were the
witnesses that had been summoned—Mrs. Bottom and her two daughters, who
had first discovered the murder, and Dr. Lowe and his two assistants,
who had made the _post-mortem_ examination.

Waiting about the room were several bailiffs.

The constable, walking in advance of his party, handed the warrant to
Mr. Gatton with a bow, and announced the prisoner in a low tone, and
then fell back among the other officers in waiting.

Squire Gatton raised his eyes, and seeing Lord Beaudevere, with whom he
had some slight acquaintance, standing by the prisoner, and knowing his
relationship to Valdimir Desparde, colored with sympathetic shame as he
arose and held out his hand across the table, saying:

“How do you do, my lord? I cannot say that I am glad to see your
lordship here. I am extremely sorry. This is a most painful affair.”

“It _would_ be ‘a most painful affair’ if it were not so exquisitely
absurd! The idea of Mr. Valdimir Desparde being arrested upon such a
charge, under any possible circumstances, is so very preposterous that
even the fact that he has but just landed on the shores of England,
after a nearly seven months’ absence, can add nothing to its outrageous
absurdity!” said the baron, in a tone of sarcasm, slightly dashed with
indignation, as he took the offered hand of the magistrate and dropped
it again.

“I hope it will turn out to have been a mistake, my lord,” replied the
latter, and he bowed now in return to the bow of Mr. Desparde.

“You ‘_hope_?’ Why, you must know it will! But let me ask one favor of
you, Mr. Gatton: that you will proceed with the case at once and get
through with it as quickly as possible. Mr. Desparde, as I had the honor
of telling you before, has just returned from abroad and has not as yet
had the opportunity of seeing any of his relatives or friends except
myself. He is naturally anxious to greet his sister, and also—_hem!_—

‘A nearer one yet and a dearer one.’

Consider that, Mr. Gatton, and let us off as soon as you can,” said the
baron, lightly.

“I will do so, Lord Beaudevere. Pray be seated,” replied the magistrate.

The baron and his young cousin sat down in chairs pointed out by a
bailiff.

The magistrate immediately took up the warrant, glanced over it, and
said:

“Mr. Valdimir Desparde.”

The young gentleman arose and walked up to the table.

“You are herein charged with having, on the night of Wednesday, December
the fifteenth, in a compartment of a railway carriage on the London and
Northwestern Railway, assaulted and killed one Christelle Ken, a young
woman of Miston, by stabbing her through the heart with some
sharp-pointed instrument. What have you to say to this charge?”

“Why, that it is utterly false and ridiculous. I do not even know the
girl in question, and could have no reason whatever for wishing to
injure her,” replied Valdimir Desparde, with a slight smile, for
notwithstanding the gravity of the surroundings he could not help
feeling as if that terrible charge made against himself was really too
monstrous in its absurdity to merit a serious response.

“I hope that you maybe able to disprove the charge, sir. I do, with all
my soul,” said the magistrate, solemnly.

“Oh, bring on your witnesses, Mr. Gatton, and let us have this farce
over,” said Lord Beaudevere, impatiently.

The magistrate bowed, and signalled his cleric, who called out:

“Thomas Potter!”

The railway guard left his seat and came and stood before the table.

The guard gave the same astounding evidence that he furnished to the
coroner’s jury. The guard was followed by the Bottoms, who, in turn,
were succeeded by the man who had identified the body.

The evidence of the pencil with the initials V. D. was also exploited.

This closed the evidence against the accused.

Then the magistrate turning towards the prisoner, said, very gravely:

“Mr. Desparde, you have heard the testimony upon which you have been
charged with the murder of the young woman, one Christelle Ken. What
have you now to show in rebuttal of this testimony?”

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XVII.
THE RESULT.

Had it pleased Heaven
To try me with afflictions; had He rained
All kinds of sores and shames on my bare head;
Steeped me in poverty to the very lips;
Given to captivity me and my utmost hopes,
I should have found, in some part of my soul,
A drop of patience; but, alas! to make me
A fixéd figure for the hand of scorn
To point her slow, unmoving finger at!
SHAKESPEARE.

Come! Rouse thee now! I know thy mind,
And would its strength awaken!
Proud, gifted, ardent, noble, kind—
Strange thou shouldst be so shaken!
ANNA PEYRES DINNIES.

Valdimir Desparde arose, bowed slightly and said:

“Squire Gatton, I have really scarcely given this accusation any serious
attention. Terrible as it certainly is, it seems much too preposterous,
as applied to myself, to be entertained for a single instant.

“I know nothing whatever of this unfortunate girl whom I am accused of
having murdered, never having seen her face, to my knowledge, in the
whole course of my life.

“I have been in the United States for the last seven months and returned
to England only yesterday. I had best perhaps give you a succinct
account of my movements from the hour of my landing.

“I landed by the steamer _Colorado_, from New York on the third, at
Southampton, at five o’clock yesterday morning. Immediately after
leaving the ship I went to a telegraph office and dispatched a telegram
to my cousin here to send some vehicle to meet me at the Miston Station
at seven this morning.”

“Which I duly received and acted upon. Little time left for him to plan
and execute a midnight murder, I should judge!” put in Lord Beaudevere.

“I did not lose more than an hour in the town; but after a hasty
breakfast at the counter of the refreshment-room, I took the six-seven
train of the London and Southwestern Railway with a through ticket in
conjunction with the Northwestern, and came straight on until I reached
the Grand Junction.”

“Where that _other_ fellow, the real assassin—perdition catch him—jumped
off the _other_ train and made his escape, leaving his trap empty for
Desparde to run his unlucky head into?” exclaimed the baron.

“I think my cousin, Lord Beaudevere, is quite right in his theory of
this case, Squire Gatton and gentlemen. At any rate I got out of my
train at the Grand Junction, and in crossing over to the other one I
certainly met a party dressed exactly as I was dressed, in the same sort
of long, black ulster, down to his heels, with its high collar turned up
to his temples, and the same sort of black, slouched hat pulled down
over his eyes. Casting the eyes of my memory back upon this man, I see
that he was of the same height and figure as myself, and might, by a
casual observer, have been mistaken for me. He was hurrying towards the
Southampton down train that was just in.”

“_That_ was the very fellow. He had done his dastardly deed, and was
just making his escape to the seaport to get out of the country!”
triumphantly exclaimed the baron.

His theory seemed to strike the magistrate and his assistants favorably.
They looked at each other and nodded.

“Go on, if you please, Mr. Desparde,” said Squire Gatton.

“As I approached the Northwestern train I perceived a guard, whom I knew
by sight—Thomas Potter, who has testified against me in this
case—standing by the door of the middle compartment in a first-class
carriage, precisely as though he were waiting for some one to come up—”

“Waiting for that other fellow, of course,” put in the irrepressible
baron.

“He hailed me somewhat familiarly, as though he expected me, or some one
whom he took me to be.”

“Of course he did! took you to be the other fellow, confound them both!”
interpolated the excited baron.

“What did he say to you? How did he address you—by your own or any other
name?” inquired Mr. Gatton.

Valdimir Desparde reflected for a moment, and then answered, though with
some hesitation still:

“N-no, I think he used no name. He hailed me, I think, with ‘All right,
sir! Here you are! Look sharp, sir, if you please! She’s off,’ or words
to that effect. I, thinking the man had either recognized me, as I
certainly had him, or else that he was taking unusual pains to secure a
passenger his seat, hastened my steps and got into the compartment. Then
the guard added these words—very significant to me, in the light of what
has happened since, though at the moment I supposed he merely referred
to his catching sight of me coming towards the train, recognizing me as
an old acquaintance and being anxious to secure me a seat—he said, in
fact, this: ‘All right _now_! I waited here for you; but I really was
afraid you would miss it this time!’ And he shut the door and the train
started.”

“Of course, he waited for the other fellow who had committed the crime
in that compartment and run away! He took you for the other fellow. It
is all as clear as daylight! Or else—or else—and by my life, the point
is worth considering—he was in complicity with the other, and caught you
in this trap to favor his escape!” exclaimed the baron.

All within hearing were quite startled by this new view of the case.

The magistrate and his colleague whispered together.

Things were beginning to look shady for the principal witness in this
case.

In fact, Valdimir Desparde’s clear and simple story of his own movements
since he arrived in England, together with the running comments of Lord
Beaudevere, had made an impression on all present, which was much
deepened by the last weighty suggestion of the baron.

Squire Gatton and Burke of Burkehurst continued to converse for a few
minutes longer, though in so low a tone that no one could hear the
purport of their conversation.

At length, however, the magistrate straightened himself up and said:

“Will Mr. Desparde now proceed with his narrative?”

Valdimir Desparde bowed and continued:

“I come now to the most important part of my story. I entered the
compartment, as I said, just as the train started. I observed that the
light of the lamp was turned down. At first, in the gloom, I saw no one,
and naturally supposed that I was alone. I reached to put up the light,
and, in doing so, heard something drop. I stooped to see what had
fallen, but could not find anything; raised myself again to put up the
light, but was arrested by the sight of a woman, wrapped closely up in a
dark cloak, and reclining in a corner. Her face was turned sidewise, and
covered with a thick, black vail. She was apparently sound asleep.
Thinking that this woman had turned down the light to favor her own
slumbers, I left it as she had put it, and took my seat on the opposite
side in the corner diagonally across from her own, so that I might not
in any way disturb her repose. I forebore to search for what I had
dropped, putting off doing so for a more convenient time, when my
unknown companion should be awake. Then I forgot all about it, having
more important subjects to think of. Afterwards I missed my gold
pencil-case, which had become in some way detached from my chain. This
would seem a trifling detail, Squire, but that it accounts for my
pencil-case being found in that compartment.”

“Of course it does. Mark that, gentlemen,” observed the baron.

“The woman continued to sleep, and I, never suspecting that hers was the
sleep of death, lapsed into reverie until the train stopped at one of
the principal stations, where the guard came to the door and civilly
offered his services to fetch anything from the refreshment-room that I
wished. I told him that I wanted nothing. He then asked if the
‘lady’—meaning my fellow-passenger—would like anything. I replied that
she appeared to be asleep.”

“While the guard yet stood at the door of the compartment a party came
up to get on the train, and asked if it was engaged. He answered ‘Yes,’
shut the door quickly, and conveyed them off to some other carriage
before I could call after him to tell him that there was a plenty of
room inside, and the train started again.”

“That infernal scoundrel had entrapped _you_ into that compartment, and
he meant to take every precaution to fix the murder on you in order to
secure the escape of the real assassin! Squire, I hope you will issue a
warrant for the arrest of Thomas Potter!” exclaimed Lord Beaudevere,
growing more excited.

“I will consider your counsel, my lord, and, in the meantime, we would
like to hear Mr. Desparde go on with his statement,” said the
magistrate, by way of a gentle reminder that the accused man had the
floor for the present.

“The woman slept on and I relapsed into thought. The train stopped at
several more stations. I got out at one or two to stretch my limbs, but
my companion never awoke, nor ever changed her position.”

Here Squire Burke of Burkehurst leaned forward and opened his mouth for
about the first time during the examination, and said:

“Excuse me, Mr. Desparde, but by this time did not the long and profound
sleep of this woman, who never even once changed her position, as even
the soundest sleepers are wont to do, appear unnatural to you, so as to
excite some suspicion in your mind?”

“At last it did; but it was a suspicion of alcohol or opium
intoxication, or stupor, certainly no suspicion of murder, or even of
suicide,” replied Valdimir Desparde.

“That is all. Thanks. Proceed, if you please, sir,” said Squire Burke,
sinking back into his easy-chair and easier silence.

Valdimir Desparde resumed:

“This state of things continued in the compartment until daylight, by
which time the train had reached the Miston Branch Station, where I got
off to take the Miston Special. For the first time since I had taken the
train I missed seeing my too attentive guard, who must have been held in
temporary thralldom by some exacting passenger, or he would certainly
have been on hand. I left the motionless woman in the compartment,
wondering carelessly how long she would sleep, and I hurried across the
platforms to take the other train, which I secured just as it steamed
out of the station. I came on to Miston without adventure of any sort,
and was met at that place by my cousin here.”

“Yes, sir; and he looked as little like a man who had just committed a
midnight murder as it is possible to conceive,” added Lord Beaudevere.

“That is all I have to tell—all, indeed, that there is to be told of my
movements since my return from abroad. And now I would like to have
Thomas Potter, the railway guard, recalled and confronted with me here,”
concluded Mr. Desparde, as he bowed and resumed his seat.

“Officer, call Thomas Potter,” said the magistrate.

“THOMAS POTTER!” called the bailiff, in a stentorian voice.

The railway guard, who had been in the “justice room” all the time, and
had heard every word that had been said in his disfavor, now came
forward, not a whit discomposed by the suspicion that had been cast upon
him. He was an honest and a fearless man, as times go. At least he had
nothing to do with the assassination in the railway carriage, and the
consciousness that he had not supported him.

The guard stoutly adhered to the testimony already given that he
recognized the companion of the murdered woman to be Valdimir Desparde.
No cross-examination could shake him.

In the face of the evidence so far given, Judge Gatton was obliged, much
against his wish, to commit the unfortunate young man for trial at the
assizes, without bail.

Then our hero was hurried off to a cell. Lord Beaudevere followed,
explained that as his young relative was only waiting trial, he wished
to have him made as comfortable as possible, and that they were willing
to pay for all lawful accommodations.

The warden replied that he would be glad to talk to his lordship on the
subject next morning, but that now the hour had come when the prison
doors were about to be closed for the night.

Lord Beaudevere bowed to the inevitable, wrung his young cousin’s hand,
and departed.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XVIII.
A STORM OF TROUBLE.

The billows swell, the winds are high,
Clouds overcast my wintry sky;
Out of the depths to Thee I call,
My fears are great, my strength is small.

Oh, thou the pilot’s part perform,
And guard and guide me through the storm.
Defend me from each threatened ill,
Control the waves—say, “Peace, be still.”

Amidst the roaring of the sea,
My soul still hangs her hope on Thee;
Thy constant love, benignant care,
Is all that saves me from despair.
COWPER.

“When is the next train for the Miston Branch Junction?” inquired the
baron of the cabman, as he issued from the prison doors, leaving his
unfortunate young cousin behind him.

“At six-thirty,” replied the man, springing off his box, and opening the
cab door for his lordship.

“I will pay you an extra half-crown if you catch it,” said the baron, as
he sprang into the cab and took his seat.

The driver closed the door, climbed to his box, and set his horses off
at a brisk trot.

Passing through the village towards the station they overtook a sad
procession—James Ken, the fisherman, walking beside a slowly-moving
hearse that evidently contained the coffin of his unhappy daughter, on
its way to the same train which his lordship was trying to catch.

Notwithstanding the haste he was in, the baron ordered the cabman to
pull up.

Then he put down the window and hailed the fisherman:

“Ken, step this way, if you please.”

James Ken was a huge, broad-shouldered, red-haired, ruddy-faced man,
clothed in a blue tweed jacket and trousers, and an oilskin hat, and he
walked heavily, with his head held down in a very dejected manner.

“Get in here, Ken, and ride with me. I wish to talk with you,” said the
baron, as the fisherman approached him.

Ken touched his hat, and looked as if he did not understand the
invitation.

“I also am going to the Miston train; get in and ride with me, or you
will miss it. You had better order the hearseman to drive a little
faster also,” said the baron, pushing open the cab door.

The poor fisherman, too much absorbed in his grief to make any objection
or hold any argument, got into the cab, and sat down as far from the
baron on the seat as the limited space would allow.

The latter gave the order and the cab went on, followed by the hearse.

“This is a very sad affair, Ken. I deeply sympathize with you,” said the
baron.

The man burst out crying, and sobbed like a child.

“‘Sad’ beant the wurrud, my lord,” said Ken, as soon as he could use his
voice, through his tears. “It—it—moight be called ‘sad’ if we lost a
bairn in the nat’rel way, though we knowed the Lord tuk it straight to
heaven; but to hev moy pore gell murdered loike this—”

Here the man’s voice broke down in sobs.

Lord Beaudevere looked on in silence. He could find nothing to say to
grief like this.

“It is—it is—tarrible, my lord! It is orrful! Orrful!”

“I know it! I feel it, Ken! I wish I could do something for you. If
there be any way in the world, Ken, to which I can help you, I shall be
glad to do it,” said the baron, gently.

“I thank yo, my lord; I know yo wud. Yor goodness be known to the
country side.”

“Then let me know what I can do for you, Ken.”

“Yo cannot do naught, my lord. Nobbut He above,” said the man,
reverently bowing his head—“nobbut He above can help me. It’s a gret
sorrow, my lord—a gret sorrow. And the mither! Oh, the mither!”

“She takes it pretty hard, then?”

“She dunnot know the warst yet. She thinks—the mither do—thet the lass
deed a nat’rel deeth. If I cud keep it from her, my lord, she shud never
know other ways.”

“Try to keep it from her, Ken,” said the baron.

“No use, my lord. The neebor fowke are sure to foind out all aboot it,
and they wud be fain to burst it on her sudden, and thet wud kill the
mither. No, my lord, Oi must put it to her moyself as easy as Oi can.
Oi’m thinking it mun kill her anyways.”

“Ken,” whispered the baron, “have you any cause to suspect any
particular person of this great crime?”

“Ay, my lord, an’ it’s more than suspeck I do! Oi _know_ who killed moy
gell!” replied the man, as his whole honest face darkened in deep wrath.

“Who do you think it was, Ken?” inquired Lord Beaudevere.

The man looked into his lordship’s eyes with a peculiar expression of
malignity and answered:

“It wur him Oi mean to bring to the gallows if it teks all moy loife and
all my means to do it.”

“Would you mind telling me whom you suspect, or know it to be, then,
Ken?”

“No, Oi dunnot moind! Who wud it be but thet grend vilyun—begging your
lordship’s pardon for the word—thet Muster Brendon Corle! Who but him
wot woiled moy gell away under a false marriage, and then wanted to make
way with her to marry the gret leddy up to the castle? Ou ay! Oi hev
heard all about it, my lord. The whole country side be ringing with it.
It wur him, my lord.”

“I think so too! I certainly think so too! Do you know whom they have
accused of this murder, Ken?”

“Ay, my lord! Oi know they hev tried to put it on a gentleman as
innocent of it as Oi am moyself, your lordship. Wot hed _he_ to do with
slaying moy gell? Oi dunnot believe he even knowed her by soight.”

“I am sure he did not. But, Ken, do you know anything of the movements
of this fellow Coyle?”

“_Me_ know of his movements, my lord? No, my lord, Oi dunnot. If Oi did
know where he was this present toime he should be in jail or in burning
brimstone before morning!” said the man, in a deep, wrathful tone.

“Will you tell me all you know of this affair between Coyle and your
daughter, Ken?” gently requested the baron.

“Oi’d tell yo if Oi _did_ know, my lord. But Oi dunnot know no more ‘n
your lordship and all the country side knows, and not so mooch, mebby.
All Oi know be just wot kem out at t’ old ‘arl’s will-reading, up at t’
castle. It is loike a menny knows more ’n Oi do.”

The cab was just drawing up before the railway station, and the cabman
sprang down from his seat and opened the door.

The baron alighted, followed by the fisherman.

“Oi thank your lordship humbly, for your kindness to me,” said the
latter. “Oi ought to tell yor lordship how mooch good it did me—how Oi
needed it. Yo see, my lord, Oi cud hardly stand, mooch less walk, wen yo
tuk me oop. Eh, my lord, wot hae happened to _her_ tuk all the power and
strength out o’ moy limbs, able-bodied mon as Oi was.”

“You were very welcome, Ken, I was very glad to help you,” returned the
baron, as he put his hand in his pocket and drew out his portemonnaie to
pay the cabman.

They saw by the railway clock over the door of the station that they had
still ten minutes to spare.

When the baron had settled with the cabman he still held his
portemonnaie in his hand. He knew how poor this man Ken really was; how
ill he could afford the expenses that he was now incurring, yet he
hesitated to do what his kind and simple heart prompted—to offer Ken
pecuniary assistance—for he knew and respected the honest pride of this
man.

At this moment the hearse that had followed the cab at a short distance
behind arrived and drew up.

“Oi wish yor lordship good-day. Oi mun go and see it put on the freight
van,” said Ken, touching his hat and moving towards the hearse.

This motion brought the baron to a quick decision.

“Hi! Ken! Here! One moment!” he called after the retreating man.

Ken touched his hat to his lordship and came back.

“Ken, the highest authority in the universe tells us that ‘all men are
brethren.’ We know it to be true, and when trouble comes then we feel it
to be true. And, Ken, brethren should help one another, and I know if I
happened to fall overboard from my boat, and you were near, you would
fish me out and save my life—wouldn’t you, now!”

“Sartain my lord; it would be moy duty and moy pleasure,” answered the
man, staring a little with wonder at what this could have to do with the
affairs of the present.

“Very well, then, Ken. I hope, as you are in deep water now, you will
let me help you out,” said the baron, putting a closely-folded bank-note
for ten pounds in the hands of the man.

“But, moy lord, moy lord—” began Ken, looking from the face of the baron
down upon the note in his hand, which he refused to close upon it.

“Now, Ken, my friend, we have got no time to argue the point. Do you
think if I were in deep water, and you from your boat held out your hand
to me, that I would hesitate to take it? Come, Ken, put up that note and
be off to the freight van.”

“Yor lordship knows how to help a poor man without humbling him. Oi—”
began the fisherman, but the baron cut him short with:

“No better than you do yourself, Ken. There! Say no more about it.”

“God bless your lordship!” exclaimed the grateful man, as he hurried
away, muttering to himself: “And there’s a man wot won’t marry and send
doon his goodness in sons and darters to bless futur generations. Wot
wud Oi hev done if the Lord hedn’t put it into his haart to help me. Oi
never asked help of any in moy loife, and wud hev deed sooner!”

The immediate business upon which he had come now claimed his attention.
He had just money enough in small change to pay the charge of his sad
freight and buy a third-class ticket for himself.

At Miston he would have to change his bank-note to meet other expenses.

Meanwhile, Lord Beaudevere went to the railway station telegraph office
and dispatched a telegram to Mr. Reynolds Fox, Scotland Yard, London,
asking that experienced detective to meet him at the Yockley prison the
next afternoon.

Having done this, his lordship hurried to the ticket office and there,
feeling disinclined for any company, engaged a compartment for himself.

He had scarcely taken his seat before the train started.

It was now quite dark, and he leaned back in his seat and gave himself
up to thought.

The defense of his young cousin occupied all his attention. He felt
convinced in his own mind that Brandon Coyle was the murderer of
Christelle Ken, and whether he should succeed in getting any magistrate
to give a warrant for the arrest of that criminal or not, he was
determined upon one course—to employ the best detectives that could be
procured to look up and follow up Mr. Brandon Coyle, and investigate his
antecedents for the last few months. In this manner he hoped to collect
evidence enough against him to compel his arrest and—to vindicate
Valdimir Desparde.

The only difficulty and danger lay in the shortness of the time. There
were only two weeks to the coming of the Assizes! In those two weeks all
would have to be accomplished that could be done to save Valdimir
Desparde.

The baron resolved to begin work at once.

As the train rushed on through the darkness he thought over all the
evidence already in his hands against Brandon Coyle—his intimacy with
the deceased girl, Christelle Ken, during her life; his false and secret
marriage with her; his supposed abduction of her; his attempted marriage
with Lady Arielle Montjoie, foiled at the last moment by a letter from
the betrayed girl; his burning rage against her—all these forming strong
incentives to her murder.

Lord Beaudevere resolved to lay these facts, if necessary, before every
magistrate in the county until he could secure a warrant for Brandon
Coyle’s apprehension, and, in the meantime, keep his private detectives
at work.

It was ten o’clock when the train reached Miston.

Lord Beaudevere got out and found his old coachman, with the brougham,
waiting for him.

Lord Beaudevere entered it and took his seat, and the coachman climbed
to his box and started his horses.

Three hours’ ride through the middle of the winter night brought Lord
Beaudevere home to Cloudland at the unearthly hour of one o’clock in the
morning.

Lord Beaudevere alighted and ran up the steps of his house at the same
moment that the tired coachman turned his horses’ heads towards the
stables.

“Is Miss Desparde still up?” inquired the baron, without reflecting how
unnecessary was the question.

“Yes, my lord,” replied the porter, in a low, respectful tone as he
stepped to the left and threw open the door of the drawing-room, from
which Vivienne flew to meet him.

She was in full evening dress of ruby velvet, point lace and pearls, all
of which well became the rich, dark brunette type of her beauty.

She scarcely greeted Beaue, but looked eagerly to the right and left and
behind him, as she inquired:

“Where is he? Why don’t he come in?”

“He will be here soon, my dear,” replied the baron, who had taken off
his traveling cap, and was now, with the assistance of his valet,
drawing off his heavy ulster.

“What has he stopped for? Where has he gone? To the stables? And I
waiting for him here! How stupid of him! Men are so provoking!”
exclaimed Vivienne, flying to the hall door, flinging it wide open and
looking out into the night.

“Come, come in, my dear; you will take cold,” said the baron, as he
passed at once into the drawing-room.

Vivienne closed the door and passed into the drawing-room, inquiring:

“When will you be ready for supper, Beaue?”

“As soon as I have changed my dress—in twenty minutes,” replied the
baron.

Lord Beaudevere went up stairs.

Lord Beaudevere was seized with a fit of moral cowardice, and therefore
he prolonged his toilet as far as possible, by taking a full bath, a
fresh shave, and a thorough “shampooing.”

But loiter as he would, not being a lady, he _could_ not drag his
dressing through more than half an hour. Then he reluctantly went down
to face Vivienne, who was walking excitedly up and down the
drawing-room.

“Pray, Beaue, are you going to be married by special license to-night,
that you make such an elaborate toilet? You remind one of Harry
Hotspur’s fop—

‘Fresh as a bridegroom,’”

said Vivienne, sarcastically, as he came in.

“My dear, I was very dusty,” evasively replied the baron.

“And that boy of ours has not yet come in from the stables! It is _too_
aggravating!” exclaimed Vivienne.

The baron made no reply. He did not know what to say.

“I wish you would send for him, Beaue! Do you know that it is near two
o’clock in the morning now? And he will require some time to make
himself presentable—after his long journey and—the stables! Send for him
at once, Beaue!”

“My dear, he is not at the stables,” said the baron.

“Not at the stables!” echoed Vivienne.

“Certainly not, my dear! What put it in your head that he was there?”

“_You_ did, Beaue! You said that he had gone around to the stables with
the coachman and carriage to look at the horses! Now, if he is not at
the stables, _where_ is he?” demanded Vivienne, beginning to grow
anxious.

“My dear, you have deceived yourself! I certainly could never have told
you that Valdimir had gone around to the stables.”

“Where _is_ he, then?” almost fiercely demanded the girl.

“You see you took it for granted that he had gone around to the stables,
and now you imagine that I told you so,” continued the baron, trying to
gain time.

Vivienne made a gesture of impatience, exclaiming:

“Never mind what I imagined, or what I took for granted, Beaue. Tell me
where my brother is, and why he did not come with you? Has any accident
happened to him? Is he hurt? Is he ill? _What_ is the matter, Beaue?”
she demanded, growing white.

“Don’t alarm yourself, my dear. Valdimir is alive and well, and no
accident has happened to him, unless you would call robbery an
accident,” replied the baron.

“Robbery!” exclaimed Vivienne, in astonishment.

“Yes, my dear, robbery! He is detained by a robbery—(the robbery of his
good name),” mentally added the baron.

“But—I don’t understand. Who has robbed him?” inquired the disappointed
and bewildered girl.

“I—he—we—” stammered the baron—“that is, we think it may have been the
railway guard. (Certainly it was the guard who accused him and took away
his good name),” mentally added the baron in an aside.

“But—dear me!—what has he lost? Anything of so much importance as to
detain him on his journey home?” inquired Vivienne, uneasily.

“Yes, my dear, the most valuable piece of property he has in the world.
A rare jewel, worth more than the whole of Cloudland put together,”
replied the baron—(“his good name,”) he added mentally.

“But—I do not understand. Where did Valdimir get such a jewel?”

“It was one of his hereditary family jewels. (So it was—the inheritance
of an untarnished name),” mentally added the baron.

“But how careless of Valdimir to carry such a jewel about him!”
exclaimed Vivienne.

The baron made no reply to this.

“And he thinks the guard has stolen it?”

“I think there is no doubt of it.”

“What steps has my brother taken to recover his property?”

“He has gone back to Yockley, where he first missed it,” replied the
baron.

“How provoking! And I really care a great deal more about the delay of
my brother’s home-coming than I do about the loss of the jewel. How long
do you suppose this unlucky affair will detain him?” anxiously inquired
the girl.

“It is uncertain; some days, I fear—some weeks possibly. He may have to
go farther than Yockley in pursuit of his lost property—(to the other
world, indeed, if the worst should happen),” mentally added Lord
Beaudevere, with a fearful darkening of his own mind.

“It is a great disappointment, Beaue, dear; but come in to supper. We
have waited long enough,” said Vivienne.

The baron gave her his arm and they passed into the dining-room and took
their places at the table, where presently the footman in attendance
served oysters on the half shell, then fresh venison steaks on
chafing-dishes, and other light dainties.

Soon after supper the guardian and ward prepared to retire—one very much
disappointed, the other very anxious.

As they were about to bid each other good-night the baron said:

“I only returned here, my love, to relieve your anxiety. I must go back
to Yockley to-morrow morning to help Valdimir recover his property. I
shall probably start before you are up in the morning; but you must not
be uneasy, for I shall return at night.”

“And bring Valdimir with you?”

“Why, certainly! Of course! If he shall have recovered his property in
the meantime.”

And so they separated for the night—Vivienne very sleepy in spite of her
disappointment, and Lord Beaudevere very wide awake in spite of his
weariness.

It was now three o’clock in the morning, but instead of going to bed the
baron dispatched his valet to the library for writing materials, and
when they were brought dismissed the man and sat down and wrote two
letters, addressed to two eminent counselors at law on that circuit.

When he had sealed and stamped them he put them carefully in the pocket
of his coat to mail as he should pass through Miston on his way to the
railway station.

Then he lay down to take a short rest.

CHAPTER XIX.
THAT SECRET.

The clouds may rest on the present,
And sorrow on days that are gone,
But no night is so utterly cheerless
That we may not look for the dawn;
And there is no human being
With so wholly dark a lot,
But the heart by turning the picture,
May find some sunny spot.
PHEBE CARY.

Very early the next morning the baron arose, rung for his valet, ordered
a cup of coffee and a roll to be brought to him in his dressing-room,
and the horses to be put to the brougham and brought round to take him
to the station.

By seven o’clock he was seated in his carriage rolling towards Miston
Station.

By very rapid driving and fresh horses he made the distance in two hours
and a half, and reached the station at half-past nine, in time to catch
the train for the Junction.

Leaving his letters with his coachman to post, and orders to put up for
the day at the Dolphin, and meet him at the nine-fifty special, he
jumped aboard the car and started on his journey.

No sooner was the train off than a frightful anxiety seized him. It was
lest Vivienne Desparde should see in the morning papers some account of
the railroad compartment tragedy in conjunction with her brother’s name.
He had intended to stop at the news-agent’s in Miston who furnished the
hall with papers, and leave orders that they should be withheld until
his return in the evening, when he would call for them himself; but in
the hurry of catching the train he had forgotten to do this, and now he
was a prey to the most tormenting uneasiness.

If Vivienne should suddenly discover the truth through the newspaper
WHAT might not be the consequences of its effect upon her sensitive and
highly-strung organization!

Lord Beaudevere dared not answer the question to himself.

He wished now that he had had the moral courage to break the news gently
to the sister by softening all the circumstances as much as possible,
rather than have exposed her to the danger of hearing a garbled and
exaggerated account of the arrest and accusation of her brother through
some gossiping newspaper or neighbor.

He was horribly exercised over this danger. He would gladly have turned
back to remedy his own forgetfulness about stopping the papers; but the
railway train held him fast and whirled him forward relentlessly as
destiny.

It was half-past twelve when he reached Yockley.

There at the station he took the same cab that he had engaged on the day
before, and drove out to the jail.

After the usual formula he was admitted to see his cousin.

He found Valdimir in a small cell of seven feet by four, with bare pine
floor, bare whitewashed walls, and a high, grated window. There was no
furniture but a cot-bed, and no recommendation about the spot but its
extreme cleanliness.

The young man was seated on the side of his cot engaged in reading the
morning paper, for which he had sent out and purchased through the
civility of one of the turnkeys.

He looked up, immediately arose, laid aside the paper, greeted his
kinsman, and made room for him to sit down on the side of the cot.

“Is that the morning’s _Times_?” inquired the baron, as he took the
indicated seat.

“Yes; but there is nothing in it about the murder except a few lines in
the telegraphic dispatches announcing the fact. My name is not used,”
replied the young man.

“Glad of it!”

“But it will all be out to-morrow.”

Beaue looked around upon the bareness of the place and shuddered.

“Great Heaven! my boy, cannot you have more comforts than these bare
walls and floor?” were the next words uttered by the baron, as he
surveyed the cell.

“Well, yes, I suppose so, if I pay for them; but I really miss nothing.
I have come from a long sea voyage, remember, Beaue,” replied the young
man, composedly.

“Yes, but—I never saw such a bare place! I had no idea a prison-cell was
so destitute of all comforts!” ruefully exclaimed the baron.

Here Valdimir could not refrain from laughing as he answered:

“My dear Beaue, I fancy that ‘comfort’ is about the last thing that
would be considered in prison building and furnishing.”

“But—where do you wash your face and brush your hair? I see no
conveniences for anything! Absolutely nothing but this cot-bed in this
bare cell! Where do you wash?”

“There is a room at the end of this corridor used by all the prisoners
on this floor. It is very clean. That is a consolation.”

“Humph! You don’t mean to say that you wash and dress in company with—”

“Dear Beaue, what does _that_ detail matter, under the circumstances?”

“Well, I must try to get the warden to transfer you to a larger cell.”

“I think they are all of one size and pattern,” laughed Valdimir.

“I don’t see how you can make so light of such a heavy misfortune! And,
anyway, we must get a piece of carpet to cover these bare boards, and a
curtain to that window and a little stand and table put in.”

“Not worth while, Beaue, for the short time I shall stay here. The
Assizes are near at hand. I shall soon be tried and acquitted, and then,
you know, I shall enjoy the luxuries of carpets, curtains, tables,
chairs, perfumes, privacy, liberty, and so on, and so on, all the more
for having been deprived of them so long.”

“You feel confident of an acquittal, then, Valdimir?”

“Perfectly. It is only a question of a little time. We have only to hunt
up my fellow-passengers from Southampton to the Grand Junction, to prove
that I could not have been at Paddington at the time that mistaken guard
swore that I engaged the reserved compartment from him. You must set
detectives at that work, Beaue.”

“I telegraphed yesterday to Fox, of Scotland Yard, to meet me here
to-day. I shall put the whole care of hunting up the witnesses in his
hands—and also that of tracing the murderer. I know who that caitiff is,
my boy!”

“You do?” exclaimed the young man.

“Certainly, most certainly, even as if I had seen the crime committed!
Did I not hint as much at the preliminary examination?”

“My dear Beaue, whom do you suspect, then?” anxiously inquired the young
man.

“I suspect no one. I _know_ that Brandon Coyle was the assassin of
Christelle Ken, and so, also, does her unhappy father know it!”

“Why, then, did you not accuse him?”

“I fear we have not yet grounds sufficient to convince a magistrate,
although we have much more than enough to assure ourselves. Ah! my boy,
you know, and it has often been shown, that the strongest possible moral
and mental conviction is not legal evidence. We must get more facts
against Mr. Brandon Coyle, and in order to do so we must put the case in
the skillful hands of Fox and his associates.”

“And have you thought of what counsel we shall employ?” inquired
Desparde.

“Certainly; I have written to Stair and Turner, two of the most eminent
lawyers in the kingdom, and both on this circuit. They will meet me here
to-day. And now, my dear Valdimir, that we are alone, perhaps you will
give me the long promised explanation of your sudden flight from
England,” rather abruptly proposed Lord Beaudevere.

“I have no objection, if we have time. And afterwards, Beaue, will you
tell me the secret of my own and my sister’s early life?” demanded the
young man.

“There was no secret, Valdimir, as I have often assured you!” exclaimed
the baron, not, however, without the strong agitation that he always
betrayed whenever this subject was introduced.

Young Desparde looked at his relative keenly for a moment, and then
changed his phraseology without abandoning his point, by saying:

“Then, if not the _secret_, will you tell me the _story_ of our early
life?—for every life has a story, and therefore ours must have one; and,
Beaue, it was my total ignorance of the story of my early life that left
me a prey to a most designing villain, for he foisted upon me his own
disgraceful history as mine. There were external circumstances to
support the terrible falsehood and compel me to receive it as the truth.
I did so, and fled the country to hide my dishonored head in the wilds
of America. I fled without assigning any cause for my flight lest the
disclosure of my shameful secret should blast the peace and ruin the
prospects of my innocent sister.”

While the young man spoke the strongest emotion shook his frame, but
that seemed as nothing to the storm that whirled through the soul of
Baron Beaudevere.

Thrice he attempted to speak before he could utter the words:

“Brandon Coyle—the mulatto! The son of a felon! He did this?”

Valdimir Desparde bowed his head in silence.

“I see it all! I see it all! This accursed villain! He made the stolen
_alias_ of his felon father the means of misleading you! Why? Oh, why
did you not come to me immediately—to _me_, to contradict that infamous
slander before taking your desperate flight?” demanded the baron, with a
frenzied gesture.

“Beaue, it was because you never would tell me the secret—that is, the
story of our early life. Only that morning, Beaue, I had besought you to
do so, and you had refused—refused in such a manner as to silence my
questions completely. Then came Coyle’s revelation to me, supported by
the strongest as well as the most fallacious circumstantial evidence. I
thought that story was the truth, and that it explained the reason of
your persistent silence. Beaue, if I had known the true story of our own
early life—my sister’s and mine—I could not have been deceived by a
false one!” said Valdimir.

“Scoundrel! Idiot!” exclaimed the baron, bringing down his fist
emphatically upon the cot.

But who was the scoundrel and who the idiot was not made quite clear by
his words.

“At some more fitting time, Beaue, I will tell you the whole tale of
this deception that drove me nearly mad and sent me an exile from my
native land and from all that man holds dear in life; and also I will
tell you the providential means through which I discovered the truth. It
was a very singular chain of circumstances. But I presume, by what you
have let fall, Beaue, that _you_ at least knew this disgraceful story of
Brandon Coyle always?”

“Yes,” slowly replied the baron. “I knew it from the circumstance of the
felon having stolen your father’s money, jewels, letters of credit and
name, and the complications that followed therefrom; but I do not
believe that there was another man in the world, outside of the Coyle
family, that _did_ know it—that did know, I mean, anything whatever of
that mulatto felon who was hanged in New Orleans, or of Mr. Brandon
Coyle’s close connection with him.”

“But if this brother and sister are the children of that criminal, then
their name must be Sims, not Coyle,” said Valdimir.

“It _is_ Sims! But old Christopher Coyle, when he adopted these children
of his unhappy niece, the widow of Sims, gave them his name. And I
suppose that in his will he has taken care to make Brandon’s inheritance
of Caveland conditional upon his legal assumption of the name of Coyle.”

“I suppose so; but now, Beaue, is there really any serious objection to
your telling me the secret—I mean the story of our early years?”
inquired Valdimir.

Again the face of the baron changed, and his voice faltered as he
answered:

“I will tell you, but you—when you have heard all—you must not dare to
blame—”

“For Heaven sake!” interrupted the young man, in alarm at the word
“blame,” “tell me this at the outset—I have suffered so much that I
cannot bear suspense upon this subject—was there, then, any reproach,
merited or _un_merited, attached to the name and memory of my father or
my mother?”

“What in the deuce do you mean by such a question?” indignantly demanded
the baron. “‘_Reproach_’ attached to your father or your mother? Of
course not! not the shadow of the shade of reproach!”

“Thank heaven! And since there is no reproach I cannot understand the
reason of your great reluctance to speak of them,” said Valdimir.

“That reluctance can be explained in three words.”

Before Lord Beaudevere could utter another syllable the cell door was
opened by the turnkey, who ushered in Mr. Reynolds Fox, the detective
from Scotland Yard.

Lord Beaudevere had known and employed this officer before, and now he
introduced him to Mr. Desparde.

No time was lost. The case was immediately set before him. He took it
all down in short-hand cipher.

Then a consultation upon it ensued, and he took down notes, and
suggestions, also in short-hand cipher.

Just as he had concluded this preparatory work, and was about to take
his leave, the cell door was again opened and the turnkey ushered in Mr.
Stair.

The eminent lawyer entered, bowed and shook hands with the baron, and
was by the latter introduced to the prisoner.

The lawyer also had his note-book, but it was in the hands of his clerk
who waited in the corridor. The little cell was too limited in space to
admit the presence of five men at the same time.

As soon, therefore, as Fox had bowed himself out of the cell, Mr. Stair
called his clerk in.

And then the consultation began.

The clerk took down such notes as his chief suggested.

The conference lasted a long time.

The three gentlemen sat upon the side of the cot. The clerk stood before
them, leaning his back against the wall and taking down the brief in
short-hand on his tablets.

There was one circumstance that brought the greatest strength and
comfort to the baron and his cousin—they saw that the counsel was
perfectly convinced of Valdimir Desparde’s innocence.

While they were still engaged there was a third arrival—Mr. Turner, who
was duly admitted to the cell.

The last-named gentleman bowed to the party within, and then shook hands
with his brother lawyer and with Lord Beaudevere, whom he had long known
and by whom he was introduced to Mr. Desparde.

Room could scarcely be found for the new-comer.

The clerk was permitted to withdraw for a few minutes.

The baron now foresaw a recommencement of the whole case for the
information of Mr. Turner and he knew that Mr. Stair and Valdimir
Desparde were quite competent to the task. He was, besides, very anxious
to get home earlier than he had first planned to do. He was troubled on
account of Vivienne, lest she should have seen the account of Valdimir
Desparde’s arrest in the paper.

He therefore arose, and telling his cousin that he felt he was leaving
him in good hands, he took his leave promising to return the next day.

He reached home about half-past ten.

But he found no brilliantly-lighted drawing-room or dining-room—no
sumptuously-spread supper table.

The porter met him in the hall.

“Is—where is Miss Desparde?” he inquired, as his heart sank with the
heavy thought that she had learned the great misfortune that had
befallen the family, and had been prostrated by it.

“Miss Desparde, my lord, is ill in bed, I am grieved to say, your
lordship,” solemnly replied the porter.

It was true, then! Vivienne had learned the news, and it had crushed
her—killed her, perhaps.

Beaue shelled himself out of his ulster as swiftly as he could have
turned a bean out of a pod, sprang up stairs three steps at a bound, and
paused before Miss Desparde’s door.

There he stopped, panted, and finally rapped softly.

The lady’s maid opened the door.

“_How is she?_” breathed Beaue, in eager tones.

Before the girl could answer a word, a weak, hoarse, nasal voice, half
stifled by catarrh, but by no means laden with grief, inquired:

“Id thad hid lordshid! Led him come bin.”

In rushed Beaue and up to the closely curtained bed, around which hung
the mingled aromas of squills, paregoric, honey, borax, and what not!

“Did Valdimir come bid you?” inquired the invalid from her muffling
flannels.

“No, my love, he has not recovered his property yet,” answered the
much-relieved baron, who knew by her question that she had not yet
learned the terrible truth.

“Whad a nuidance!” she said.

“I am sorry to see you so much indisposed, my dear,” said he.

“Oh, Beaue, I hab god the worst gold in my head I ebber had in my lipe!”

“Yes, my dear, you must have taken it while standing out of the door
last night with nothing around your head and shoulders,” said the baron.

“Well, den, why don’t you day ‘I dold you do?’” saucily inquired the
invalid.

“Because that would be unkind, my dear, though I _did_ tell you you
would take cold.”

“But I dibn’t dake gold danding oud od doors, Beaue! I dook gold dedding
in the drawing-droom over the fire,” retorted Vivienne, defiantly.

“There, my dear, don’t try to talk longer! It must hurt you to do so—at
least it is—excruciating to hear you!” said the baron.

Then turning to the maid he asked:

“Has she had advice?”

“Yes, sir, I sent for doctor Bennet early this morning.”

“Quite right. Where are the day’s papers?”

“In the library, sir. No one has touched them.”

Very much relieved in mind, Lord Beaudevere bade his young cousin
good-night, wished her sound sleep and sweet dreams and went down stairs
to his library.

There he found the newspapers, still unfolded.

He looked through them all carefully; but only in the telegraphic
columns of the London papers did he see any notice of the yesterday’s
murder in the railway carriage, and that was without any allusion to his
cousin, Valdimir Desparde.

The country papers were all weeklies, and would not be out until
Saturday.

“There will be a full account of this tragedy in the papers to-morrow,”
he said to himself, “and I must take care that Vivienne does not see
them. I am rather glad than otherwise that she _is_ laid up with a cold,
since it is not a dangerous one. The circumstance will enable me to keep
this dreadful affair from her for some time yet. I must, however, call
at Bennet’s office to-morrow and warn him not to speak of it to her,”
concluded the baron, as he rang the bell for the footmen to come and
shut up the house, and then took his bedroom candle and went up to his
chamber.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XX.
AT CASTLE MONTJOIE.

The world has lost its bright illusions. One by one
The masks have gone; the lights burnt out;
The music dropped into silence, and she stands alone
In the dark halls, and hears no sound of life
Save the monotonous beating of her heart.
LONGFELLOW.

Now she will sit all day, and now she’s fain
To rise and walk, then sigh and sit again;
Then try some work, forget it and think on,
Wishing, with perfect love, that time were gone.
LEIGH HUNT.

Perfect peace fell on Montjoie Castle after the exodus of the Coyles.

The good old earl was gone indeed, but his granddaughter was comforted
for his departure by the thought that he had gone to join the beloved
wife with whom he had lived in harmony and happiness for more than sixty
years on earth.

In her tender memory of them there was no bitterness of sorrow.

Lord Beaudevere and Vivienne Desparde had remained with her at Castle
Montjoie until the arrival of Net Fleming.

Net came on the Saturday afternoon and brought the children, according
to her promise.

These little ones were wild with delight, in anticipation of the long
carriage ride and the long visit at the end of it.

From the moment in which Net announced these prospective pleasures to
them, which she did on the afternoon of her return from the old earl’s
funeral, the children had made Little Mammam’s life a burden to her with
questions as to—

“_When_ are we going?”

“How many days before Saturday comes?”

“How many nights?”

“How many hours?”

And when Saturday _did_ come, with a drizzling rain, the children arose
in despair, until Net assured them that if the carriage should come they
should go, whether it rained or cleared.

And then they begged to be dressed for the journey immediately after
dinner, and when their request was complied with they stood at the
windows and flattened their noses against the panes, watching for the
approach of the carriage.

About two o’clock in the afternoon their vigilance was rewarded. The
rain ceased, the sun shone out, the clouds dispersed, and—a light,
covered cart drove up to the cottage gate.

The children thought _that_ was the carriage which had come for them,
and they raised a shout of joy as they rushed out of the parlor and tore
open the front door.

But only a groom from Castle Montjoie dismounted from the seat and came
through the gate and up the little walk and put a note into the hand of
Mrs. Fleming.

It was from the young countess and contained but a few words—saying:

“DEAREST NET.—I send the light cart for yours and the children’s
luggage, that you may not be encumbered with it in the carriage, which
will follow in a few minutes.

“It will be the close brougham, in which you may venture to come without
fear of taking cold, even though it should continue to rain. Lord
Beaudevere and Vivienne are only waiting for your arrival to take leave
of me and return to Cloudland.

“It is good of my guardian to give me my own will in regard to my
remaining at the castle; but he says he means to use his power only to
guard, not to control.

“Come along, Net! I am anxiously awaiting you,

“ARIELLE.”

“Can I help to take the luggage out, ma’am?” inquired the groom,
touching his hat.

“I thank you, yes; I will call some one to show you where it is,”
answered the little lady, who then summoned Peter Ken from the kitchen
and told him to assist the groom in removing the two trunks that were
already packed and waiting in the bedroom.

By the time the luggage had been placed upon the cart, and the cart had
been driven away, the brougham drew up at the gate.

Net had locked up all the inside of the house, and had sent her
maid-of-all-work home. Now, therefore, she left her faithful Peter Ken
to put out the last fires, lock up the house, and take the key home with
himself.

As Net left the house-door and overtook the two children at the gate,
she saw, to her slight dismay, that Luke had the cat hugged up in his
arms to be the companion of his visit, and Ella had the two little straw
hearth brooms to take with her.

It cost Little Mammam some trouble to convince the children as to the
propriety of leaving puss and the besoms at home.

They yielded at length only on condition that Peter Ken should promise
to feed the cat every day, and take care of the brooms until their
return home.

Then at length they gladly submitted to be lifted into the brougham,
whither Net immediately followed them.

In a few more minutes, to their great delight, they were bowling rapidly
down the lane towards the turnpike road.

It was a happy journey to the children, who keenly enjoyed every mile of
the ride, and Net sympathetically entered into their enjoyment.

Three hours of this, to them, delightful drive, brought them to Castle
Montjoie.

The little ones had never in their lives seen anything like so lofty and
imposing a structure as Castle Montjoie.

On their near approach they grew full of wonder, and plied Little Mammam
with a multitude of questions.

“Was it not biggerer than the Ogre’s castle in Puss-in-Boots?”

“Wasn’t it a great deal biggerer than the giant’s castle in Jack and the
Beanstalk?”

“Anyway, it was ten times biggerer than their church, which was the
biggerest house they had ever seen,” etc., etc., etc.

When they passed up the winding road cut in the solid rock and leading
up to the castle gates, the children stopped talking and held their
tongues, and almost their very breath in fear.

But when they reached the summit of the rock, and passed over the
draw-bridge across the old moat, and through the archway in the wall,
over which hung the long disused portcullis, their eyes and mouths were
both opened with wonder and curiosity.

The carriage crossed the court-yard to the modernized buildings on the
opposite side, at the central hall door of which it drew up.

A groom came to the horses’ heads.

A footman opened the door and lifted out little Ella, who, taking the
liveried servant for a gentleman, said, very humbly and politely:

“Thank you, sir,” as soon as he had set her down.

Luke followed.

Net alighted last of all, and taking the hands of the two children led
them up the stone steps to the great oaken doors that were opened for
their admission.

Arielle received them in the hall, embraced Net in silent welcome, and
then exclaimed:

“I was so much afraid the rain would prevent you from coming!”

“Oh, but wese was coming if it poured and _poured_, wese was,” cried
Luke.

“If it poured and _poured_,” added Ella.

“Were you? You dear children! That was right!” exclaimed Arielle, giving
each one a hand, and then adding: “I hope you are going to be very happy
here.”

“But Mammam wuzzent let us bring Pudence wiz us,” complained Luke.

“No, wuzzent let us bring Pudence nor ze b’ooms, neezer,” added Ella.

“What do they mean?” inquired their puzzled young hostess, appealing to
their mammam.

“Oh, they wanted to bring the cat and their brooms,” laughed Net.

“Well, why didn’t you let them? Do you want your cat?” sympathetically
inquired the young lady, as she led them up stairs, followed by Net.

“Es; tauze poor Pudence will be lonesome zere by herse’f,” said Luke.

“Zere by herse’f,” echoed Ella.

“It was tuel to leaze Pudence all alone,” added Luke.

“All alone,” echoed Ella.

“Your little mammam wouldn’t do anything cruel. She thought I wouldn’t
like to have ‘Pudence,’ and so she didn’t bring her. But I will send a
groom on horseback to bring her this very afternoon, so you can have
her, maybe, before you go to bed, or at any rate the first minute you
are awake to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, that will be joyful!” exclaimed Luke.

“Joyful!” echoed Ella.

“_Would_ you take so much unnecessary trouble?” inquired Net.

“_Now_, my dear, for _you_ to ask such a question! It is not
unnecessary. How much the missing of one little inexpensive trifle
spoils all the enjoyment that wealth and skill can supply! ‘Pudence,’
you perceive, is necessary to the perfection of these children’s
enjoyment. And then again, you see, my men-servants have next to nothing
to do. Let one of them go to Miston and bring ‘Pudence.’ And how about
the brooms, my darlings?” she inquired, turning again to the children.

“Oh, we don’t tare so much about zem. B’ooms won’t be lonesome,” said
Luke.

“No, ‘b’ooms won’t be lonesome,’” echoed Ella.

They had now reached a landing on an extensive upper hall, from which
doors opened into bed-chambers and dressing-rooms on every hand.

Arielle, preceding her guest, led the children into a lofty and spacious
sitting-room, the first of a handsome and extensive suit that she had
appropriated to the use of Net and the twins.

A neat and trim little country girl belonging to the estate was in
attendance.

She was in mourning for her late master, and wore a black bombazine
dress, white lawn bib apron, collar and cuffs, and a white net cap
trimmed with black ribbon.

“This is your maid, my dear. Her name is Nelly Lacy, and she is a
younger sister of my attendant, Lacy,” said Lady Arielle.

The rosy-cheeked girl blushed and courtesied, and courtesied and
blushed, until Net said:

“I am sure I shall like you, Nelly. You look very much like your sister.
Will you take off the children’s wraps?”

Nelly courtesied again and drew off little Luke’s overcoat and gum
shoes, for which service the little fellow, mistaking the smart
waiting-maid in a bombazine dress and a mob cap for a young widow, as he
had mistaken the smart footman for a young officer, bowed and said:

“I sanks you vezy much, ma’am.”

And little Ella, when the same service was performed for her, made her
acknowledgments in the same language.

“You see, my rustic children are not accustomed to such grandeur,”
whispered Net, with a smile. “All their notions of female domestics are
drawn from women with coarse gowns tucked up to their waists and sleeves
rolled up above their elbows, bare-headed, bare-armed, and often, by
preference, bare footed, too!—like poor Kit Ken! Ah, poor Kit! Where is
she now?” And Net’s laughing whisper ended in a sigh.

“If we ever get trace of her we will take care of her, Net,” said Lady
Arielle.

“Yes, if we ever get trace of her. And I think we shall, sooner or
later. As far as I have observed among our unfortunate village girls,
their career is soon run, and they always creep home, like wounded
animals, to die! Kit is the third girl who has disappeared from Miston
during my recollection. The first one returned to die in the alms-house,
The second was found dead on her father’s doorstep one bitter winter
night,” sighed Net.

“But we must try to prevent that in Kit’s case. We must try to find her
in time! She has been a victim, not a sinner, poor soul—”

“Unless overweening pride and vanity be sins, which we are taught to
believe that they are! Poor Kit fell, not through love, but through her
passionate desire to become a ‘leddy.’”

The little maid had, meantime, taken the children into the adjoining
nursery to brush their hair, so that this short colloquy was carried on
quietly between the two friends.

“You must let the little ones come down to dessert after dinner,” said
Lady Arielle, as she stood by Net, who was taking off her bonnet and
gloves before the glass.

“They will be delighted,” replied Little Mammam.

“And now—oh! I had nearly forgotten through our talk about poor Kit—I
must see about sending for the children’s cat,” said Lady Arielle,
stepping to the bell and ringing it vigorously.

Adams, the lady’s footman, answered the summons.

Lady Arielle’s instructions were concise.

“Go down to the stables and tell one of the young grooms to mount a
fresh horse and ride to Miston to the house of James Ken, the fisherman,
and ask—“Here Lady Arielle hesitated and looked at Net.

“Peter,” said the latter.

“Ask Peter Ken to go with him to Bird’s Nest Cottage, in Church Lane,
and catch the children’s cat, and put it in a bag and give it to him.
And then he must bring it on here safely. Do you understand now?”

“Yes, my lady, perfectly.”

“Tell the groom to get back as soon as possible.”

“Yes, my lady.”

“And not to come without the cat.”

“No, my lady.”

“Now hurry away.”

“Yes, my lady.”

And the man bowed and was gone.

“Mammam! _Mammam!_ MAMMAM!” called the children from the adjoining
nursery.

Net, with her black hair in one hand and her brush in the other, went to
the nursery door, where a pretty picture greeted her sight:

The children at their tea!

It was a low table, covered with a white cloth, and decorated with a
Liliputian service of rosebud china, and laden with a dainty repast of
light cakes and biscuits, fruit and milk.

The two little ones were seated opposite each other on little low
chairs, and Nelly Lacy was waiting on them.

“Oh, that is very pretty!” exclaimed Net.

“It is luzly,” said Luke.

“Luzly,” echoed Ella.

Net expressed her warm approval, and then went back to her bedroom to do
up her hair.

When her toilet was completed the two young ladies left the children in
the care of Nelly Lacy, with orders that they should be brought down to
dessert when the time should come, and then descended to the
drawing-room, where they found Lord Beaudevere and Vivienne waiting for
them.

The baron advanced and received Net with his usual courtly grace, and
Vivienne kissed her with much affection.

Dinner was soon afterwards announced, and the baron gave his arm to Net
to take her in.

“There is a famine of gentlemen in this house just at present, Vivienne.
Will you take _my_ arm in lack of a better?” said the young countess, as
she drew her friend’s hand under her elbow.

The four sat down to an exquisite dinner, which the baron, being an
epicure, appreciated and enjoyed.

“You will do well to retain the services of your present _chef_, my
dear,” he said, as he tested the merits of a new soup.

“I shall retain _every one_ of my dear grandfather’s old servants,”
replied the little countess.

“Oh! I do not recommend _that_! What, for instance, could you do with
his lordship’s valet?” inquired the baron.

“Make him groom of the chambers—an office which our family have not
hitherto established in our homes, but which I will set up for his
benefit,” smiled Arielle.

“Oh!” said the baron; and he swallowed the rest of his soup in silence.

The remaining courses were also highly approved of by the baron, who, in
pushing his last plate away, gave expression to the following opinion:

“I think that the great longevity of the late earl and countess was,
under Divine Providence, due to their own practical wisdom in employing
the highest culinary talent without regard to cost to prepare their
food. It is what a human being eats and drinks that largely goes to save
or to destroy his or her life.”

“I will keep Monsieur Delatour, my lord, unless you would like to take
him off my hands,” replied Arielle.

“Humph! It is a temptation, but I won’t deprive you of him, Countess.”

The cloth was now withdrawn and the fruit, cake, wine and nuts were
placed upon the table.

With these appeared Net’s two children in the charge of Nelly Lacy,
followed by two high chairs brought by a footman from the lumber-room in
one of the towers, by the direction of Lady Arielle.

The high chairs were put up on each side of the hostess and the children
set in them.

At first they were very shy, but as there were but three ladies and one
gentleman at the table, and these were very kind to them, they soon
recovered their spirits.

Beaue peeled oranges and picked out the kernels of walnuts for them, and
the footman in waiting brought cake.

And to the peer of the realm and to the serving-man equally the children
responded for every attention:

“Sanky, sir! Sanky, sir!”

They knew no better. Net was wondering if it were worth while to teach
them any better.

After dinner the party adjourned to the drawing-room and the children
were taken upstairs by Nelly Lacy, followed by Net, who excused herself
to her friends by saying that it had always been her habit to see the
little ones to bed.

Indeed, of course, it was always Net who heard the children say their
prayers at night.

Luke and Ella were very tired, however, on this occasion, and did not as
usual detain their Little Mammam to sing hymns or tell Bible stories
long after they had laid their little heads upon their pillows.

In fact, they were both asleep before they were well laid down, and Net
was at liberty to return to her friends in the parlor, where she found
Lady Arielle seated at the piano and Lord Beaudevere and Vivienne
standing behind her.

They were singing to her accompaniment an evening hymn, with the music
from Haydn.

Net glided up to the group and added her fine soprano voice to them,
completing the quartet.

They spent a long evening with sacred music, and then separated and
retired.

The first creatures awake in that castle the next morning were Net’s
babies. And their first waking thought after they had recovered from
their astonishment at finding themselves in a strange bed, and had
recollected how they came there, was—the cat.

She was coiled up comfortably asleep on the foot of their bed, where she
had been placed by the faithful Nelly, who had received her late at
night from the hands of Moses, the groom, who had brought her from the
Bird’s Nest Cottage.

The children now wanted nothing to complete their happiness. They had
the freedom of the castle and the court-yard, and in the care of Nelly
Lacy they wandered about at will, all over the place, surprised and
delighted anew at every novelty, and pleased with their pretty young
nursemaid, whose position as a servant they began to understand, and
whom they warned that they hoped she would not “wun away as poor Tit
did.”

After luncheon that day Lord Beaudevere and Miss Desparde took leave of
their friends and went home to Cloudland.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXI.
DREAM OR VISION?

Oh, spirit land! thou land of dreams!
A world thou art of mysterious gleams,
Of startling voices and sounds of strife—
A world of the lost who have entered life!
FELICIA HEMANS.

She warned in dreams, her murder she did tell
From point to point, as really it befell.
DRYDEN.

The vision fled and vanished from her sight;
The dreamer wakened in a mortal fright.
IBID.

Net and Arielle were left with only each other and the two children for
company; and if they could not be called absolutely happy they were at
least very peaceful and contented.

On the third day of her sojourn at the castle Net received a short note
from Antoinette Deloraine, saying that she was no longer able to ride or
walk out, and scarcely able to sit at her writing-table long enough to
write that note, and imploring Net to come to her, even if she had to
bring the children with her.

If Net then could have divided herself between Arielle and Antoinette,
she would have done so.

She could not bear to refuse Antoinette, and she could not bear to leave
Arielle at this juncture.

She wrote a most affectionate note to her cousin, telling her of the
state of affairs at Castle Montjoie, and promising her that she would
set out for Deloraine Park immediately after Christmas.

In fact, Net was secretly looking forward to the return of Valdimir
Desparde, and his full reconciliation with Lady Arielle.

Such a happy consummation for the young lovers would set her so much at
ease on her young friend’s account that she would feel quite free to
leave her.

Once she tried to sound Arielle upon the subject.

“We have not heard anything from Cloudland since Lord Beaudevere and
Vivienne left us. But I suppose we shall hear from them as soon as Mr.
Desparde arrives,” she said.

“I do not know why they should announce his arrival to us,” replied Lady
Arielle, coldly, though with a slight tremor in her voice.

“Because he is coming to vindicate himself, my dear,” replied Net,
gently—“and, indeed, he needs to vindicate himself to _you_ more than
any one else alive.”

“I do not wish to hear his vindication. We already know what it will
amount to. He fell into low company; he was entrapped into marrying a
low girl; his wife and child have perished by yellow fever in New
Orleans; he devoted himself to the care of the sufferers until the reign
of the plague was over; and now he comes back a free man to vindicate
his character. What sort of a vindication is this! I want none of it!”

“Oh, my dear Arielle! remember how he loved you, notwithstanding all,
and try to forgive him,” pleaded Net.

“I _do_ forgive him! I _must_ forgive him, or never expect to be
forgiven myself! But I cannot—cannot receive him on the old conditions
again! I could pass over almost any other fault in a man but this one
that he has committed! He allowed himself to be drawn away from me by
another woman! I cannot condone that offense—no I cannot! I cannot! It
has opened a great gulf between our souls, wider than that which
separated Dives from Lazarus!” said Arielle, passionately, while her
delicate frame shook under the storm of emotion aroused by the theme.

“I do believe that you could more easily forgive your lover for
murdering another man than for loving another woman!” exclaimed Net.

“I—do—believe—I—could,” answered Arielle.

“Perhaps he never did either love or marry another woman. We have not
_his_ word for it that he did. We have only the detective’s report; and
they fall upon false clews with masterly ingenuity. Mr. Desparde says
nothing but this—that he is coming home to vindicate himself from all
reproach. We should at least give him the opportunity, and not prejudge
him,” persisted Net.

“Say no more! I cannot bear the subject, Net; but tell me, dear girl, do
you often hear from Mr. Fleming?” inquired Lady Arielle, not maliciously
at all—because she had not the slightest suspicion that Adrian Fleming
had deserted his wife—but only to change the subject.

Net flushed to her temples, and answered evasively:

“Not for a month. When I heard last, he was in America, and was about to
start for the wilds of the West to hunt the buffalo.”

Net did not add, that even for this information she was indebted to the
“Personal” column of a Devonshire paper that had accidentally fallen
into her hands.

How Net loathed the part she had to play to shield her recreant husband
from reproach! Had it been only herself who was to suffer, she would
have told the whole story of her hapless marriage, rather than have
appeared in false colors and lived a lie!

Arielle perceived that this subject pained her friend as much as the
other one had pained herself, and she therefore refrained from pursuing
it; thinking, perhaps, that Net felt the continued absence of her
husband as a humiliating neglect of herself, and thinking no worse than
that.

“Well, never mind! Let us leave off talking of the men! The theme is a
most unprofitable one! Let us talk of women! What _is_ the matter with
Antoinette Deloraine?” she inquired, with much interest.

“A hereditary delicacy of constitution that shortened the lives of her
foremothers for many generations past. Each one has died younger than
the mother who bore her, and poor Antoinette, who thinks that _she_ is
dying, is several years younger than her own mother was when she passed
away. I am very sorry for Antoinette. Her position is truly pitiable,
her fate almost tragical. Think of it! Not yet nineteen years
old—youthful, beautiful, wealthy, accomplished, and ambitious. _So_
ambitious! She declared she would not marry any one under the rank of a
duke, you know. And now to be dying, alone in that remote country house,
with no one near her but nurses and servants! It is too sorrowful. I
must go to her immediately after Christmas,” said Net.

Lady Arielle would have expostulated, but she felt that, however
unwilling she might feel to part with Net, she could not conscientiously
object to have her go to her dying cousin.

“Why—in case of Antoinette Deloraine’s dying unmarried—_you_ are the
heiress of Deloraine Park, are you not?” suddenly inquired Lady Arielle,
as if the thought had just occurred to her.

“Yes, but don’t let us discuss that, please; the thought is really and
truly too distressing to me,” sighed Net, turning away her head.

“Too distressing to you, is it, my unselfish darling, to remember that
you are the heiress of Deloraine Park? It will not be too distressing to
Sir Adrian and Lady Fleming, take my word for it! But there, I will say
no more about it. I suppose you must go to Antoinette after Christmas.”

“Or earlier, if she should get worse. I wrote and told her that.”

A few days after this conversation Arielle received a note from her
guardian, telling her that the _Colorado_ steamship, from New York to
Southampton, had arrived, bringing Mr. Valdimir Desparde, who had that
morning telegraphed to his uncle to send a dog-cart to meet him at the
Miston Station at seven o’clock the next morning. The note ended in
these words:

“But I shall not send anybody, my dear. I shall go myself to meet my
boy. And if he can vindicate himself to my satisfaction, as I hope and
believe that he can, I will bring him to your feet without delay. If he
cannot—and it may be possible that he cannot—I will not permit him to
approach you.”

Arielle read this note to Net, and then asked her:

“What do you think of it?”

“I think, as the baron does, that Mr. Desparde will be able to vindicate
himself fully. And in that case he will soon be at your feet, dearest,”
confidently replied Net.

Arielle’s delicate face flushed to the edges of her hair.

“I hope they will make no mistake about what I shall consider a full
vindication. If he had deserted me for another woman _no_ excuse that he
could make would vindicate him in my eyes. I could never, never condone
that offense. I _might_ forgive it—nay, I _must_ forgive it—but I can
never, never condone it!” she exclaimed.

“Hush, my darling. Do not excite yourself prematurely. I do not believe
one word about that other woman. But, thank Heaven, your suspense, this
trying suspense, will soon be over!”

“Yes. Valdimir starts from Southampton this morning, and by traveling
day and night will reach Miston Station to-morrow at seven in the
morning. The baron will meet him there, hear his explanation as they
drive home to Cloudland, and if that explanation shall satisfy him, he
will bring the wanderer here in the afternoon. _To-morrow afternoon!_
Oh, how near! Ah! I _hope_, I _pray_ that there has been no other woman
in the case! But, ah! what is the use of such a hope or prayer in regard
to a past event, which is fixed past hoping for or praying for!”

All the rest of that day Net noticed that Lady Arielle was very restless
and could settle herself to no occupation.

At night, on leaving her friend to retire, she said:

“I am going to bed, Net, because I do not know what else to do, as it is
bed-time, but I know I shall not sleep. Oh, Net! is it not humiliating
to feel this interest in a man who offered me the greatest affront a
woman could possibly receive?” exclaimed Lady Arielle, in a flame of
self-scorn.

“Or who seemed to have offered you this affront. Appearances are
deceitful. You must wait for his explanation,” replied Net.

“I shall lie awake and think of him—think of him on the railway train
speeding northward through the darkness of the night. He will be
traveling all night; he will be at Miston at seven o’clock to-morrow
morning; he will be at Cloudland at half-past nine, and—if all should be
right in his explanation to Lord Beaudevere—they will be _here_ by
twelve! Oh, Net, what a thought! What is the hour now, dear Net? I never
carry a watch; look at yours.”

“It wants about two minutes of ten,” answered her friend, after
consulting the little time-piece that hung at her girdle.

“Fourteen hours yet to wait! Oh! if I could only sleep seven of them
away! I might bear the rest! Ah! it is degrading to care so much about
this man! But it is only in the hope that the report of the detectives
may have been a false one. If it was true, I will never condone the
offense! Never!”

So, with her soul torn between love and wrath, Lady Arielle retired.

Net went to her own apartments, stole on tiptoe into the nursery to look
at the sleeping children and assure herself that they were safe and
well, and then she offered up her private devotions and went to bed.

Net also lay long awake, thinking of her friend, hoping and praying that
Valdimir Desparde’s explanation of his most extraordinary and apparently
most unpardonable conduct might prove satisfactory to Lady Arielle, and
that a full reconciliation and reunion might make the lovers happy.

The little clock on the mantel had struck twelve before Net fell asleep.

Then she slept soundly for several hours, and dreamed a painful but
confused dream about Kit, of which she could make nothing at all
coherent.

She was aroused from her sleep at last by a hurried rapping at her
chamber door.

She started up, only half awake, exclaiming confusedly:

“Well? Yes! Who is it? What is the matter?”

“It is I, Net! Open the door, dear!” answered the trembling voice of
Lady Arielle.

Net, much surprised, sprang out of bed and opened the door in a second.

Pale as marble, in the early winter morning light, cold and shivering,
Lady Arielle stood there in her white night-dress.

“MY DEAR! What is the matter?” exclaimed Net, in consternation.

“Let me get into bed with you, Net! I—I—I’ve seen—I’ve seen—” began the
girl, but her voice died away in her shaking frame and chattering teeth.

Net hurriedly turned down the warm bed-clothes and led her shuddering
friend up to it.

Arielle threw herself in and drew the covering up over her head and lay
shaking as with a hard ague.

Net hastily drew on her warm dressing-gown and slippers, and then bent
over the shuddering form that had taken possession of her bed.

“Arielle, dearest, what is it? A chill or a fright? Shall I call up the
housekeeper?”

“Oh, no, no, no! It is not a chill! Call no one. Get into bed again! It
is not near time to rise! You’ll take cold!” muttered the girl, in
smothered tones, as she shivered and shook under the cover.

“But, Arielle, you need assistance. Let me—”

“No, no! It is the shock! The fright! Come to bed! I’ll tell you!”

Net went and locked the chamber door and then got into bed and lay down
beside the shaking girl, who at once clasped her closely like a
frightened child.

“Now, when you are sufficiently composed, you will tell me what has
alarmed you,” said Net, in a soothing tone.

But Arielle continued to shiver and cling to her friend in silence for a
few moment’s longer; then she said:

“Oh, Net! You remember, after grandmamma left us I told you that I saw
her sitting in her chair in my room?”

“Yes, dear, I remember you told me so,” replied the little woman;
forbearing, however, to utter her thought that it was only a delusion of
the imagination.

“Well, Net, I was not afraid of _her_; no, nor of grandpapa either, for
I saw _him_ also, Net, though I never told you so. I would not tell you
because I thought you would only smile at me, as you did when I told you
of my seeing grandmamma.”

“My dear, I thought you were the subject of some hallucination of your
senses, the result of your weakened nervous system,” answered Net,
gently.

“I know you did. And indeed my weakness made me more susceptible to
impressions from the spirit world; but, Net, they were real impressions.
I _did_ see my grandmother sitting in her own arm-chair in my room,
within a week after her departure, and I did see my grandfather sitting
at his study table when I opened the door one day.”

“Did you address either of them?”

“No, for though I was not afraid of them, I was startled by their
apparitions, and then they disappeared.”

“But you have not seen either of them lately?”

“No, it was shortly after grandmamma departed that I saw her several
times; but never after the first few weeks. I have seen grandpapa but
once.”

“Then it was not the apparition of either of these that frightened you?”
ventured Net.

“Oh, no! oh, no! I should not have been afraid of them! _They_ looked
_so_ natural! _But this one—Oh-h-h!_” shuddered Arielle, clinging to
Net.

“Tell me all about it and you will feel better. I dare say it was a
nightmare dream,” said Net, re-assuringly.

“A dream! How could it have been a dream, when I never slept for one
instant? And as for the nightmare, I never had it in my life.”

“What was it, then, my darling?”

“I am going to tell you! I have not been asleep to-night. I did not even
doze. I was so wide awake. The room was so dark that towards morning,
when the smouldering fire on the hearth went entirely out, I could see
the first faint approach of day between the folds of the curtains and
the slats of the shutters. I was watching that faint, increasing light,
and saying to myself that—_he_—Valdimir—had just about reached Miston
Junction, and while I was so watching, I heard the clock strike seven.
Then feeling very tired, I closed my eyes and—”

“Fell asleep,” added Net.

“No, I did not! I fell into a quiet, conscious, restful state that
seemed better than sleep. I lay enjoying this benign repose for some
moments—I know not how long—when—oh, Net!” suddenly exclaimed the young
lady, covering her eyes with her hands, as if to shut out some terrific
vision that memory had conjured up visibly before them.

“Go on, my dear,” said her companion, in a low voice.

“Oh, Net! With my eyes closed, with every sense closed in perfect rest,
as I lay there I became aware—in some mysterious, occult manner, which
was not through sight or hearing, or any material faculty—I say I became
aware of _some presence at my bedside_. This awed me into a deeper
quietude. Soon I seemed to hear, not through my bodily ears, but through
my spirit—_deep breathing over me_. It laid me under a deathlike spell.
Soon, out of this breathing issued sighs, softer than the softest notes
of the Eolian harp, bearing these words: ‘_See me. He slew me for
sending the letter that saved you!_’ Then—oh, shall I ever get over
it!—then, out of the deep darkness loomed upon my sealed sight the
shadowy form of a tall woman, clothed in long, black raiments.
Spell-bound with awe, I could not move, or speak, or breathe, while the
shadowy, black-robed form grew out into more distinct outlines—a
clear-cut, marble-white face, with fire-bright, azure eyes, and a long,
cloudy vail of pallid, golden-hued hair. I had no power to draw my gaze,
my mental sight, from that marble-white face, those fire-bright eyes,
until I recognized Kit Ken! Then I screamed, and the vision vanished!”

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXII.
MYSTERIES.

Dread is the power of dreams! Who has not felt,
When in the morning light such visions melt,
How the vailed soul, though struggling to be free,
Ruled by that deep, unfathomed mystery,
Wakes, haunted by the thoughts of good or ill
Whose shading influence pursues us still!
CAROLINE NORTON.

As Arielle finished her strange recital, she clung to her friend and
shook again as with an ague fit.

Net was much amazed, not so much by the vision itself, which she
explained mentally upon natural grounds, as by the effect it had had on
Arielle.

“Well, my dear, what happened next?” she inquired, thinking it best to
encourage the terrified girl to talk and get the whole subject off her
mind.

“Oh, then, Net, as soon as the awful vision vanished, I recovered my
powers of motion; I started up, sprang out of bed and ran to you. That
is all. I feel better now, since I have told you. Oh, Net, what do you
think of it?” piteously inquired the trembling girl.

Net Fleming did not answer for some moments, but then she said,
deprecatingly:

“Don’t you see, my dear, that this was only a dream? While you were
lying there so quietly, so restfully, as you describe yourself to have
been, you unconsciously dropped asleep, though perhaps only for a
moment, and dreamed all this.”

“No, no, no, I did not, Net! Oh, Net! how very, _very_ hard you are to
convince. But perhaps you have never in your life seen a supernatural
form or heard a supernatural voice?”

“No,” replied the sound-bodied and sound-minded little woman, “I never
have.”

“Well, then, of course it is of no use talking to you! I might as well
talk of light to a person born stone blind, or of music to one born
stone deaf! I don’t blame you for your incredulity, Net.”

“No, nor do I blame you for your illusions, dear,” smiled Net.

The mantel clock struck eight.

Net slipped out of bed and unlocked the chamber door and rang her bell,
and then returned to bed, for the room was very cold.

Nelly Lacy came in and made the fire.

And the next minute the two children burst open the nursery door and ran
in, in their night-gowns, and climbed up into Little Mammam’s bed, all
unconscious that she had a companion.

“They are enough to put all the ghosts of Gehenna to flight; are they
not?” laughed Net, as she returned their caresses.

“_Hush, oh, hush!_” breathed Arielle in an awestruck tone.

When the fire had warmed the room the friends arose.

Lady Arielle went back to her own chamber, where she found another
bright fire and her maid Lucy Lacy in attendance.

Nelly Lacy took the children back to the nursery and dressed them.

Net made her simple toilet, and went down stairs to the breakfast
parlor. She was soon joined by her hostess, who, on entering, said:

“As we are alone, I have sent Lacy to tell Nelly to bring the children
to breakfast with us. I know that they have been accustomed to breakfast
with you. I forgot to do it earlier, and only thought of it when they
came bursting in upon us up stairs.”

“How kind and thoughtful you are, dear Arielle.”

“I _mean_ to be kind, but indeed I am not thoughtful. If I _had_ been I
should have had these children at table with us ever since Lord
Beaudevere and Vivienne went away. Ah, no!—But here are the children.”

They all sat down at the table, and lingered over the breakfast until
the clock struck ten.

“Only two hours now, dear Net. Surely—surely—if all is right, they will
be here in two hours!” exclaimed Lady Arielle, as she put her hand
through Net’s bended elbow and leaned thereon, walking up and down the
hall—for Arielle was too restless to sit down.

But they had not to wait until noon for news.

At half-past eleven, while the two friends were sitting in the smaller
drawing-room in tasteful morning dresses, waiting with almost breathless
impatience for the arrival of the expected visitors, Adams, the ladies’
footman entered with a note on a silver salver, which he handed to the
young lady, saying:

“A groom from Cloudland brought it, my lady.”

“Well, take him to the servants’ hall and give him some refreshments
while his horse rests,” said Lady Arielle, scarcely able to curb her
impatience until the man left the room.

Then, with beating heart and burning cheeks, she tore open the note,
which she saw was in Vivienne’s handwriting, and she read it, while Net
watched her anxiously.

Vivienne’s little missive was as follows:

“CLOUDLAND, Dec. 16th, 18—.

“MY DEAREST ARIELLE.—I write to save you some hours of useless anxiety.
My brother arrived at Miston Station in good health early this morning,
and was met by Beaue.

“But, alack-a-day! as the old folks used to say, he was subpœnaed as a
witness upon some disturbance that occurred on the train, and had to go
back to some station to testify.

“Beaue went with him, and sent the carriage back, with a note for me by
the coachman to tell me of this annoying _contretemps_, and to say that
I must not expect them back until late to-night. Did you ever hear of
anything more provoking in your life? I have no words strong enough to
express my disgust and abhorrence of this state of affairs.

“I shall sit up for them to-night, and send them both up to see you
early to-morrow morning. And in the meantime, with love to Net and the
children, I am your own

“VIVIENNE.”

Arielle read this over to herself, and then read it aloud to Net.

“Now _is not_ this the most vexatious thing that could possibly happen?
It really makes me feel ill. I can appreciate now the old proverb that
says: ‘Hope deferred maketh the heart sick.’ My heart is sick.
Twenty-four hours more! Oh, dear Net! Couldn’t you chloroform me, and
keep me under the influence of that pain-killing drug until this time
to-morrow morning?” she inquired, with a piteous look in the face of her
friend.

“It is very trying, I know, dear Arielle; but you must be brave and
patient. It will not seem so long. The day is already half spent, the
night you will sleep away, because you did not sleep last night, and
to-morrow morning you will have nothing to do but to expect your
visitors,” said Net, hopefully.

Arielle sighed deeply, thinking within her own mind that if she could
feel certain Valdimir Desparde had _not_ been so false to her as to have
married another woman, and if it would not be so unmaidenly, she could
find it in her heart to take Net and go to Cloudland to share the vigil
of Vivienne, and so meet Valdimir half a day sooner.

She controlled this passionate desire so completely that Net did not
even suspect its existence.

But the day passed very heavily with Arielle, who could settle herself
to nothing.

When bed-time came Arielle said to her friend: “Net, dear, I am really
afraid to sleep alone. I wish you would let me share your room this one
night. Should I disturb you, do you think?”

“Why, no, dear! I am usually a very good sleeper, not easily disturbed.
How should I be when I have been accustomed for the last four years to
sleep between two kicking children? I shall be glad of your company.”

So that night the two girls slept together, and slept soundly until
morning.

They arose blithely too, and soon after breakfast they began to look for
their longed-for visitors.

But another disappointment awaited them.

Again Adams appeared with a little, cream-colored note on a silver
salver.

Arielle grew dizzy as she took it and tore it open.

It contained only a few informal lines, as follows:

“Beaue is a fox, an old fox, a sly old fox! He did not inform me
yesterday morning of the nature of the disturbance that detained
Valdimir. And last night he came home without my brother. And when I
brought him to bay he had to confess that Valdimir was personally
interested in that ‘disturbance;’ that in point of fact, said
‘disturbance’ was caused by my brother’s having been robbed while in the
railway carriage, of the most valuable family jewel in his possession! a
jewel worth all the landed property in the family. I suppose it is the
great historical diamond called ‘Sirius.’ _I_ thought that jewel was
safe in the vaults of my cousin’s banker. How careless of Valdimir to
carry it about him.

“I will tell you this: if ever it should come into _my_ possession—which
is scarcely possible—I should sell it to some sovereign with more cash
than common sense, and invest the price in solid real estate with a sure
title that could neither be lost nor stolen.

“Well, Valdimir has gone back ever so far on his track in search of this
stolen jewel, and will not return until he has recovered it.

“Beaue says that there is no doubt it will be recovered. A jewel of such
worth cannot long be lost.

“Beaue only came home to relieve my anxiety, and went back this morning
to rejoin Valdimir and assist in the search.

“I am laid up with a dreadful cold in the head, caught through standing
out in the night air watching for Valdimir.

“Take warning by my fate and don’t watch.

“Love to Net and babies.

“Your own VIVIENNE.”

Arielle read the letter and passed it over to Net, without a word of
comment, but with a look of comic despair, if such a term be allowable.

She was very far from suspecting the gravity of the matter that detained
her lover.

Net in turn read the letter, and passed it back to its owner, only
saying:

“It is the fate of Tantalus.”

The footman who had brought in the letter stood waiting orders.

“Go, Adams, and bring me the morning’s papers. If that robbery took
place night before last, there must be some notice of in this morning’s
_Times_.”

“Beg pardon, my lady, but no papers have come this morning,” replied the
man.

“Why, how is that? It is one o’clock! They should have been here before
now.”

“They have not come, my lady.”

“Well, go; and as soon as they do come bring them to me. Yet stay! I
must write a line of acknowledgment to Miss Desparde. I did not reply to
her note yesterday,” added Arielle, in an aside to Net.

She sat down to a writing-table near the fireplace and scribbled off a
hasty note, very guarded, however, in its wording, not by any means
exposing the extremity of her own anxiety and impatience, but only
expressing her own and Net Fleming’s sympathy with Vivienne’s
disappointment and indisposition, and their hopes of her brother’s
speedy arrival and her own happy recovery,

She read this letter also to Net and then sealed, directed and
dispatched it by Adams to Miss Desparde’s waiting messenger.

All that day Lady Arielle waited and watched for the daily newspapers
that failed to come.

She did not know that her guardian had caused them to be stopped, lest
they should shock her with the news of Valdimir Desparde’s arrest on the
dreadful charge of murder.

She blamed the unlucky newsagent, and denounced him in no measured
terms.

“Jobson has a monopoly at Miston! He is too independent! He neglects his
business! There should be a rival establishment there, which I should
certainly patronize! The _idea_ of his neglecting to send the papers
to-day!” she exclaimed for the twentieth time.

Net laughed.

“Poor Jobson!” she said— “any one of a dozen accidents may have happened
to prevent his sending the papers. And as to his ‘monopoly,’ it hardly
puts bread enough into his hungry children’s mouths! I wish you could
see them, poor things!”

“Oh, Net, I am a selfish wretch, and all my goodness is not skin deep!
The minute anything crosses me, I am bad! That is, I mean, I find out
how bad I am!” said Arielle, half lightly, half penitently.

Net did not contradict or flatter her. It was not Net’s way.

Still another weary day and night passed, and then at length, something
happened; but it was not what they had expected.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXIII.
VIVIENNE’S WOE.

Sorrow and sin, and suffering and strife,
Have now been cast in the stream of my life;
And they have gone up to the fountain head,
And all that flows thence is embitteréd.
Yet still that fountain up to Heaven springs,
And still the stream, where’er it wanders, sings
And still, where’er it hath found leave to rest,
The blessed sun looks down upon its breast;
And it reflects, as in a mirror fair,
The image of all beauty shining there.
F. A. KEMBLE.

Lord Beaudevere continued his daily visits to Yockley prison, although
the journey there and back, and the hour spent with his unhappy kinsman,
took the whole of every day.

So long as he could prevent Jobson from sending the newspapers to
Montjoie Castle and to Cloudland he had hopes that the disastrous news
of Valdimir Desparde’s arrest and imprisonment on the terrible charge of
murder might not reach the ladies of either house, for Lady Arielle
lived in strict seclusion since the death of her grandfather, and Miss
Desparde was confined to her room by a severe cold.

But as the days went on, and the news spread from one to another all
over the country, until it was in everybody’s mouth, Lord Beaudevere
perceived how futile were his plans to keep it concealed from his wards.

Any day, a word from a tradesman might reveal the calamity to a servant
or a child, who might bring it suddenly to either of the houses from
which he so earnestly desired to keep it.

He deemed it, therefore, best that he should himself gently break the
matter to Vivienne and send her with the intelligence to Lady Arielle.

In accordance with this plan, he delayed his daily visit to Valdimir for
a couple of hours, and met Vivienne at breakfast, to which she was now
sufficiently recovered to come down.

She herself unwittingly led up to the subject.

“Oh, indeed!” she exclaimed, as soon as she entered the breakfast-room
and saw him waiting there for her. “You do not mean to say that you are
going to sit down to the table with me this morning? Why, I have not had
the honor of your company for seven days! What has happened? Is the lost
jewel, the great diamond, Sirius, found at last? If so, when shall I see
my truant brother? Or is he detained to identify his property and—the
thief?” she saucily demanded.

“Pour out my coffee, Vivi, and I will tell you all about it after
breakfast,” replied the baron.

The girl sat down and did as he desired.

After breakfast was over the baron arose and said:

“Come into the library, my love. I have something to say to you.”

His manner and tone of voice alarmed the girl, and prepared her in some
degree for what she was destined to hear.

She followed her guardian into the library, sat down opposite to him,
and leaning upon the table, said:

“Now, Beaue, I know by your looks, that you have bad news to tell me!
Out with it! Don’t _break_ it to me for pity’s sake! _Breaking_ bad news
is like amputating the dog’s leg an inch at a time! Tell me in one word.
What has happened to Valdimir?”

“Then, in one word, he is in _prison_,” answered the baron, solemnly.

The girl stared at him as if she did not comprehend.

“He is—_what_?” she demanded, in an uncertain tone.

“Valdimir is in _prison_,” repeated the baron.

“‘In—prison?’” slowly echoed the girl, still staring at the speaker—“‘in
prison?’ Why—how is that? How can that be? Is Valdimir in debt? In debt
beyond his ability to pay? Oh, Beaue! Why did you not tell me! _Now_ I
know what you meant by the most precious jewel that he had lost! It was
not the diamond Sirius. It was his precious _liberty_ that he had lost!
Oh, Beaue! why did you not tell me the truth and not prevaricate with
me? I would have given every penny I possess in the world to release
Valdimir! You know it, Beaue!” exclaimed the girl, as the tears sprang
to her eyes.

“My dear,” replied the baron, in a choked voice, “I also would give
every farthing I own on earth to release Valdimir from prison, if money
could do it! But money cannot do it, my girl. All the money in all the
banks in this world could not do it! Valdimir is not in prison for
_debt_, Vivienne.”

“BEAUE!! What do you mean? What is Valdimir in prison for?” cried the
girl, growing marble pale.

“Brace yourself, Vivienne! Be firm! There is _nothing to fear_. Be sure
of that. Now, do you believe me when I tell you that there is nothing,
absolutely _nothing_, to fear for your brother?” earnestly inquired the
baron, taking her hand and looking deeply into her wild and terrified
eyes.

“Yes, yes, of course I believe you, Beaue! I could never seriously doubt
your word. But—_what_—oh! _what_ is my brother in prison for?” she
cried, clasping and wringing her hands.

“On a charge—Be firm now, Vivienne, for the charge can be disproved! I
assure you that it can, and you must believe me—”

“Yes! yes! But what is the charge?” she demanded, wringing her hands.

“_Murder._”

Vivienne shrieked and covered her face with her hands.

“I told you it could be disproved, my dear,” said the baron, gently.

Vivienne did not answer.

“I told you there was nothing to fear for Valdimir,” continued the
baron.

She did not reply.

“And there really _is_ nothing to fear. He is sure to be acquitted. I
hope you believe me, Vivienne.”

“He—has—been—fighting a duel, then, and killed his antagonist?” she
inquired, as if each word tortured her in its utterance, and without
uncovering her face.

“No, no, dear! I am happy to assure you that he has not. He has not been
fighting at all. He has not killed anybody. Did I not tell you the
charge was a false one?” inquired the baron, in an encouraging tone of
voice.

“Then, how came he to be accused?” demanded the girl, dropping her hands
from her deadly pale face and raising eyes wild with anguish to the face
of her guardian.

“It is a case of circumstantial evidence, sure to be disproved, my love.
I will tell you all about it. Come! rally yourself! You are a brave
young woman!”

“Give me a glass of water, Beaue,” she asked, in a faint voice.

The baron went to a little private cabinet of his own and poured out a
small glass of rich old port and made her drink it all.

The cordial old wine revived her failing powers, and she sat back in her
chair and prepared to listen.

Then Lord Beaudevere told her, as gently and delicately as he possibly
could tell such a tale, the story of the reserved compartment taken by
the mysterious stranger for himself and his female companion at
Paddington, and afterwards ignorantly and innocently entered at the
Grand Junction by Valdimir Desparde, who found what he believed to be a
sleeping woman as the sole other occupant of the compartment, and who
traveled all the rest of the way to Miston Branch Junction with the
corpse of a murdered woman, for whose assassination he had been falsely
arrested and imprisoned.

“But do not be anxious, my dear. Of course, such a charge as that can be
fully disproved,” said the baron, in concluding his story.

“Who was the woman—do they know?” inquired Vivienne, in a low voice.

“A girl that belonged to Miston, I regret to say—a girl who was once in
the service of your young friend, Mrs. Fleming, and whose poor little
letter to Lady Arielle saved her ladyship from an unfortunate marriage.”

“Not Kit Ken?” exclaimed Vivienne, in amazement.

“Yes, poor Kit Ken.”

“Oh, I am very sorry! Poor girl! Ah! then there can be no doubt as to
_who_ her slayer was.”

“You suspect Brandon Coyle?”

“I _more_ than suspect him, for I heard the words and saw the scowl of
vengeance with which he left Castle Montjoie on the day poor Kit’s
letter was read.”

“Oh, ah, yes! _you_ heard those threats of vengeance, did you, my dear?”

“Indeed I did! and I saw the look that accompanied them.”

“We may, then, want you to testify. But, Vivienne, do you know—have you
any idea where the scamp went when he left Castle Montjoie?”

“Not the slightest. How should I, Beaue?”

“I thought possibly you might have seen or heard through Aspirita.”

“No, indeed; I have not set eyes on Aspirita, or got a word from her,
since the day she left Castle Montjoie. I feel very sorry for the
humiliation of that poor girl. It certainly is not her fault that her
brother is a villain,” said Vivienne, who was far from suspecting how
deeply imbued the sister was with the brother’s hereditary evils.

“The detectives are looking him up, but they have got no trace as yet.
And now, Vivienne, my dear, I wish you to go to Castle Montjoie and
inform Lady Arielle of the situation of affairs, before she can hear of
it from any other source.”

“Oh, Beaue! what a terrible task to impose upon me! I cannot! I cannot,
indeed! Besides, I intend to go with you this morning and see my poor,
dear brother,” replied the young lady.

“I am not going to see him to-day. He will be engaged with his counsel
the whole day. Do you know his trial is fixed for Monday week?”

“Good Heaven, Beaue!”

“I told you not to be afraid. He is certain to be honorably acquitted.
But what I wish to impress upon you now is the fact that he will not
have time to receive a visit from you to-day. So you had better go this
morning to Castle Montjoie.”

“Beaue! I will go there with _you_, if you choose to take me; but I will
not go alone to carry the burden of such a terrible story to Lady
Arielle—especially after deluding _her_ as well as myself with mistaken
theories of Valdimir’s detention! I will not, Beaue!” said Vivienne, in
a tone that assured the baron all further argument would be useless.

“Well, well, perhaps I had better go with you, if it is only to set the
poor fellow in a proper light before his lady’s eyes. Be ready as soon
as you can, my dear. I will order the carriage,” said Lord Beaudevere.

“I will be ready in fifteen minutes, Beaue,” replied Vivienne, hurrying
away to her own chamber.

Arrived there, however, she stood still in the middle of the floor,
transfixed by the thought that her brother was in prison on the charge
of murder, and was about to be tried for his life! She forgot everything
else, until a footman rapped at the door, with his lord’s compliments
and the carriage was waiting.

Then she started, went to a wardrobe, threw a sable circular around her
shoulders, put on a velvet hat, seized her muff and gloves and ran down
stairs to join her guardian.

“Is _this_ what you call fifteen minutes, my dear? I waited twenty
before I sent for you,” said the baron as he handed her into the
carriage.

“I beg your pardon, Beaue. I did not know,” she answered, vaguely and
with a deep sigh.

“Vivienne, you do not place confidence in me when I assure you that your
brother’s life and honor are in no serious danger,” said Lord
Beaudevere, as they drove on; and he noticed her continued depression of
spirits.

“Oh, I do, I do, Beaue! But do you think it possible for me to rally my
spirits while my brother is in prison on such an awful charge?” she
murmured, between pale lips.

“But, my dear, I hope you will be able to command yourself before we go
into Arielle’s presence. She has been very severely tried of late.”

“Beaue,” said the young lady, very sadly, “I think there is another
trouble and disappointment in store for poor Valdimir. Even when he
shall be honorably acquitted of this charge there is another against him
that he cannot disprove and Arielle will not condone.”

“And what is that?” inquired the baron, elevating his eyebrows.

“Valdimir’s low marriage! The death of his wife and child may have freed
him from the ties, but cannot affect his future relations with Lady
Arielle, who will never condone the offense,” answered Vivienne.

“‘His low marriage!’ Rubbish! Valdimir never was married!” impatiently
exclaimed the baron.

“No? Why—we all believed—the detectives all told—I don’t understand,”
muttered Vivienne, with a perplexed look.

“The detectives were all at sea; all misled by false appearances.
Listen,” said the baron; and he began and told the story of Valdimir
Desparde’s accidental meeting with Annek Yok and her child on the pier
at New York, the morning of his arrival there, and of his subsequent
care of the poor widow and her babe until he placed them under the
protection of her two brothers in New Orleans; of their final death by
yellow fever, and of Valdimir Desparde’s devotion to the sufferers from
the fearful plague during the whole period of its reign.

“Oh, I am so rejoiced at that; or I should be if Valdimir were not in
prison. At any rate I—it is a drop of comfort in my cup of sorrow. But,
since it was not a low marriage that drove Valdimir so suddenly from his
native shores, _what on earth was it_?” earnestly demanded Vivienne.

“Ah! thereby hangs another tale. I do not know that I shall have a
better opportunity of telling you than the present one. I will save
time. Now give me your attention,” said the baron.

And while Vivienne listened with the most sympathetic interest, Lord
Beaudevere gave her first of all a sketch of Brandon and Aspirita
Coyle’s early history, with the disgraceful career and ignominious death
of their father, under the false _alias_ of a noble name—that of
Desparde—and of the fraud practiced upon Valdimir by Brandon, which was
rendered practicable and even plausible by the identity of names and the
total ignorance in which young Desparde had been left of his own early
history.

“And my brother believed himself to be the son of that executed murderer
who had taken his father’s stainless name for an _alias_!” exclaimed
Vivienne, in surprise and scorn.

“Yes, circumstances seemed to bear out the story told by Brandon Coyle.”

“I hope it is not necessary to tell Arielle such a horrible tale,” added
Vivienne.

“No; it will be only necessary to say that a deception had been
practiced upon Valdimir by making him believe that his own father had
been guilty of a felony which had been committed by a villain who had
assumed his name. I shall not go into particulars with Lady Arielle; it
would be exceedingly bad form for me to do so. All that she will need to
know is, that Valdimir was never married to any one, and never
unfaithful to her in thought, word or deed; but that he left in the way
he did from the most honorable motives. I shall assure Lady Arielle of
this and leave my boy’s fate, with great confidence, in her hands.”

This conversation had occupied the whole two hours of their journey and
ceased only as their carriage passed under the great archway.

CHAPTER XXIV.
ARIELLE’S VISITORS ARRIVE.

Oh, there are moments for us here, when seeing
Life’s inequalities, and woe, and care,
The burdens laid upon our mortal being
Seem heavier than the human heart can bear.

For there are ills that come without foreboding,
Lightnings that fall before the thunder’s roll,
And these festering cares that by corroding
Eat silently their way into the soul.

And for the evils that our race inherit,
Is no strength given us that we may endure:
Yes! for the Heavenly Father of our spirit
Permits no sorrow that He cannot cure.
PHEBE CARY.

It was noon, and the two friends, Arielle Montjoie and Net Fleming, were
sitting together in the morning room, trying to interest themselves in
the silk flower embroidery that Arielle had learned from the late
countess and was now attempting to teach Net. But the young lady was
rather absent-minded, and made many mistakes.

“Arielle, dear, I never heard of a blue rose in my life! Surely—” began
Net, but her teacher cut her short with:

“Am I beginning a rose with blue silk? So I am! I must have been
thinking of a violet,” and she unthreaded her needle and began to pick
out the stitches.

“You were thinking of Valdimir Desparde,” thought Net, but she said
nothing.

“My Lord Beaudevere and Miss Desparde,” said a footman, throwing open
the door.

The baron and his young ward walked into the room.

Lady Arielle started and dropped her embroidery frame, but the next
instant she recovered her self-possession and received her visitors with
all that patrician repose

“That marks the caste of Vere de Vere.”

Net followed her example, and when their mutual greetings were over,
seats were offered and accepted by the new arrivals.

Arielle was “expiring” for news of Valdimir, but not to have prolonged
her own life would she have put the question in regard to him before
learning whether he were worthy of her interest.

Net felt no such reluctance to make inquiries. She sympathized with
Arielle’s anxiety and almost shared it, and she compassionated the
dreary pride that prevented the young lady from relieving her own
suspense; and so she turned to Lord Beaudevere and said:

“It was very vexatious—Mr. Desparde having been robbed of that family
jewel, just as he arrived in the country after so long an absence. I
hope he has recovered it, or got such a clew that he may do so soon and
come home to his friends.”

“No, my dear, he has not yet recovered it, and he is still detained by
its loss and occupied in trying to regain it,” replied Lord Beaudevere,
evasively.

Lady Arielle secretly thanked Net for the question and eagerly listened
to the answer and to all the words that followed.

“What hope is there of his recovering it?” inquired Net.

“Every hope, my dear. A jewel of that value cannot long be lost.”

“And when shall we see Mr. Desparde—at Christmas? It is very near, you
know.”

“I trust so, my dear Mrs. Fleming.”

Net said no more, and after a few moments’ silence Lord Beaudevere
turned to his youngest ward and said:

“Arielle, my love, I have a little business to transact with you. Will
you favor me with a few minutes’ conversation in the library?”

“Certainly, my dear guardian, if our friends here will excuse us,”
replied the young lady, with a smile on her companion.

“Of course,” “Assuredly,” answered the two visitors, with ready
courtesy.

“And, Vivienne, you may enlighten Mrs. Fleming while we are gone,” said
the baron, as he gave his arm to his ward and led her out of the room.

When they reached the library, Lord Beaudevere made Arielle sit down in
the great arm-chair that had once been her grandfather’s.

Then he drew another and seated himself beside her and took her hand,
saying:

“Arielle, my dear child, I have both good and ill news to tell you. But,
to fortify your mind, I will tell you first of all that Valdimir
Desparde is alive and in health, and that he is worthy of your continued
regard.”

She had grown very pale at the first clause of his speech, and now, at
the concluding words, she flushed rosy red.

“A false story was brought to us, my love, through a mistake of the
detectives, and a _forged_ letter was sent to you by a dastardly
traitor! Valdimir Desparde was never faithless to you, Arielle; he was
never married, nor ever attracted to any woman save yourself.”

The baron paused to note the effect of these words on Lady Arielle.

Her face was radiant with the flush of joy, her eyes beaming with light.

“I had sometimes thought he was faithful, in the face of all adverse
evidence. In the face of his flight upon our wedding morning, and the
detective’s report of his wife and child, and the forged letter
confessing his marriage—yes, in the face of all these, I have in my
heart of heart dared to believe that he was faithful! Yet I could not
act upon this belief,” murmured Arielle, in a tone of joy too deep for
expression.

“The heart is often wiser than the head, my Arielle. And now, do you
surmise who the forger of that false letter was?”

“Yes, I do. It was Brandon Coyle.”

“The very same, my dear. The remorseless villain who has been at the
root of all your woes; whose fraudulent story, supported by unfortunate
circumstances, it was that sent my young kinsman, in his unstained
honor, a most wretched fugitive from his native land!”

“Oh, how could he do that?” breathed Arielle.

“You shall hear later, my dear. Brandon Coyle had all the subtlety,
duplicity, and malignity of an incarnate fiend. He paused at nothing.
Lately, I think, he has added murder to his list of crimes.”

“_Murder!_” uttered Lady Arielle, in a half suppressed cry.

“Yes, my dear. Very sorry am I to enter upon such a theme with you; but
I began by warning you, my love, that I had bad news to communicate as
well as good,” said the baron, solemnly.

“But—since Valdimir is alive, well, and constant, and since nearly all I
love in the world are under this roof, at this hour, I do not see what
ill news you have to tell that can affect us—Stay!” she suddenly
exclaimed. “Has that evil man—injured—killed—any one in whom we are
interested? Not—not his uncle?” inquired the young lady, in a half
hushed voice.

“No, not his uncle,” answered the baron.

“I—feared it might be so from the way in which you spoke, and from
remembering that the Uncle and nephew had left here in bad blood, and
the first had threatened to make a will and disinherit the last.”

“It was not old Mr. Coyle, who is alive and well. Yet it was some one in
whom we are all interested somewhat,” answered the baron, watching the
effect of his words on his hearer.

But Lady Arielle only looked perplexed and compassionate.

“Who was it, then, Baron?” she inquired.

“It was poor Kit Ken.”

Lord Beaudevere was hardly prepared for the effect these words had upon
Lady Arielle. She started forward, the blood rushed up to her temples,
her eyes dilated and fixed themselves in a prolonged stare upon those of
the speaker, and her voice was hoarse and almost inaudible as she echoed
the words:

“_Kit Ken?_”

“Yes, my dear. But what is the matter? Surely—”

But before the baron could utter another word Lady Arielle had fallen
back in her chair, her arms dropped by her side, her face pallid as that
of a corpse, her eyes closed, and her lips open.

“Arielle! Arielle, my child! Why—” began the baron, and then he put
forth his hand to ring the bell.

But her hand was laid on his to stop the action. Her touch was as cold
as ice, and her voice was like the sigh of death as she inquired:

“_When did this occur?_”

“This death? This murder?”

“Yes.”

“Thursday night, or perhaps Friday morning. The crime was committed at
night in a railway carriage. Let me get you a glass of wine,” said the
baron, rising then and hurrying to the dining-room, for he knew the ways
of the house.

There he found the table laid for luncheon, and the footman in
attendance.

Without calling on the servant at all he poured out a glass of sherry
from a decanter that stood upon the table and took it into the library
to Lady Arielle, who had already partly recovered from the shock she had
received.

She took the glass, drank the wine, and thanked the baron.

“My dear, I regret very much having given you so rude a shock. I would
not have done so could I have avoided the communication,” said Lord
Beaudevere, with much concern.

“Never mind, my dear guardian. Go on with your story. Do not be alarmed
for me; I shall not fail again,” said Arielle, rallying her spirits.

She did not tell the baron the real cause of her extreme agitation—the
dream, or vision, she had had of poor Kit Ken, on the very night of her
murder. She did not speak of this experience because she did not wish to
be laughed at by the baron as she had been by Net Fleming.

But, ah! Lord Beaudevere felt very unlike laughing at anything or
anybody under present circumstances.

“Are you sure, my dear Arielle, that you can be brave and strong enough
to hear the rest of this story?”

“Yes, I can, my guardian. Since Valdimir is alive, well, faithful, and
not far off from us, I am not afraid to hear anything you have to tell
me,” answered Arielle.

Then indeed Lord Beaudevere began, and with as much tenderness and
delicacy as it was possible to approach a subject so terrible and
revolting, he told her the story of that horrible midnight ride from his
own point of view, beginning with the engagement of the reserved
compartment on the Northwestern train, at Paddington Station, by an
unknown man, for himself and his female companion, whom Lord Beaudevere
did not hesitate to describe as Brandon Coyle and Kit Ken.

In this manner he led gradually up to the denouement of that night’s
doings, still from his own standpoint—telling how the man’s form was
concealed in a long ulster and his face shadowed by a cap with a low
brim or visor; how he must have murdered his companion and arranged her
figure and her dress to appear as if she were sleeping, and that he must
have done all this between Peterborough and the Grand Junction, where he
got off and quietly left the train to take some other.

How, at the Grand Junction, Valdimir Desparde, coming up from
Southampton, had got on the train, and being also clothed in a black
ulster, and having his head covered with a cap and his face shaded by
the drooping visor, and being of the same height and size of Brandon
Coyle, had been mistaken by the guard for the man who had engaged the
reserved compartment and had by him been ushered into it.

How, finding the compartment dimly lighted and occupied only by one
woman, whom he supposed to be sleeping, he had refrained from turning up
the light, lest it should disturb the sleeper, and had ridden all the
way to the Miston Branch Junction, and there left the train for the
Miston special, quite ignorant that his traveling companion for so many
hours was a corpse.

“And now, my dear Arielle, are you prepared for a misapprehension on the
part of the authorities that has subjected us all to some annoyance and
inconvenience?” inquired Lord Beaudevere, gently.

She changed color again, and began to tremble.

“They never can have suspected Valdimir Desparde of that assassination?”
she faltered.

“Yes, my dear, they have; but the suspicion can be easily disproved,”
the baron hastened to say, fearing the consequences of his announcement.

“Is that—is that—what has detained him at Yockley?” she inquired.

“Yes, my, dear, though his detention is but a matter of a few days. As
soon as we can find some of his fellow travelers who came up with him
from Southampton, to prove an _alibi_, he will be set at liberty.”

“‘Set at liberty!’” echoed Lady Arielle, her blue eyes dilating with
terror, with horror. “Why—why—he is not _restrained_ of his liberty?
Valdimir Desparde cannot be—they can never have dared to take _him_ in
custody!”

“My dear, the law is no respecter of persons; if he had been a prince of
the blood royal, they would have taken him into custody under the
circumstances! But do not be alarmed. It is an inconvenience, an
annoyance, but nothing more. There can be no danger. It is only a matter
of a little time,” said the baron.

“When—was—he—taken?” falteringly inquired the girl.

“On the very morning of his arrival at Miston, where I met him at the
station, and where we went to breakfast at the Dolphin. The murder was
not discovered until the train reached Yockley. Then a party of ladies
and children who were crowding into the carriage found out that the
woman in the corner was a corpse, and gave the alarm. Investigation was
made, and the guard, who had recognized Valdimir Desparde at the Grand
Junction, and mistaken him for the man who had engaged for himself and
his female companion the reserved compartment in which the girl was
afterwards found murdered, gave information which caused a warrant to be
made out for the arrest of Mr. Desparde.”

“How long has Valdimir been—in prison?” inquired Arielle, as if the
words choked her.

“Several days,” answered the baron, after a pause for calculation.

“And all this time you have left me in ignorance of his condition, Lord
Beaudevere!” said the girl, reproachfully.

“My dear, I had hoped that something would have turned up ere this to
have set him at liberty, and that you might never have had occasion to
be pained by the news of his arrest. I kept you in ignorance from this
hope,” replied the baron.

Many other questions were asked and answered, and then Arielle said:

“My dear guardian, you must take me to see my betrothed to-morrow. I
would go to-day were there time enough left.”

“But, my dear Arielle!”

“It is of no use to argue with me, Lord Beaudevere! Valdimir _is_ my
betrothed! All that has happened since that broken wedding-day is as a
dream dispersed. I am going to visit my betrothed in his trouble,”
firmly replied the young lady.

“Well, well, my dear, I spoke only in your own interests. If you are
resolved to go I will take you, and Vivienne also, to-morrow. And in
this case I think that my cousin and myself will have to trespass on
your hospitality to-night,” said the baron.

“It will be a comfort to have you,” replied Arielle, earnestly.

“I will send the coachman back with the carriage to tell the household
not to expect us home to-night. And we can be indebted to you for the
use of _your_ equipage to take us to the train to-morrow.”

This being agreed upon the baron arose and gave Lady Arielle his arm to
take her back to join their friends in the drawing-room.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXV.
THE TEST OF LOVE.

Mightier far
Than strength of nerve, or sinew, or the sway
Of magic, potent over sun and star,
Is love, though oft to agony distrest,
And though his favorite seat be feeble woman’s breast.
WORDSWORTH.

Has she not set at naught her noble birth,
The high won fame of an historic race,
Peace of retirement and pride of woman?
Her prodigality has given him all.
ROWE.

When Lord Beaudevere and Lady Arielle returned to the drawing-room,
where they had left Mrs. Fleming and Miss Desparde alone together, they
discovered at a glance that Vivienne had put Net in possession of the
whole truth in regard to the detention of Valdimir—the tragic fate of
poor Kit Ken, and the accusation of her murder resting on Mr. Desparde.

They had scarcely resumed their seats before Net spoke up suddenly,
impulsively:

“This is the most shocking event I have ever heard of in my life! But
there is not the slightest doubt in the world as to the identity of the
murderer! Have you caused Brandon Coyle to be looked up?” she finished
by inquiring.

“Certainly, my dear! My suspicion fell upon that gentleman from the
first, and it is supported by the opinion of poor Kit Ken’s father. I
have employed detectives to search for Coyle and watch him. _You_ do not
happen to have heard anything of him very lately?”

“Nothing whatever since he left Montjoie, after the discovery of his
evil deeds.”

“It is very strange the skilled detectives I have employed have not yet
struck his trail, as the North American Indians would say. But I expect
almost hourly to hear from them on the subject.”

“In the meantime the trial draws ominously near!” sighed Vivienne.

Lady Arielle grew pale.

“Nonsense! Nonsense, my dears! You must not take a dark view of this
subject! There was scarcely evidence enough before the magistrate to
justify him in committing Valdimir for trial! Even if nothing should be
heard of the real criminal, there is certainly not evidence enough to
convict Desparde in the opinion of any judge or jury that ever existed!
But I am convinced that we shall get news before the trial. Have _some_
faith in the protection of Divine Providence over the innocent.”

“Sometimes the innocent are permitted to suffer,” thought Net, but she
said nothing.

“And now, my obstinate dears, about your visit to our Valdimir,” began
the baron. “As I explained before, it is now too late to catch any train
by which we could reach Yockley before six o’clock this evening—the hour
at which the prison doors are closed for the night. And in order that we
may start early enough to-morrow, to get home again the same day, you
will have to be up and get your breakfast by five o’clock. Do you hear
_that_, young ladies? You will never do it unless I am on hand to ring
the alarm-bell in the morning. I will wake up the butler, who will wake
up the page, who will wake up the ladies’ maids, who will wake up their
ladies—and so on and so on—like the people in ‘_The House that Jack
built_,’ or in the story of ‘_The Little Old Woman and her Pig_.’”

“You know that we will be very glad to have you, Baron,” said Lady
Arielle.

“And now, my dears, if I have not time to return to Cloudland, I have
enough to run down and see my old neighbor Coyle—poor old fellow! how I
feel for him! But he has turned off his scamp of a nephew, that is one
comfort. I know Brandon is not there; but I _may_ hear something that
will give me a clew. Plague take it. I feel deucedly like a _spy_, going
on such an errand to an old neighbor’s house; but I cannot help it!
‘Blood is thicker than water,’ and I must do the best I can for my
kinsman, who is suffering now for his nephew’s crimes!” said the baron,
as he rang the bell.

“Will you not take lunch first?” inquired Arielle.

“No, my dear—don’t want any! I will be back to dine with you, and will
bring a splendid appetite with me,” replied the baron.

Adams entered in answer to the bell.

“You will lend me a saddle-horse, Arielle?”

“Certainly, Lord Beaudevere. You need scarcely have asked the question.
You know the horses. Pray give your own orders,” replied the young lady.

“Adams, tell one of the grooms to saddle Muff for me, and some other
steady horse for himself, and bring them around to the door,” said the
baron.

His orders were promptly complied with, and the groom and horses were
announced as waiting.

“I shall return in time for your dinner, my dear,” said the baron to
Lady Arielle as he took leave of the young party and left the room.

In ten more minutes he was mounted on horseback and going on at a brisk,
steady trot towards Caveland.

In little more than an hour’s time, by taking all the narrow bridle
paths through the short cuts, he reached his destination, and drew up
before the dark, old mansion house.

He alighted, threw his reins to the groom, and hurried up the steps to
the principal entrance, which was in one of the towers.

A porter opened to him.

“Is Mr. Coyle at home?” he inquired.

“Yes, my lord.—Here, Tomkins! Show his lordship into the library,”
replied the porter, who belonged to a household that never had stood
upon ceremony with their neighbors, and who, therefore, neither asked
for nor expected a card.

The footman bowed, and walking down the hall, opened a side door and
announced:

“His lordship, Baron Beaudevere.”

The baron entered the library, and the footman closed the door upon him
and retired.

Lord Beaudevere found old Mr. Coyle, wrapped in a blue cloth
dressing-gown, wearing a black velvet skull-cap, seated in his leathern
arm-chair and bending over his writing-table, which seemed laden with
papers, documents, and account books.

He arose to meet his visitor, took off his skull-cap with his left hand,
and bowed as he held out his right.

“Pray replace your cap, neighbor. I hope I find you quite well,” said
Lord Beaudevere, though with little confidence, as he noticed how thin,
worn and aged the once rotund and rubicund old gentleman looked.

“I am not well, my lord—shall never be well again, probably—do not wish
to get well, in point of fact. But never mind me. Take this easy-chair,
if you please, my lord,” he said, drawing forward a large,
well-cushioned “sleepy-hollow.”

“Do not say that, my dear old friend! Many would deeply regret your
departure from among us,” said the baron, as he sank down into the
luxurious depths of the offered seat.

“Why should I wish to live—why should I wish to live—or why should any
friend desire me to live, when my gray hairs are dishonored, my heart
broken, and my spirit bowed by the misconduct of my nephew—my nephew,
whom I brought up even as a son, and meant to have made my heir?”
bitterly exclaimed the old man.

The baron would willingly have demanded, “Where is that nephew now?” but
his conscience would not allow him to ask the question he was burning,
for his own kinsman’s sake, to have answered, yet which he thought would
be treacherous, under the circumstances. So he said nothing, while his
looks expressed the sympathy he felt for the afflicted old gentleman.

“Oh, my lord, I do not hesitate to speak to you freely. You are the
oldest living friend I have in the world, and you know already of that
unfortunate boy’s evil doings! You will know still more, as all the
world must know more in a very few days or hours,” continued old Mr.
Coyle, with a deep sigh.

Lord Beaudevere had started and then given deep attention to the last
few words of the stricken old man. He would “know still more, as all the
world would know still more, in a few days or hours?” What might this
mean but that Brandon Coyle’s last worst crime had been traced in some
providential way to him and he was known as the assassin of Kit Ken?

To this conclusion the baron arrived at once, and then he spoke:

“I am truly sorry that _you_ should suffer so severely for the fault of
one whom you have nourished in your house,” he said, in sympathetic
tones.

“And this last dishonor,” continued the old man—“this last dishonor! You
will know it all through to-morrow’s papers!” sighed Mr. Coyle.

“How came this to your knowledge?” the baron felt justified in asking,
for he was thinking only about the murder in the railway carriage.

“Through my bankers, of course!” answered the old man, raising his eyes
in some astonishment to the face of the questioner.

“Through your _bankers_, my dear sir? I—I don’t quite understand,” said
the baron.

“Ah,—ah, yes! I was talking as if you knew something of the matter,
whereas as yet you know nothing; but my head is sadly shaken by this
trouble. Yes, my lord, it was through my bankers! You must know that
towards the last days in December I always draw out of my bank account
enough and more than enough cash to meet all demands upon me for the
remainder of the year, and at the same time I send for my bank-book and
cancelled checks that I may see to my balance. I did this a few days
ago, and to my utter amazement I found among my checks one for five
thousand pounds, dated the fifteenth of December. It was apparently
filled out by my own handwriting, and signed by my own autograph. I
could almost have sworn to it all as my own work! Yet I knew it was a
foul forgery! I had not drawn a check for five thousand pounds for many
years. My checks seldom run over a hundred at a time.”

“And this was a forgery, you say?” inquired the baron, wondering how
this could be connected with the murder of poor Kit Ken, yet persuaded
that it was.

“Yes, sir, a rank, rank forgery! I inclosed it in a letter to the
bankers, telling them that it was a forgery, and demanding to know who
had presented it to be cashed. Ah, my lord! little did I suspect _who_
was the guilty party, though indeed I might easily have done so; and
_if_ I had, I should never have written to the bankers, never have made
a sign, or given a hint, that it was a forgery, but should have let it
go with the rest! Ah! if we could but know some of the results of our
actions beforehand! Well, my lord, the bankers did not wait to answer my
letter; they telegraphed to me that the man who presented my check for
five thousand pounds, on the fifteenth of December, was Mr. Brandon
Coyle.”

“It must have been a great shock to you. I am very sorry,” said Lord
Beaudevere, earnestly; for the first time it struck him that the murder
was committed on the fifteenth of December, and if Mr. Brandon Coyle was
uttering forgeries in London, he could not at the same date be
committing murder in the North of England, and that young Coyle might be
able to prove an _alibi_ more easily than could Valdimir Desparde. The
thought was not an encouraging one, and Lord Beaudevere sighed deeply.

Poor old Mr. Coyle took it as a sigh of deepest sympathy for him, and he
continued:

“Yes, sir, it was a great shock! a very great shock! As soon, however,
as I could recover from it far enough to collect and use my faculties, I
only thought of the family credit, and I telegraphed the bank to take no
proceedings against the presenter of that check, but let it stand to my
account. I was willing to acknowledge it and pay it.”

“And did the bankers consent to this?” slowly inquired the baron.

“No, sir! No, sir! They telegraphed back to me that they would _not_ let
it stand to my account; that they would lose it; that they would rather
lose ten times the amount than compound a felony and allow a forger to
escape; that the financial and commercial safety of the commonwealth
depended on the strictness and severity with which justice should be
meted out to the forger—and ever so much of the same sort of banker’s
slang. Yes, sir, they are resolved to prosecute my nephew. All that I
have told you they telegraphed to me—by the yard! but they also wrote a
letter, which I have just received, and in which they have gone somewhat
in detail—”

“Ah, they gave you further particulars as to the hour, perhaps!”
exclaimed the baron, much interested.

“Oh, yes, they told me that he—my nephew, Brandon—presented himself to
the paying teller’s window as soon as the bank doors were open—”

“Oh! as early as ten o’clock, then, I suppose,” interrupted the baron,
with a feeling of great relief: for if Brandon Coyle uttered his forged
check at ten o’clock A. M. in London, he would have ample time to reach
the Grand Junction or any other North of England station to do any deed
of evil there before midnight.

“Oh, yes, it was about that hour the bank opened, I presume. Well, they
wrote that he appeared to be in a great hurry, and told them that I had
sent _him_ down for the money for safety and dispatch, as I was about to
purchase that portion of Squire Honeythorn’s estate which joins my own
land—a very plausible story, especially as I _had_ often expressed a
wish to buy that same property, and also as I always sent my nephew,
when I could not go myself, to cash a check for a large sum. They
further warned me that they had procured a warrant for the arrest of the
forger, and sent officers with it in search of him, expressing much
regret that a sense of duty should compel them to this course.”

“I am _very_ sorry to hear that you have this trouble, Mr. Coyle,” said
the baron.

“It _is_ hard,” replied the old man. “I abjured matrimony myself! But my
brother had to marry and give me a niece, and that niece had to dishonor
the family by the lowest marriage she could have fallen into, and
bestowed upon me this grand-nephew with his inherited vileness. Yes, it
is hard!”

“It is a pity that in adopting him you should have given him your own
name,” observed Lord Beaudevere.

“It is a thousand pities! But do you suppose I would have done it if I
could have foreseen this result? I did hope by good training to bring
the lad up to be an honest and honorable man! But there! All the
cultivation in the world will not turn a poisonous weed into a wholesome
vegetable! Men never have been able to gather ‘figs of thorns’ yet,”
concluded the squire.

“I hope your niece, Miss Coyle, has not yet heard of this trouble,” said
the baron.

“No, no, I have not told her. I shall keep it from the poor girl as long
as I can, for she is devoted to her brother with that strong love that
binds twins, you know. Why she is scarcely on speaking terms with me
since I turned the scamp off!”

“I regret to hear it,” said the baron.

“But my dear lord,” said the old squire, with some change of tone and
look, “while I am so absorbed in my own woes, I have not altogether
forgotten yours! Ah! our young people are giving us a great deal of
trouble in our old days! I have seen the newspaper accounts of that
tragedy in the railway carriage.”

“You never for an instant believed that my kinsman was guilty?” tartly
inquired Lord Beaudevere.

“I did not know _what_ to believe. After discovering my own nephew, in
whom I had had so _much_ confidence, to be such an unscrupulous villain,
my faith was shaken in Valdimir, especially when I remembered his
extraordinary and unexplained flight from the country on his wedding-day
last spring,” said the old squire, deprecatingly.

Lord Beaudevere could have explained that extraordinary flight, not very
much to the credit of the squire’s nephew; but not for the world would
he have added _that_ weight to the burden of the worthy old man’s
troubles. He thought also that Mr. Coyle, remembering the relations that
had existed between his evil nephew and the poor victim of the railway
tragedy, might have reasonably suspected Mr. Brandon Coyle of having had
a hand in the death of Kit Ken. But he forebore also to express this
thought.

“I do not see that there was much evidence against him. Any man might
have been caught in such a trap by getting into a railway compartment
where there was no other passenger but the body of a murdered woman
cunningly arranged to look like a sleeping one. Yes, any man might. _I_
might, or you might. No, I do not think there was evidence enough to
commit him. But as there was no one else to lay hold of, I suppose the
magistrates felt bound to commit somebody; so they committed him. Of
course, you have engaged good counsel for his defense?” asked the
squire.

“The very best that could be obtained—Mr. Stair and Mr. Turner,” replied
Lord Beaudevere.

“Ah! indeed, strong heads, both of them. Why, either of them would be
acute enough to secure an acquittal, even if his client were ever so
guilty, and every one of the jury knew it for a fact! You may safely
trust your kinsman’s case to them. Why, they’d talk the judges out of
their senses and the jury into a state of idiotic complacency in no time
at all!”

“We do not want that sort of thing. We want clearheaded, intelligent
justice, in an honorable acquittal,” said the baron.

“Well, and you will be sure to get it. Ah! I wish there were the
smallest chance of an acquittal for my scamp of a nephew. But my only
hope for him is in his flight. I do really suppose he has secured that,
by putting the sea between himself and the English law. It must be so,
for neither I nor his sister have heard from him since the night of
his—his—his exposure at Castle Montjoie,” concluded the old squire.

Lord Beaudevere had now gathered all the news that he could get—not very
satisfactory on the whole—and so arose to take leave.

“I thank you for this visit, my lord. It has really done me good,” said
the poor old squire, cordially, rising and taking the offered hand of
his departing visitor.

“I am glad it has been so, and if I can in any manner be of use to you
in your trouble, my dear old friend, pray command me,” replied the
baron, feeling very much like a hypocrite and a traitor when he
remembered the motive of that visit for which the stricken old man had
thanked him so warmly.

“You are very kind, and I am truly grateful. But I doubt if you or any
one under heaven can help me. The best news that could come to me would
be that Brandon Coyle had been lost at sea!” sighed the poor squire, as
he shook and pressed the hand of his old neighbor.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXVI.
A VISIT TO VALDIMIR.

Love’s heralds should be thoughts
Which ten times faster glide than the sunbeams.
Driving back shadows over lowering hills.
Therefore do nimble-pinioned doves draw Love,
And therefore hath the wind swift Cupid wings.
SHAKESPEARE.

With thee all scenes are sweet; each place hath charms—
Earth, sea, alike our world within our arms.
BYRON.

Lord Beaudevere kept his appointment, and reached Castle Montjoie in
time to dress for dinner; but only in time, for he had to go at once to
his chamber, make a hasty toilet, and descend to the drawing-room, where
he found the three young ladies waiting for him.

In answer to their eager questions, he told them that old Mr. Coyle knew
nothing of Brandon’s whereabouts, and that therefore he had been
disappointed in his hope of obtaining a clew to the fugitive.

He forbore to tell them the news of Brandon Coyle’s heavy forgery. His
sympathies for the poor old squire kept him silent upon this subject of
the family dishonor.

Dinner was at once announced, and they all went into the dining-room.

Lord Beaudevere had gained a fine appetite from his long ride in the
crisp, cold air, and moreover he highly approved the young countess’s
cook; therefore, notwithstanding other adverse circumstances, he greatly
enjoyed his dinner.

The two children were brought in at dessert, and had their treat of
nuts, fruit and cake; after which they were remanded to their nursery,
and the three young ladies withdrew to the drawing-room, leaving Lord
Beaudevere at the table.

The baron, however, never sat long over his wine. He soon joined them.

Then, instead of their usual evening recreation of music, chess or
backgammon, they gathered around the fire and talked only of their
beloved prisoner.

They were interrupted at length by the postman’s knock, which the hall
footman answered.

They listened eagerly, and soon Adams came into the room with only one
letter on his silver waiter.

“For Mrs. Adrian Fleming, my lady,” he answered to the inquiring look of
the countess, as he took the waiter across the room to Net.

“It is from Deloraine, Devon, but in a strange handwriting. I fear—I
fear—that Antoinette is worse,” she exclaimed, as she gazed at the
letter, and then hastily opened it.

“Who is it from?” impatiently inquired Vivienne.

“Her attendant physician—Dr. Bede,” slowly and sadly answered Net, who
was anxiously reading the few lines written on one page of note-paper.

“How is she?” inquired Lady Arielle, eagerly.

“Antoinette is worse—much worse. Her physician writes at her request to
tell me so, and to ask me to come at once without a day’s delay, and to
bring the children if I prefer to do so,” mournfully replied Net.

“And you will go, of course,” said Vivienne.

“Oh! I must! I must! I must go by the very first train! _Dear_ Lord
Beaudevere, is there any train that I can catch to-night?” she anxiously
inquired, turning to the baron.

“My good young lady, certainly not. There is a train in the morning at
eight-thirty. The time has been changed within a few days. We can catch
_that_ by getting up to-morrow morning at five o’clock. It is the same
train by which we go.”

“Then we can travel together,” said Net.

“Yes, as far as the Miston Junction, but no farther. There we separate.”

“You go North, we go South,” put in Net.

“Exactly.”

“And now,” said wise Little Mammam, “as we have to rise so early in the
morning, will you let me suggest that we retire immediately?”

“We will, and we will follow the suggestion,” said Arielle.

And each of the party took a light, and they bade one another good-night
and retired.

Punctually at five o’clock the next morning the baron was awakened from
his slumbers by the rap of Adams.

In half an hour afterwards the travelers had dressed, breakfasted, and
were ready to commence their journey.

The vehicle just held the party—Net filling the fourth seat.

The regular coach-horses were not taken out for this long drive; but the
strongest pair of draught horses were harnessed to the carriage, and the
careful old coachman, Abraham, was on the box.

It was but a few minutes after five when they drove off in the darkness
of the winter morning.

The carriage-lamps had been trimmed and lighted, and the coachman knew
his road and his horses, so that the journey seemed a safe one,
notwithstanding the hour.

The conversation during the long drive turned exclusively upon the
prisoner at Yockley and the invalid at Deloraine Park.

“What is the malady of Miss Deloraine?” inquired the baron of Net.

“I think they call it atrophy of the heart. It is hereditary in her
mother’s family,” replied Net, as they drove on through the darkness.

They drove on as fast as the strong draught horses could draw them.

They came in sight of the spires of Miston Old Church just as the first
faint light of morning was seen on the Eastern horizon, and they reached
Miston Station as the first beams of the rising sun appeared above the
hilltops.

They had ten minutes to spare, and these were spent in giving directions
to old Abraham to put up the carriage and horses at the Dolphin for the
day, and to meet them at the station for the seven P. M. train.

Then the baron put the three young ladies in the central compartment of
a first-class carriage and went into a smoking-car to enjoy his
matutinal cigar.

In five more minutes the train was off.

The three girls, after a little more conversation among themselves, went
off to sleep, as was very natural after having been disturbed in the
morning’s nap and fatigued by a long and rough drive.

They slept with little disturbance until the train reached Miston
Junction, where they were awakened by the bustle of arrival.

Here the friends were to part company—Net to go down to Devonshire, and
the others to go up to Yockley.

Lord Beaudevere threw away the stump of his cigar, got out of the
smoking-carriage and came to the door of the ladies’ compartment to get
them off.

“Your train is ready, my dear. It starts full fifteen minutes before
ours. I shall have plenty of time to get you a seat in the ladies’
carriage and commend you to the care of the guard. But _you_ must hurry.
Come on.”

By this time the baron had led the way to the waiting-room, where Net
hastily kissed her two girl friends good-bye and followed Lord
Beaudevere to the next train, where he got for her a safe and
comfortable seat in a carriage full of ladies, and where he put a half
sovereign into the hand of the guard as an inducement to look after the
safety and comfort of the young traveler.

Then he shook hands with Net, telling her to write or telegraph in case
she should want service of any sort from him.

The train began to show signs of moving, so he left the carriage and
returned to his own party in the waiting-room.

As soon as their own train was ready he put the two young ladies in a
reserved compartment, and not wishing to smoke another cigar, he joined
them there.

This happened to be an express train, and the run to Yockley was a rapid
one.

They reached the station at about eleven o’clock.

Lord Beaudevere engaged a fly, put his young companions in it, followed
them and ordered the driver to go to Yockley prison.

The man was the same one whom his lordship had several times already
engaged, and he touched his hat respectfully as he mounted his box and
drove off.

“I must warn you, my dear, not to be shocked too severely by the
appearance of the prison. It is not like a private house, nor even like
any other public building.”

“Oh, my dear Lord Beaudevere, I have seen the _outside_ of several
prisons, and I can judge from that the inside is not very attractive,”
replied Arielle with a sad smile.

Yet half an hour later, when they reached the high stone walls and
rolled through the great iron gate of the prison-yard, and saw the grim
stone face, with its small, grated windows, of the prison house, Arielle
lost all her courage and burst into a storm of tears.

Lord Beaudevere stopped the carriage to give her an opportunity of
conquering her emotion and recovering her self-command.

Then they drove on to the doors of the prison and got out.

Arielle shuddered at the great, oaken, iron-bound doors, and the heavy
lock chains, the bare stone walls, the bare flagged floors.

The baron stopped at the door of the warden’s office to get the service
of a turnkey, and then drew Arielle’s arm within his own and led her up
the stone steps.

Vivienne followed, with her vail drawn down over her face to conceal its
irrepressible emotion.

Vivienne suffered equally with Arielle, but even her own Beaue forgot
the sister’s sorrow in the betrothed bride’s bitter grief.

The baron whispered a word to the turnkey, who started off at once and
opened the cell door and left it open before they came up.

Lord Beaudevere’s money and care had converted the cold, bare
prison-cell into a palatial cabinet or closet.

It was into this place that the two young ladies were introduced.

Valdimir Desparde, in a carefully made morning toilet, was seated in the
easy-chair, leaning over his little writing-table.

He turned his head on hearing approaching footsteps, and seeing Lord
Beaudevere leading in Arielle Montjoie, the light of a sudden rapture
irradiated his face, and he sprang up to meet them.

He held out both hands and clasped hers warmly, while he gazed into her
eyes in anxious, questioning love. What he read there gave him courage
to draw her to his bosom, and press his lips upon her brow. And hardly a
syllable passed between them but the inevitable low-breathed words:

“_Oh, Arielle!_”

“_Oh, Valdimir!_”

“Speak to Vivienne! Speak to your sister! She is behind!” whispered the
young girl, gently disengaging herself from her lover’s embrace.

He turned to see his sister, and met her as warmly as he had met his
betrothed bride.

And lastly he shook hands with his kinsman, and thanked him for bringing
these dear ones to comfort him.

Then the two young ladies sat down on the sofa with Valdimir between
them.

Lord Beaudevere occupied the seat of honor, the crimson damask,
deeply-cushioned easy-chair.

And then they talked freely of Valdimir’s case and prospects, which the
young man considered safe, notwithstanding that detectives had found no
trace of Brandon Coyle, nor any passenger who remembered coming up by
the London and Southwestern train with any gentleman answering to
Valdimir Desparde’s description.

“Nevertheless I am not a whit discouraged. And indeed, though my
detention here is disagreeable enough and the occasion tragic enough yet
I _cannot_ help seeing a ludicrous side to this farce of falling into
the trap of that railway carriage and being arrested for midnight
murder. Me! whom it always hurt to have to kill a gnat!” said Valdimir,
in a gay tone that was perhaps partly assumed to raise the depressed
spirits of his visitors.

“The police are looking after Brandon Coyle on another count!” said Lord
Beaudevere, impulsively; and he immediately regretted that he had done
so.

“Indeed! But I do not wonder! On what other count?” inquired Valdimir.

“I will tell you another time, my boy. It is near your luncheon hour, is
it not?” inquired Lord Beaudevere—“we will invite ourselves to lunch
with you! I will go to the _White Bear_ myself to cater for our
luncheon!” said the baron, as he took his hat and walked out of the
cell.

“My cousin told you all about my reason for leaving the country in the
way I did, dearest?” asked Valdimir of his betrothed.

“Oh, yes, everything he thought I ought to know, and quite enough to
vindicate you perfectly, Valdimir. But, oh, love, why should you have
punished yourself, and me, and all your friends, for the sin of another?
Even if the base story had been true it would not have been your fault!
I should never have thought the less of you, Valdimir!” pleaded Arielle
with a look and tone that assured him she knew not the depth of dishonor
that would have fallen on his own guiltless head had that dreadful story
been true—for _him_.

Very soon Lord Beaudevere returned, followed by two waiters from the
_White Bear_, bringing every requisite for a most substantial and
delicious lunch.

After this lunch, which was really enjoyed by all the party
notwithstanding the grave surrounding circumstances, the waiters cleared
the table and carried away all the _debris_ and other articles, and the
place was restored to tidiness.

After a little more conversation the baron told his young protégées that
they must put on their coats and hats and be ready to go, for they had
stayed to the last minute of their time.

The parting with the prisoner was a sad one, notwithstanding that he
bore himself with the greatest cheerfulness, and that Lord Beaudevere
promised to return every day to see him, and fetch and carry messages
between Yockley and Montjoie.

After taking leave of Valdimir Desparde the party re-entered their
carriage, that still waited at the prison gate, and drove fast to the
station, where they just caught the train.

Much rested and comforted, the party entered upon their eight hours’
drive to Castle Montjoie, where they arrived in safety about half-past
ten o’clock.

“All right here, Adams?” the baron inquired of the footman who opened
the door to them.

“Oh, yes, my lord. All quite right, your lordship.”

“Any letters by the night’s mail?

“Only one, my lord, and that was for Mrs. Fleming.”

“Let me look at it. Unless it comes from Devonshire, where she has gone,
it must be forwarded to her.”

The footman handed this letter on his silver salver. Lord Beaudevere
took it and examined it carefully.

“It is post-marked London, and directed to Mrs. Fleming’s home in Church
Lane. It has been sent on here. Come into the library a moment, Adams. I
will put this letter in another envelope, and direct it, and do you put
it in the carrier’s box to-night. It may be important,” said the baron.

And it was important, for it was that very letter which poor Kit Ken had
cunningly written to Mrs. Fleming and left with her landlady to be
forwarded after ten days, unless good news arrived of her.

CHAPTER XXVII.
ANTOINETTE.

She hath had her happy day—
She hath had her bud and blossom;
Now she pales and shrinks away,
Death, into thy gentle bosom!
She hath done her bidding here;
Angels dear,
Bear her loving soul above,
Seraph of the skies—dear love!
BARRY CORNWALL.

Net had never been on a long journey in her short life; and her present
one was very long, from the extreme north of England to the extreme
south, and it began in an obscure rural neighborhood and would terminate
at a secluded hamlet and manor-house, it involved several changes of
trains.

There was but one cab on the station waiting for the doubtful chance of
a fare. Net hired it.

Net got in and seated herself, and was soon rolling along an
unfrequented road.

In an hour they reached the village of Deloraine.

Passing out of the village, half an hour’s drive brought them to the
great park gate—a strong portal of iron, guarded by a gothic lodge.

Here the cabman drew up, alighted and rang a bell.

A bare-headed, red-armed girl, with her sleeves rolled up, ran out of
the lodge and swung open the wide doors of the gateway, closing the
gates with a clang when the cab had passed, and then flying into the
lodge and banging the door after her.

The cab finally reached the grand, old-style manor-house of dark-colored
brick.

The cabman got down from his seat, ran up the stairs and rang the bell,
and then ran down again and opened the door for the young lady to
alight.

Net paid him five shillings for her fare, and one over for his
moderation, before she left the cab. Then she got out and went up the
steps, followed by the cabman carrying her valise.

The house-door was already opened by a venerable old servant, whose gray
hair needed no powder and whose grave and well-preserved livery
expressed the good taste of his late masters.

“I hope Miss Deloraine is better this morning,” were the first words of
Net to this dignified old man.

“Much better, madam! Mrs. Fleming, I hope?” he said, with a low bow. “I
will show you up.”

The man opened a door on his right, and announced:

“Mrs. Fleming.” Then closed the door upon her and retired.

Net found herself in a luxurious boudoir where every sense of seeing,
hearing, smelling, feeling, was wooed to enjoyment.

In this lovely bower, in a deep, soft resting-chair sat Antoinette
Deloraine, wrapped in a warm, loose dressing-gown of pale blue satin,
lined and wadded with quilled white silk. Her rich black hair was done
up loosely in a net of white silk and pearl beads.

She held a handkerchief with some pungent essence on it, which now and
then she placed to her nose.

Net took all this in at a glance at the instant she crossed the
threshold of the room, and she could scarcely forbear a start and cry of
pity and dismay as she gazed on the beautiful wreck before her.
Antoinette had fallen away to mere skin and bone, and the white cambric
handkerchief she held in her fingers was not whiter than her hands and
face.

She arose to meet her visitor, and held out her hand with a smile that
seemed to break Net’s heart.

“My dearest, I hear that you are much better to-day?” said Net, striving
with all her might to repress her emotions—for she thought: “If _this_
is ‘better,’ what is worse?”

“Oh, yes, I am, indeed,” answered Antoinette, dropping back in her seat,
and smelling at her saturated handkerchief; “and I think it was the
anticipation of your visit that gave me new life. As soon as I got Lord
Beaudevere’s telegram from the Miston Branch Junction yesterday morning,
saying that he had just put you on the train, and that you would be here
to-day, I rallied at once, and have been better ever since. I thought
you would have arrived by the twelve noon train, and gave orders for the
carriage to meet you. Dear girl! You must have traveled all night to
have got here so soon.”

“Yes, I lost not an hour. I came straight on,” said Net, as she sank
down on a cushion at the side of her cousin.

“Why did not the baron tell me in his telegram that you would reach here
by the earliest train?” said Antoinette, in a vexed tone. “I could then
have sent the carriage for you.”

“He did not know it, dear. He had advised me to stop over night in
London, at his own town house, and he gave me a note to his housekeeper.
But when I got to London I preferred to come down here by the night
train. Antoinette, dearest, I wished to be with you as soon as
possible,” said Net, affectionately.

“Well, I am glad of the few more hours. Have you breakfasted? Your rooms
are all ready. They are next to mine. Quite a suite for you and the
children. Ah! but you have not brought the children?”

“No, dear; I thought it was better to leave them at Castle Montjoie in
the care of Arielle than to bring them a long journey in this wintry
weather.”

“Yet I should like to see the little ones; but I suppose it was wise to
leave them. Here I am talking and not thinking of your needs, Net. Have
you breakfasted?”

“Yes, dearest, I have.”

“Comfortably?”

“Oh, yes! I ate and drank good food with a good appetite—at the
Deloraine Arms.”

“Oh, yes! that is a very respectable little country inn, supposed to be
under the special protection of the lords and ladies of the Manor of
Deloraine! Ah, Net! I wonder if any prevising spirit whispered the fat
landlady or her pompous headwaiter that it was their future lady of the
manor they were serving with breakfast?”

“Oh, Antoinette, dearest, do not talk in that way,” said Net, in a tone
of pain.

“Why not? You are the heiress presumptive and you will soon be the
mistress of the manor,” said the young girl, with great calmness.

“Oh, no! Do not say so! I trust, Antoinette, you will yet recover, and
live to be a happy wife and mother, and leave heirs behind you to
enjoy—to inherit Deloraine Park,” said Net, in a faltering and broken
voice, forcing herself to hope against hope.

“_Now_, Net! for _you_ to turn flatterer! But you mean well, my dear.
No, Net, _I_ know, and _you_ know, if you will look the truth in the
face, and be candid with yourself and me, that I shall never live to do
as you say. I _cannot_ live a month longer! I _may_ not live an hour.
But what of it, pray? Who am _I_ that I should not go in my youth as
countless myriads have gone before me? Every tick of that clock is the
knell of some passing soul. Every hour sees many go—some, a second old,
who only gasp and go! And others of all ages from that to an hundred
years and more! I have lived to be nineteen. I have enjoyed my short
life, but I do not fear to leave it. While I was in doubt whether I
should stay or go, then indeed I was uneasy with uncertainty; but now
that I know my fate, I am quite, quite satisfied,” said the dying girl.

“Antoinette, dear, are you not talking too much for your strength?”
tenderly inquired Net, who noticed, with grief, the faintness and
occasional failure of her cousin’s voice.

“No, because I am so much better, just at present! Besides, even if it
hurt me, I should talk all the same! I like to talk!”

For all answer, Net kissed and caressed the hand that she still held in
her own, as she sat on the cushion at her cousin’s side, where she could
come nearest in contact with her.

“Yes, Net, I am satisfied to go. I have faith enough to believe in the
infinite wisdom and goodness of God; that He is the absolute Lord of
life and death; that whenever He sees fit for a human being to go out of
this world, that human being—he or she—will go, and it will be the very
best thing that could happen to him or to her. Infinite Love and Wisdom
is doing the best for us, all the time, whether we believe it or not.”

At this moment a rosy, middle-aged matron, clothed in a soft gray woolen
dress, white muslin cap and black silk apron, came softly into the room,
with a small silver waiter in her hand, having on it something covered
over with a white napkin.

This was the day-nurse of the heiress of Deloraine Park.

She courtesied to the visitor, and then went on to the side of the young
invalid.

Net pressed the thin hand she had held up to this moment, and then
released it and arose to make way for the nurse.

“Miss Deloraine, my dear, you must not talk any more this morning. Here
is your beef tea and port wine. You are to take it, dear, and then try
to sleep.”

“If I can,” replied the girl, with a wan smile.

The nurse drew a little, spider-legged stand, of inlaid mother of pearl,
to the side of the invalid’s chair, and set the waiter upon it, saying:

“Now, dear, try a little of the port. It will give you an appetite.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Nolliss. Will you please to touch the bell for me?”

The matron complied, and a fresh-looking young girl in a pretty calico
dress, with white apron, and cap trimmed with blue ribbons, entered the
room, courtesied, and said:

“If you please, ma’am, Mrs. Trimmer have gone to the village on your
message, which she left word I was to—to take the liberty to answer her
bell, which I am sure I beg your pardon for making so bold, ma’am”—with
another courtesy.

Antoinette smiled, and murmured to Net:

“She comes from the estate, and is as verdant as its own herbage in
spring-time; but she is good, and she is your maid.”

Then turning to the girl, she said:

“Quite right, Cally. It was you I wanted, not Trimmer. This lady is the
mistress you are to serve.”

The girl turned and dropped a courtesy to Mrs. Fleming.

“Now, show your mistress to her room, and wait her orders there. Net,
dear,” the young lady continued, turning to her guest, “I hope you will
make yourself at home; order everything you require, and be as
comfortable as if I were up and about and able to see to you myself.”

Net stooped and kissed her cousin, and then hurried from the room, and
was conducted by the little maid to the apartments prepared for her, and
consisting of sitting-room, bed chamber, and dressing closet _en suite_,
and all upholstered in blue.

Net had no sooner reached the first of these than she turned to the
little maid and said:

“You may go now. I do not need anything at present. When I do I will
call you.”

The girl courtesied and withdrew.

Net locked the door, threw off her hat and shawl, and cast herself
headlong down upon the sofa, and gave vent to the storm of tears and
sobs whose repression had nearly suffocated her.

She wept and sobbed long and hard before the paroxysm of passionate
grief had exhausted itself. And after that she still lay upon the sofa,
panting and gasping in the subsidence of the tempest.

There was one drop of comfort in her grief for Antoinette. It was in the
recollection of her own firmness in resisting all the arguments and
persuasion of her step-father and his lawyers, that might have led to
the assertion and establishment of her own claim to Deloraine Park at
the expense of her innocent cousin—Antoinette’s disinheritance and
disgrace.

Ah! what a consolation it was to her at this hour to reflect that by her
own forbearance Antoinette had lived, and would die, the undisputed
inheritrix of her father’s illustrious old name and her father’s grand
old manor!

After more than an hour Net arose and went into her dressing closet to
wash and bathe her face, and to change her dress for the lunch or
dinner, whichever might be the rule of the family in the middle of the
day.

When she had done all this, and stood up in her neat black silk dress,
trimmed with black crape, and with throat and wrist ruffles of white
crepe lisse, and put a white rose in her dark hair, luncheon was
announced.

Net dispatched her dainty luncheon with very little appetite, and was
just rising from the table, when she was accosted by the nurse, who
stood within the open door and said:

“She insists on seeing you, Mrs. Fleming. I begged her to rest, but she
will not, and opposition excites her and hurts her more than even giving
her her own way and letting her talk could. We have a hard time with our
patient, me and the doctor do.”

“I will go to my cousin at once, and I will not let her excite herself
by too much conversation,” said Net, passing out into the hall.

“Oh, won’t you, ma’am?” inquired the nurse, with an incredulous smile,
as she led the way.

CHAPTER XXVIII.
ANTOINETTE’S REPARATION.

Lo! the pale lips unclose!
List! list! what sounds are those,
Plaintive and low?
Art thou mine enemy?
Stoop down and look at me
Ere hence I go!

Art thou my foeman, now?
Look on my pallid brow,
Whose seal is set!
Pardoning, _I_ pass away;
Wage _thou_ no war with clay—
Pardon! forget!
CAROLINE B. SOUTHEY.

“Here is Mrs. Fleming, my dear! Now _do_ be good to yourself and
get—keep quiet as you can!” said Mrs. Nolliss, opening the door of the
boudoir to admit Net, and then retiring and closing it upon her.

“Dear Net, I hope you have had a good nap and a good rest since I saw
you last,” said Antoinette, from her invalid chair, where she sat just
as Net had left her.

“I have not been asleep, dear. I never could sleep in the daytime; but I
shall make up for my failure to-night,” said Net, cheerfully.

“Sit down here, love—no! not on that cushion at my feet! I won’t have it
so!” exclaimed Antoinette, seeing that her cousin was about to resume
that humble position she had occupied on her first arrival.

“But I _prefer_ this low seat—not in mock humility, but in affection and
for comfort and convenience,” smiled Net. “I can sit here and bask in
the direct rays of the coal fire, and I can nestle close to you, and
hold your hands and look up into your face! Do let me stay!”

“Have your own way, Net. You always managed to get it! And now—tell me
the truth of that terrible report that has reached me through the
newspapers. Tell me all about it. This is a good time to do it, for
Nurse Nolliss says I must not talk much; but she has not forbidden me to
listen. Tell me the truth, Net!” said Antoinette, settling herself in an
easy attitude.

“You—mean—about—that—” began Net, slowly and tremblingly.

“Murder in the railway carriage, of poor Kit Ken! Yes, you know what I
mean! And Valdimir Desparde accused of it!”

“But, dear Antoinette, is not this subject too exciting for you?”
pleaded Net, in alarm for her cousin.

“It is very exciting,” confessed the sick girl.

“Then had we not better avoid it?”

“Not at all! for the excitement is _within_, and the only way of
quieting it is to quiet my doubts! Poor Kit Ken murdered and Valdimir
Desparde accused! I did not even know that he had returned. But he never
could have been guilty of such a crime?”

“Of course he could not.”

“Tell me the whole story.”

“I will if you will lie back quietly and rest and listen, and not
attempt to talk more than is absolutely necessary.”

Antoinette smiled and silently complied.

Net told the whole story from beginning to end.

Antoinette only interrupted her by occasional exclamations.

But when she had quite finished, the sick girl’s-tongue was loosened
again.

“What an unscrupulous villain Brandon Coyle must have been! I never did
like him,” she said.

“Nor I,” assented Net.

“And he decoyed poor Kit into a false marriage?”

“False, or otherwise, I do not know. If the house where the marriage
took place was across the border, it was a true marriage, though a
peasant had performed the ceremony; but if it was on this side it was
most probably a false marriage,” said Net.

“And you, _you_ discovered the culprit in your own house and made him
promise to own his marriage to Kit, under penalty of exposure to the old
squire?”

“Yes, and he promised as I told you.”

“And at that very time he was engaged to Lady Arielle Montjoie?”

“Certainly. And now I have told you quite enough. Lie down and rest,
dear, for I am going to leave you,” said Net, kissing her cousin
affectionately.

After leaving Antoinette, Net repaired to her room.

She rang for her little maid, and ordered a cup of tea and lights to be
brought to her bedroom.

Then she undressed and put on a wrapper, and sat down to wait.

Cally soon appeared with wax lights, tea and dry toast on a little
waiter.

Net drank the tea, and then dismissed her maid and retired to bed.

Overpowered by fatigue, she soon forgot all cares and sorrows in a deep
and dreamless sleep.

She overslept herself in the morning, for when she awoke the sun was so
high and bright that it half lighted her room even by its narrow gleams
between the slats of her window shutters and the divisions of her blue
satin curtains.

She arose and dressed without the assistance of her maid, and went out
into the hall.

There she saw Trimmer, Miss Deloraine’s maid, sitting before her
mistress’s room door.

“How is Miss Deloraine this morning?” inquired Net.

“Better again, ma’am, and wearying to see you like a nursling for its
mother,” replied the woman.

“You should have called me.”

“She would not let us, ma’am. She said you were tired with riding day
and night, and you must be allowed to sleep if you slept all day.”

“I will go to her now.”

“Nay, ma’am; she said you were to have your breakfast first, and it is
quite ready.”

“Then I will get it over as soon as possible. Please give my love to
your mistress, and tell her that I am up, and will be with her in ten
minutes,” said Net, as she hurried down the hall and opened the door on
the opposite side that led into the little breakfast-room.

There she found a bright sea coal fire burning, and a neat, little
breakfast table.

There was no one in the room, so she rang the bell.

The summons was answered by the young footman, Hart, who entered with a
large silver waiter, on which were arranged coffee, cream, muffins,
eggs, toast and breakfast bacon.

He placed all these on the table, set his waiter against the little
sideboard and stood in attendance.

Net dispatched her breakfast with more regard to haste than health, and
then hurried to the room of her cousin.

She found Antoinette prettily dressed in a white velvet wrapper, lined
and faced with quilted blue satin, and with her beautiful raven black
hair neatly arranged.

“The ruling passion strong in death,” thought Net.

“Come and sit by me, my darling Net.”

Net complied.

“Net, dear, before I depart I must make reparation for the one great
evil I have done in my life,” said Antoinette, humbly.

“You, my gentle dear? You do evil? I cannot think it,” said Net,
repressing her tears.

“Well, you will learn. Net, I _wish_ you had brought the children with
you!” she suddenly exclaimed.

“My love, it was to spare them the exposure and you the disturbance that
I left them.”

“Yes, I know, and you were right; but it is of the children I wish to
speak first. It is for their sake I must speak of mundane matters, when
I would rather forget them.”

“Do not talk of anything that will trouble you, dear,” said Net.

“But I must. Now listen. You know Deloraine Park has a rent roll of
forty thousand pounds a year?”

“No, I did not know.”

“Well, it has; and you are its sole heiress. You will be very wealthy,
Net.”

“Oh, my dear! Oh, my dear!” moaned Net, in irrepressible sorrow.

“Are you sighing for me, Net? Do not so! I am satisfied and happy. I am
going to a mansion in my Father’s house, compared to which all the
architectural grandeur and landscape glory of this world are but as
subterranean caverns and coal pits. Ah! Net, I overheard my nurse
lamenting because my poor mother should have married and brought forth a
daughter to die in her youth of an inherited disease. But, Net, I think
it was quite worth while to be born, even to a short, fragile life in
this world, for the sake of living eternally in the world beyond. But to
return to the children. Deloraine Park will be yours—it is entailed. I
could not will it away, even if I were of age and desired to do so. But,
Net, I have other property, in my own right, which, if I were of age, I
should give and bequeath to those orphan children, Luke and Ella Starr.
But you know I cannot make a will, being a minor. I can only express my
wishes. You, being my nearest of kin, Net, will inherit _all_ my real
and personal property, entailed or otherwise. Now, Net, you will be rich
enough, in all conscience, from the revenues of Deloraine Park, to be
able to dispense with the other property, which I wish you to give to
the children, share and share alike, if you _can_ do so, for I am not
sure that you can.”

“I will carry out all your kind and loving wishes to the very best of my
ability,” answered Net.

“And now, dear girl, I must speak to you of yet another subject—a
painful one, I fear, to you. Will you pardon me if I mention it?”

“Talk of anything you please, dear Antoinette.”

“Well, then—of Adrian Fleming. Do you ever hear from him?”

“Never,” answered Net, growing pale.

“Nor _of_ him?”

“No.”

“Do you ever hear from Sir Adrian?”

“No.”

“How strange! And Adrian used to love you.”

“He used to think he did,” sighed Net.

“And the baronet had a great esteem and affection for you.”

“He seemed to have, but he would not receive me at Fleming Chase unless
I would consent to part with the babies and send them to an orphan
asylum.”

“Ah, yes, I remember! You decided _not_ to do so.”

“Yes.”

“And that ended all communication between you and the family at Fleming
Chase?”

“Yes, as a matter of course.”

“And where has Adrian been all this time.”

“Traveling, as I understand.”

“And what _do_ the people of Miston say to this state of affairs between
a newly-married couple?”

“I do not quite know. I think they have the impression that we were
married on the eve of Mr. Fleming’s departure on his foreign travel,
merely to bind us irrevocably to each other during his absence, and
against the time when he should come home and claim his wife.”

“And I believe they are nearer the truth than you think.”

“What do you mean, dear Antoinette?” inquired her hearer, in growing
agitation.

“My darling, I told you some minutes since that I had to make reparation
for the one great evil I had done. Net! it was for _this_ reason, as
well as for the love I bear you and the desire I felt to see you that I
summoned you here.”

“Oh, Antoinette, dearest, I—do not know what you mean.”

“No, of course you have not the remotest idea! Nor will you have even
when I tell you that I have called _another_ person to my death-bed.”

“Whom? Whom?” breathed Net, in an almost expiring voice, for her
prophetic soul divined the truth.

“Adrian Fleming.”

“Adrian Fleming! Is he in England?”

“Yes, I wrote to his father, the baronet, inquiring for his address, for
I wished to write to him. The baronet answered that he was then at
Fleming Chase. I received this answer at the same hour that I received
the telegram announcing your visit, Net. And then I took a resolution. I
wrote to Adrian Fleming, told him my condition, and begged him to come
at once to see me. That was all. This morning, Net, I received a
telegram from him, saying that he would arrive at Deloraine Station by
the twelve noon train. The carriage has already gone thither to meet him
and bring him here.”

“_Oh, Heaven of heavens!_” moaned Net, in a low, shuddering tone, for
she dreaded even more than she desired to see the husband who had cast
her off within a few hours after their marriage.

“Now do not be distressed, Net. The man loves you, I know he loves you,
and is only too glad of an opportunity to see you and make his peace.”

“Does he know that I am here?” breathed Net.

“No, I did not tell him in my letter.”

“Then I need not see him at all! I would not force myself upon him,
Antoinette!”

“My dear, you will have to see him in my presence. I have a reparation
to make to both, which must be made in the presence of both. But you
will not therefore force yourself upon him. Nay! Let him _woo_ again the
wife he discarded, if he wants her love, which I feel sure that he
does.”

At this moment the door opened and the footman Hart appeared and
announced—

“Mr. Adrian Fleming has arrived, ma’am.”

“Show him up to this room,” replied Antoinette.

CHAPTER XXIX.
THE MEETING.

They seemed to those who saw them meet,
The careless friends of every day;
Her smile was still serene and sweet,
His courtesy was free and gay;
Yet if by one the other’s name
In some unguarded hour was heard,
The heart you deemed so cold and tame
Would shiver like a captured bird.
MONCTON MILNES.

“Mr. Adrian Fleming,” was announced, and Mr. Adrian Fleming entered the
boudoir.

He had thrown off his ulster and cap in the hall, and now came in, in
his neatly-fitting morning suit of dark-gray broadcloth, and looking
even handsomer in his perfect blonde beauty, more elegant and
aristocratic, than he had ever seemed before.

Net had shrunk within the rose-colored and lace curtains of the bay
window, beside Antoinette’s luxurious lounging-chair.

Adrian did not see her, therefore, but advanced directly to Antoinette,
with his small, neatly-gloved hand held out, and his fair, radiant face
clouding over as he perceived the fearful change that had passed upon
the once beautiful and blooming girl;—beautiful she was now, with a
spiritual beauty developed by trial, but no longer blooming, no longer
attractive to a young man like Fleming in the heyday of his own youth
and vanity.

“I am very sorry to see you looking so ill,” he said, with much feeling,
but with no tact at all.

“Yes, I must give you a little shock, but you will get over it in a few
seconds,” said Antoinette, calmly. Then holding out her hand, she added:
“I am glad to see you, Mr. Fleming, and grateful for your quick personal
response to my letter; but you will pardon my not rising.”

“Oh, do not take the least trouble, I beg of you, Miss Deloraine: I will
find a seat,” he answered, looking around, and laying hold of a small
silver-gilt and rose-satin chair.

“But you must find something else, or rather somebody else first,” said
Antoinette, looking around to see what had become of her friend.

Adrian’s glance naturally followed hers, and fell upon the form of Net
standing within the rosy curtains of the bay window and his fair face
flushed up to his forehead.

“Net, my dear, will you come and speak to Adrian?” inquired Antoinette.

Net came out, her pretty face suffused with a soft blush, and her voice
slightly tremulous with emotion, as she greeted her recreant lover and
bridegroom with the words her own self-respect compelled her to utter.

“I did not know that you were expected here, Mr. Fleming, until five
minutes ago.”

“Or you would not have been here yourself, I am to infer?” he answered,
in a tone no less agitated than her own.

“I should not,” she assented.

“Come, dear friends, do not quarrel, or if you do—why, quarrel with me,
not with each other. I am the only one in fault now, and the only one
who has been in fault from the beginning to the end. Give me my elixir,
Net,” said Antoinette, faintly.

Her friend filled a small wine glass with some rich and spicy cordial
from a cut-glass bottle that stood on the table, and brought it to the
sick girl.

She drank it, returned the glass, and said:

“Thank you, dear; now resume your seat. Adrian, take yours. I have
something to tell you both which jointly concerns me and yourselves;
therefore I have brought you to my presence together. I hope you will
forgive me this also, if you think I have done wrong.”

Net raised her cousin’s hand and pressed it to her lips for all answer.

“Pray do not pain yourself or friends by speaking in this way, Miss
Deloraine,” pleaded Mr. Fleming with some emotion.

“I called _you_ ‘Adrian,’” said the girl, with a sad smile.

“Thanks, dear Antoinette,” amended the young man.

“Well, I have brought you both to my side to make an explanation—ah!—‘_a
last dying speech and confession_,’ the poor, condemned felons call it,
don’t you know? Can either of you guess the nature of _my_ confession?
Ah, I see that you can!” sighed the failing girl, sinking back in her
chair.

“Dear Antoinette, do not overtalk yourself. Indeed it is not necessary,”
pleaded Net, as she took a flask of aromatic ammonia and saturated a
fresh handkerchief with it and gave it to her friend.

“You guess all about it without my telling you! No doubt you guess about
my fault, but you cannot guess the motives that led to it! Can you,
now?” inquired the girl, as she inhaled the reviving aroma from her
saturated handkerchief.

Net shook her head.

“What do you say, Adrian?” inquired the sick girl.

“Nothing, Antoinette. I do not know, unless it was some passing pique
against me,” replied the young man.

“It was nothing of the sort! No malice, no selfishness of any sort
entered into my act, evil as it was in itself.”

“I am sure of that, dearest,” said Net, in a low voice, as she pressed
the hand of her friend, which she continued to hold.

“And I beg your pardon for my own hastily given opinion, dear
Antoinette,” added the young man.

While these two spoke and answered Antoinette on the same subject, in
the same conversation, they never looked at or addressed each other.

In fact, they were as far apart as the nature of the interview would
permit.

Net sat on a low hassock beside Antoinette’s chair, and held her hand.

Adrian sat several feet off, with his hand idly playing with the trifles
on the stand beside him.

“But you both now see the necessity of a last confession to vindicate my
motives,” said the sick girl.

“It was I, of course, who changed the notes in their envelopes, placing
the one written to me under Net’s address, and the one written to her in
mine. It was I who completely deceived Net into the belief that you had
written to propose this marriage to her, which, indeed, all that had
gone before might have led her to expect you to do. Ah, Adrian, dear, I
knew that at last!”

At these words the face of the young man crimsoned to the tips of his
ears, and he snapped in two pieces a fragile little paper-cutter with
which he had been playing.

Net heaved a sigh of relief. She _was_ pleased that Adrian should hear
from Antoinette’s own lips how entirely she had been misled to believe
that the fatal proposal of marriage had been meant for her, so that
neither now nor ever could a doubt on the subject arise in his mind.

“Adrian, I should never have known the prior claim that Net had on your
attention if it had not been for Kit—poor Kit Ken, who, with her
outspoken truth, opened my eyes. I came to the Miston rectory, a young
girl, just let loose from the strict discipline of a French
boarding-school, full of vivacity and vanity—_myself_, I mean, not the
boarding-school, at all, at all. I found a young man at the rectory as
handsome, as vivacious, and as vain as—myself! Don’t wince, Adrian,
dear. You know it is the truth I am telling.”

The young man bit his lips and broke a book-mark between his finger and
thumb and threw away the fragments.

Antoinette continued:

“Naturally we two peacocks admired each other, and desired each other’s
admiration, and set out to get it, and—did get it. We carried on a
mutual admiration firm with distinguished success; but as to love, my
dear Adrian, up to that time you had never loved anybody but yourself,
and I—had never even loved myself! But I enjoyed admiration, devotion,
homage, and never guessed the wrong I was doing to Net until poor Kit
Ken burst forth upon me one day in a torrent of indignation, charging me
with having broken Mistress Net’s heart, through taking away her ‘young
man.’”

Now it was Net’s turn to blush up to the edges of her fine black hair,
and to squeeze her cousin’s fingers until she winced.

“Kit’s story was a perfect revelation, a complete eye-opener. I believed
it on the spot. I felt it to be truth. And from that moment I resolved
to stop the play, and I _did_ stop it. I began to treat you with a
coldness that utterly puzzled you. And to retaliate on me, _you_ began
to resume your attentions to Net—with the amiable motive of piquing my
jealousy. Why, my dear, you were doing just exactly what I wished and
intended you to do.”

Adrian Fleming blushed until his brow was crimson, bit his lip until it
bled, and unconsciously picked all the plumage off a stuffed
humming-bird that hovered over a basket of wax flowers.

Net, seeing all this destruction going on, and not knowing where it
would end, slipped quietly up to the stand, took off everything that
could be injured and placed them on a distant table, and replaced with a
vase of paper tapers, with which the restless fingers could play the
mischief without much loss.

All this Net did, and then resumed her seat, without having been noticed
by Adrian, so gentle were her motions and so deep was his absorption in
the subject of Antoinette’s discourse.

“And thus you see, Adrian,” continued the sick girl, “how natural it was
for Net and for every one else to believe that you had returned to your
true allegiance. Affairs went on in this way for a while, until you grew
impatient, found out your ruse did not answer your purpose, and tried to
resume your friendly relations with me; and when you found you could not
do so, you thought me still angry with you, and you wrote that proposal
of marriage which you inclosed to me, together with an off-hand sort of
note to Net, which you desired me, in a postscript written on a separate
piece of paper, to read so that I might know there could be no question
of marriage between you and Net. I saw that these two notes could be
transposed with perfect success so that Net should receive the proposal
of marriage, that your conduct had given _her_, as well as all her
friends, every reason to expect.”

Here Adrian Fleming began, unconsciously, demolishing the sheaf of paper
matches, while Net studied the windings of the rose-vine over the white
ground of the carpet at her feet; and Antoinette, after inhaling
aromatic ammonia, continued her confession:

“When I resolved to entrap you, by your own letter, into doing justice
to Net, I was not impelled by any malice or any other sort of
selfishness. I was rather impelled by a spirit of mischief, fun,
practical joking, and also by a wish that justice might be done to Net,
whom I felt that I had wronged, and led _you_ to wrong, and whom,
therefore, I wished to _right_ and compel you to right. My judgment was
at fault, I know—very much at fault. I wronged Net by this last attempt
to right her more bitterly than I had ever wronged her, or any other
human being, before. I know this now, and I knew it within one hour
after it was too late to retrace my steps—to undo my work! I never spent
such an unhappy night, in all my life, as the night on which dear
Net—deceived by the proposal of marriage that had been made to me, but
which I placed in the envelope you had directed to her—went off to
Scotland to be married to you! Pity, terror and remorse harassed me by
turns. I hoped that the plot would be discovered before the marriage
could be celebrated; but that hope failed when you both
returned—married!”

“And you did not confess?” murmured Adrian, almost involuntarily.

“_I dared not!_ I was in mortal fear of Dr. Starr! Besides, I saw
confession would do no good. I allowed you to believe that _you_
yourself had, in your haste, misdirected the notes. I did not _tell_ you
so, in so many words, but I _did_ suggest the possibility of your having
made such a mistake, and you caught at it and believed it! Ah! my
conscience would not permit me to tell a literal lie, but allowed me to
forget that falsehood is falsehood, whether it be spoken in plain words,
or hinted by suggestions or by silence! Well, this is all I have to tell
you, dear friends; and now I have only to beg your pardon for the wrong
I did you both, and to hope that the Divine Providence will ‘shape our
ends, rough hew them how we may.’”

Antoinette stopped and sank back in her chair, much exhausted by the
long-continued effort in conversation.

Adrian Fleming arose and took Antoinette’s limp hand and raised it to
his lips in silence; then he paused before Net who was still seated on
the low cushion beside her invalid cousin’s chair, and said:

“I have to ask your forgiveness for some misapprehensions, that I now
set right.”

Net bowed in silence. She could not speak.

The nurse came in, uncalled, and said:

“My dear Miss Deloraine, I have been waiting for your bell this half
hour. It is time for you to have your tonic and lie down.”

“Yes, it is; you may bring it to me,” replied the poor girl, faintly and
vaguely; and then turning to her cousin she said—“That bell we heard a
few minutes ago was for lunch, dear. You know the way to the little rear
breakfast-room where it is served. Will you show Mr. Fleming?”

Net arose, pressed her lips to the pallid brow of her cousin, and with a
slight bow to Adrian, led the way into the hall.

There he offered her his arm.

She declined the courtesy with a gentle gesture and walked on.

Adrian Fleming frowned slightly and followed.

A very dainty and tempting repast was elegantly served.

They sat down opposite to each other at the little round table, and Hart
served them from a little sideboard.

Each of these young beings looked more attractive in the other’s eyes
than ever before.

Both had grown handsomer in the few months of their separation.

And now some little excitement of pride or pique had added color to
their cheeks and sparkle to their eyes.

Net owed nothing whatever to dress for _her_ beauty. Nothing could be
plainer than the lustreless black silk, trimmed with black crape, that
she still wore as mourning for her beloved step-father, and this was
unrelieved by any ornament except the narrow white crepe lisse frilling
around her throat and wrists; and yet she looked beautiful with her
rippling, jet black hair, delicate features, dark-gray eyes, and
brilliant complexion.

When the light meal was about half over, and the young footman was
standing at some little distance doing something at the sideboard,
Adrian bent across the table to Net, and said:

“Do you not think that we might dispense with the attendance of that
servant?”

“No, by no means. He must remain here,” answered Net, gravely and
politely.

Adrian Fleming shrugged his shoulders and relapsed into silence, which
continued to the end of the meal.

When it was over they both left the table together.

“Where are you going?” inquired Fleming, when they were out in the hall.

“To the drawing-room first. This is the hour at which Antoinette takes
her nap and cannot be disturbed,” said Net.

“I understand that. Will you take my arm?”

“I thank you, no; we dispense with formalities in this house for the
present,” replied Net, as she walked on in advance.

“You dispense with formalities when you please to do so. You did not
please to dispense with the formality of the servant’s attendance during
the whole of lunch,” remarked Fleming, in an aggrieved tone.

“Ah, but that was another thing,” said Net, as she swayed open the door
of the drawing-room and entered.

“Here,” said Net, going up to one of the many well-laden little
tables—“here are ‘Leach’s Pictures of English Life,’ from _Punch_. Here
are also ‘Doré’s Illustrations of Tennyson’s Idyls of King Arthur,’ and
many other amusing works. Pray entertain yourself and excuse me. I have
letters to write.”

She turned to leave the room but he called her back.

“Net!”

“Well?” she responded gently.

“Why do you go and leave me?”

“I have letters to write, really, and the only time I have to write them
is while Antoinette sleeps.”

“Can they not wait?” he inquired.

“No, indeed they cannot. They should have been written before this. I
left Castle Montjoie day before yesterday, reached here yesterday
morning, spent nearly the whole day in Antoinette’s room, and went to
rest early, because I was so very tired. This morning as soon as I had
breakfast, I had to go to Antoinette, and I stayed with her until your
arrival. Now I _must_ excuse myself and write letters to Lady Arielle
Montjoie and to Miss Desparde,” said Net, taking the trouble to explain
herself at large, while she stood with her hand on the knob of the door.

“Net,” he said, looking intently at her, “I shall have to leave here in
two hours, in order to catch the six o’clock train.”

“Shall you?” said Net, calmly. “Then perhaps you had better bid me
good-bye now, as we may not meet again before you go.”

He looked at her half fondly, half resentfully. How beautiful she was in
her fresh, young womanhood! Surely never so beautiful as now!

“Net,” he said, reproachfully, yet affectionately, “is it possible that
you have forgotten the relations that exist between us?”

“I do not know that I really understand them, Mr. Fleming,” she
answered, gently and gravely.

“Do you not understand that I am your husband and that I have some right
to your society?” he inquired, with a slight accent of anger in his
tone.

“You told me once that the marriage ceremony, certainly performed under
a great misapprehension on your part, was good for nothing.”

“And you believed it?”

“I neither believed nor disbelieved. I thought that you might be
mistaken in that, as you had been in other matters! But you did tell me
the ceremony was invalid,” said the girl, quietly.

“Yet you took my name, and kept it.”

“Say, rather, that Sir Adrian Fleming and Dr. Starr both assured me that
my marriage was perfectly valid, and forced the name upon me. I did not
take your name willingly, Mr. Fleming—after what you had said to me—any
more than I would have come here willingly if I had known that you were
to be a visitor at the house,” said the girl, still very gently.

“Net,” he eagerly exclaimed, “would you believe me if I were to tell you
now that though that mistake was a dreadful disappointment to me at the
time, yet _now_ I am grateful that it was _you_ who stood by my side and
was married to me, and that it was _not_ your cousin? Would you believe
that my heart would have so changed, Net?”

“Yes, Mr. Fleming; for I believe you to be truthful, and I _know_ you to
be changeable,” said Net, with a slight smile.

He made a gesture of impatience, but then controlled himself, and said:

“Net, I am _not_ changeable in the depths of my soul. It was _you_, and
you only, that I loved from first to last. My fancy for poor Antoinette
Deloraine was but a hallucination of the eyes.”

Net looked at him gravely, and a little sadly, and quoted some long
passed words of his:

“‘Miss Deloraine, it is you, and you only, whom I ardently adore. My
affection for poor little Net Starr was but a sentiment of compassion
for the good, little, overtasked creature.’”

Adrian Fleming blushed scarlet to the edges of his fair hair as he
stammered:

“You!—you overheard me speak those words! You were capable of
eavesdropping, then!”

“No, indeed; I never heard you ‘speak those words.’ The quotation is
altogether hypothetical. I only fancied that you were likely to have
said just such words to Antoinette,” said the girl, with a smile in her
eyes.

Adrian Fleming made a gesture of desperation and disgust. He knew that
he had committed himself.

“Come, come, Net,” he said, after a few moments of silence. “We _are_,
really and truly, legally and validly married. Let us forgive and
forget. Dear Net, I swear by all my hopes of heaven it _was_ you, and
_only_ you, whom I truly loved from first to last!”

“Oh, I dare say you think so _now_, Mr. Fleming, and I am quite ready to
forgive and forget, but not by any means ready to take your word for all
your future states. You had better take time to be sure of your own
mind, Mr. Fleming, before you ask me to make up mine. And now I must
really bid you good-bye, for my letters must be written before mail
time, and you will have probably departed before I get through.
Good-bye.”

And with the same unruffled gentleness, Net bowed and left the room.

Adrian Fleming stood where she had left him, looking after her as long
as she was in sight.

Then he began to walk up and down the floor with very unequal strides,
asking himself:

“Can this be Net? This be the gentle, patient little Grizzelle whose
very gentleness and patience I once half despised as weakness and
poorness of spirit? What a beauty she has grown to be! But she is
changed in more things than one. I wonder if she has ceased to care for
me?” he asked himself, as he went up to a pier-glass and contemplated
his superb beauty in its reflection there.

“Ah, bah! of course she has not. She is only putting on this civil
indifference—this gentle carelessness. And I deserve it all, I suppose.
Well—one thing is certain: if I wish to win Net again I shall have to
woo her again. And I will not go back until I have done it. I will send
to the station and telegraph the governor not to expect me until he
hears from me again,” concluded Mr. Fleming, as he gave the bell-cord a
pull that suddenly brought Hart into the room.

“Pen, ink, and paper,” was Fleming’s brief order.

“Yes, sir. Please, sir, will you permit me to show you into the library,
where you will find every convenience of the sort,” said the boy, with a
bow.

“Very well; lead the way.”

The footman showed the guest into the handsome library, placed a chair
at one of the writing-tables, and drew out a drawer filled with
stationery.

“Now go and ask the butler if he can dispatch a servant on horseback to
take a message to the telegraph office at the station. And do you come
here to take it down.”

The boy bowed and left the room.

The young gentleman wrote the following telegram:

“MR. ADRIAN FLEMING, _from Deloraine Park, to_ SIR ADRIAN FLEMING, _at
Fleming Chase, Flemington, Dorset_: Miss Deloraine is very ill, and not
expected to live. Her cousin, my wife, is staying with her. The latter,
you know, is heiress presumptive of Deloraine Park. Do not expect me
home at present. Will write or telegraph before I return.”

He sealed this up in an envelope, with a sovereign, and gave it to Hart,
who punctually reappeared to take it to the groom who was to convey it
to the telegraph agent at the station.

Having dispatched this business Adrian Fleming stretched himself on a
sofa to take a nap while waiting for Antoinette to awake or Net to
reappear.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXX.
A LOVE CHASE.

He must be worthy of her love,
For not the faintest shade
Of all the charms that round her move
Within his heart can fade.
The glances of her gentle eyes
Are in his soul enshrined;
Her radiant smiles, her tender sighs,
Are treasured in his mind.
MIRAVAL.

In the meantime Net had gone to her room; but she was too deeply
disturbed to sit down at once to her letter-writing.

While in the presence of Mr. Adrian Fleming her self-respect had
constrained her to the exercise of a severe self-control; but as soon as
she reached the privacy of her own chamber her over-strained nerves gave
way, and she sank trembling into her easy-chair, where she sat some time
before she could recover her calmness.

Then she drew the little writing-table up before her, and commenced a
letter to Lady Arielle Montjoie, to give the latter an account of her
journey and of all that had happened since her arrival at Deloraine
Park.

While Net was so engaged, the sick girl, in her luxurious boudoir, slept
on her lounge, under the influence of an opiate.

Antoinette did not wake until four o’clock in the afternoon. She found
the nurse sitting by her side, for in the present condition of her
health Miss Deloraine was never left alone for a moment, sleeping or
waking.

“Nurse, if you will be my maid for once and dress me for the afternoon,
I will rise and sit up for a while,” said Miss Deloraine.

The woman smilingly nodded assent to her request.

While these things were going on in other parts of the vast house,
Adrian Fleming was comfortably sleeping the deep sleep of fatigue on the
sofa in the library.

The profound quiet of the place favored his long and unbroken repose, so
he slumbered on until five o’clock, when he was aroused by the ringing
of the first dinner, or dressing-bell.

“And where the deuce am I to dress?” he inquired, as he sat up, rubbed
his eyes, and stared at the ebony clock on the mantel-shelf, where the
hands pointed at a few minutes after five.

He rang the bell and Hart promptly appeared.

“If you please, sir, the telegram went off all right, and here’s the
agent’s receipt or somethink,” said the boy, delivering a sealed
envelope.

It was not any receipt, however, where none was needed. It was only the
change for the sovereign that had been sent to pay for the telegram.

“Can you show me into a dressing-room where I may wash my hands?”
inquired the young gentleman, in an irritated tone, for he was impatient
under a sense of having been neglected.

“If you please, sir, I have my mistress’s orders to show you to your own
suite of apartments, sir, and that’s the first dinner-bell, if you
please, and your porkmangle have been carried up,” replied Hart,
pointing to his red head.

“Very well, then. Carry yourself up, and I will follow.”

And Hart indexed his red hair again, and conducted the guest to an
elegant suite of rooms, very much like the other suites except in color.

These were upholstered in sea-green.

The same sounding bell that roused Adrian Fleming from his nap, startled
Net at her letter-writing. She settled herself again, however, and did
not leave her writing-table until she had sealed and superscribed her
last letter.

Then she arose and looked at her watch, and found that she had ten
minutes to arrange her toilet for dinner.

She glanced at the mirror and saw that her neat dress of rich,
lusterless black silk, with delicate white crepe frills at the throat
and wrists, needed very little attention indeed.

So she only washed her hands, shook out the folds of her skirt, took a
white calla lily from its glass on the table and placed it in the dark
braids of her hair, caught up a fresh pocket-handkerchief, and went out
to the dining-room just as the second bell sounded.

To her surprise, she met Adrian Fleming on the threshold.

“You missed your train, then?” she said, with all the composure of
outward manner that she could command.

“I did not try to catch my train,” he answered, with a mischievous
smile; then he added gravely: “No, Net, I did not leave the house; nor
will I leave it for the present. We must not part again with a
misunderstanding between us.”

Net thought that the misunderstanding had been none of her making or
seeking; but she said nothing, only passed into the dining-room and took
her seat at the table.

He followed her example.

The butler and the footman were both in attendance—the butler waiting,
it is to be presumed, in honor of the new guest.

There could be no confidential conversation in the presence of these
two.

Fleming touched upon the subject which was at that time the most
frequent topic of discussion in every drawing-room, parlor, club and
dinner-table in England—the mysterious murder in the railway carriage,
and the impending trial of Mr. Valdimir Desparde.

“I saw him in New York just before he sailed. I had intended to remain
longer abroad, but after having spent a couple of days with Desparde,
and then parted with him after seeing him off to Liverpool, I was seized
with a sudden and severe fit of home-sickness, and I quickly made up my
mind, packed my traps, and followed by the next steamer. I reached
England only three days after he had landed; and you may judge my
consternation when, on picking up the London _Times_ of that morning, I
saw the account of his apprehension on the charge of having murdered
that poor, witless creature, Kit Ken,” said Adrian.

“Of course, you never believed it,” said Net, not as a question, but as
a positive affirmation.

“Believed it? No! I read the whole account, and came to the conclusion
that it was—another man whom I had positively known to be on intimate
terms with the beautiful idiot.”

“I know the man to whom you refer, and I have more reason than you can
have for believing him—nay, for _knowing_ him to be the guilty party.
But, unhappily, our mental convictions are not legal evidence, and we
cannot get hold of the man, at least, we _had_ not up to the time of my
coming here; and, indeed, _nothing_ but the extreme illness of
Antoinette could have drawn me away from Arielle and Vivienne at such a
time.”

“When does his trial come on?”

“On next Monday the assizes open at Yockley, and his case is the first
on the docket. Only three days, you see, and no important evidence for
the defense yet. We have been seeking through both public and private
means to find Valdimir’s fellow travelers from Southampton to prove an
_alibi_, but hitherto without success; for, you see, they were
passengers for short stages, and though Valdimir exchanged observations
with several of them, he neither knew their names nor did they know his,
which makes our seeking almost impossible of success.”

“Unless an _alibi_ can be proved it will be likely to go hard with him,”
said Adrian.

Net shuddered, but did not reply.

Soon after the dessert was set on the table Net withdrew from the room,
leaving Mr. Fleming to his wine.

Adrian was very temperate. He took a single glass of light Rhine wine,
and arose and joined Net in the drawing-room.

“At last,” he said, with a sigh of satisfaction, “I have the opportunity
of speaking to you without the gaping eyes and ears of servants.”

“Do eyes and ears gape?” inquired Net, gravely.

“Do not mock me. I love you, Net! I love you!” he said, seizing her
hand.

She did not withdraw it. She neither repulsed nor responded to his
advance. She stood before him, to all appearance, quiet and indifferent.

“I love you, Net! Why don’t you say something? I love you!”

“So you have told me—and others—many times!” smiled the girl.

“Ah! you do not believe me!” he said, with an aggrieved air—“Net, you do
not believe!”

“Oh, yes I do! I believe that you love me, just at this moment, or
rather I believe that you _think_ you love me, just at this moment,”
said Net, not smilingly this time, but very gravely.

“Ah, what do you mean by—‘just at this moment’? Do you not know that I
shall love you always, for all time?” he inquired, in a voice full of
pain.

Net was silent.

“Say, do you not?” he persisted.

“No, Adrian, I do not. I cannot!” she answered, truthfully and
sorrowfully.

“Net! Net! how shall I ever win your confidence again?” he cried, in a
despairing voice.

The girl looked at him in mute distress. She could not flatter him by
any fair untruths.

“How?” he asked. “How, Net?”

“I do not know,” she sighed.

“You will let me try, Net? You will let me try to win your love?”

“You _have_ my love; you have had my love through all,” she hastened to
say, in a low, tremulous voice, but as if she were glad to be able to
say it.

“Bless you for those words, Net! And your _trust_! You will let me try
to win your trust too?”

“Yes,” murmured the girl.

At this moment they were interrupted by the entrance of Hart, who
touched his red locks and said:

“If you please, ma’am and sir, my mistress’s compliments and she would
be glad to see you in her room, _now_, if you please.”

“We will attend her. Come, Adrian,” said Net, leading the way to
Antoinette’s boudoir.

They found the invalid wrapped in a warm and beautiful dressing-gown of
white velvet, trimmed with white Astrachan fur, and reclining in her
resting-chair.

“I sent for you to see you for a little while before I retire, for I do
not feel equal to sitting up long to-night,” she said, as she smilingly
extended a hand to each.

They pressed those pale hands to their lips and then took seats on each
side of her.

She looked from one face to the other to read the answer to the question
she dared not ask—whether they had become reconciled to each other.

She read there that they were tending towards a reunion, and she
breathed a sigh of relief.

The two visitors had scarcely seated themselves, however, when the
postman’s knock was heard on the hall door, and it sounded through the
silent house as it never sounded before.

“I have no correspondents myself, now that you are here, Net,” said the
invalid girl with a smile.

The footman entered with a single letter on a silver tray, which he
carried to Mrs. Fleming.

“It is from Miston—from Lord Beaudevere. Will you excuse me?” said Net,
as she took the letter and examined it.

“Oh, by all means! Read it at once, and let us hear all the news,” said
Antoinette.

The girl broke the seal, glanced over the letter and then read it aloud
for the benefit of her companions:

“CASTLE MONTJOIE—Midnight.

“We have just got home from Yockley, dear Net, and, upon inquiry, find
all well, including the most important items—the babies. Of course, I
have no news to tell you of our search for defensive evidence. I write
now only to inclose a letter that has arrived for you from Chelsea,
London. Don’t know the locality, and don’t know the handwriting, but
lose no time in sending it on to you, while I remain your friend and
servant,

BEAUDEVERE.”

“Who is the inclosed letter from, if I may venture to inquire?” demanded
Antoinette.

“I—don’t—know,” slowly replied Net, as she critically examined the
superscription.

“Well, then, suppose you open it and see,” said Antoinette with a smile.

Net broke the seal and opened the second letter, which, oddly enough,
inclosed a third.

Net glanced over the open letter and started; her placid face became
agitated, her grave eyes grew joyous, as she gazed at the letter and
rapidly traversed its contents.

Her companions watched her in silent surprise and expectation as she
quickly turned over the page and swiftly read to the conclusion.

Then, seizing the third letter, she tore it open and quickly ran through
it.

Lastly, dropping it upon her lap, she burst into tears of joy, covered
her eyes with her hands and exclaimed:

“Thank Heaven! Oh, thank, thank Heaven!”

“What is it all about, Net, dear?” inquired the invalid girl.

“What does all this mean, my dear Net?” demanded Adrian Fleming in the
same instant.

Net dropped her hands and turned her radiant face from one to the
other—radiant through her tears as sunbeams through rain—as she
answered:

“It means deliverance for Valdimir Desparde! Oh, my dears! It means
deliverance!”

CHAPTER XXXI.
FROM BEYOND.

No seeming evil comes to any
But may be fraught with good to many.
AYAH.

With a defeated joy.
SHAKESPEARE.

Net was trembling all over with excitement.

Her two companions gazed on her in expectation.

“This letter was directed to my home in Miston, and forwarded thence to
Castle Montjoie. It appears to come from a lodging-house keeper with
whom our poor Kit lived—”

“News of Kit!” exclaimed Antoinette.

“Ah!” ejaculated Adrian.

Both became deeply attentive.

“Yes, of course, news of poor Kit Ken, which gives the key to the whole
mystery of her murder. Listen,” said Net, and she read:

“CHURCH LANE, CHELSEA, LONDON, }
“December the —, 18—. }

“TO MRS. ADRIAN FLEMING.—_My Dear Madam_: You will be surprised at
receiving a letter from a total stranger; but you will pardon me for
taking the liberty to write to you when you know why I am obliged to do
it. Though in such a flutter of my spirits, from what I have just found
out, as hardly to know which end I am standing on, much less what I am
writing about. Excuse me, madam, but I have had a great shock this day,
in hearing promiscuous news about her death, for I never take the
papers, having no time to read them.

“But if anybody murdered her in that cruel way, which there is no
denying that somebody _did_, it was _him_ that done it and nobody else,
which she had a foreshadowing of some wickedness intended, though not as
bad as that, as you will see by her letter, which I put up with this of
mine to send to you, according to her own request that same day before
she went away from me.

“And, madam, he treated of her scandalous, while she lived with me, and
never came to see her above once or twice a week, and despised her and
called her a lunatic.

“So she got into her poor head, because he called her so and because he
threatened to put her into a lunatic asylum if she did not keep quiet,
that he would do so some day, so as to get her out of the way and let
him marry some great lady up to the North.

“So that identical day he came to take her away he popped in upon us all
of a sudden in the forenoon, and told her to get ready to go with him in
the afternoon, and he looked as if he had the—well, madam, you
understand what I mean—in him!

“He left to do some business down in the city, and then she began to
pack up, gay as a lark, for she thought he was going to take her to his
own grand home and acknowledge her as his wife.

“But after she had done her packing her good spirits all of a sudden
give way, and it seems she first sat down and wrote that letter to you,
(which you will find inclosed,) and when she had finished it she brings
it down to me, and she tells me how she mistrusted him because he had
deceived her so many times, and how she feared he was not agoing to take
her to his own home, and that he might be agoing to clap her into a
mad-house, where she never would be heard of again, and leave her there,
while he should go off and marry the great lady he was after.

“I tried to quiet her fears, but she said she could not trust him. And
then she gave me this letter, and told me to keep it until I heard from
_her_; but if I did not get news of her within ten days I might know
that he had clapped her into a mad-house or some out-of-the-way prison,
and _then_ I must post this letter to _you_; she said that you had known
her as Christelle Ken and would see her delivered from bondage.

“Ah, madam! her doubts and fears never touched on the terrible truth
that she was going to be murdered that same night.

“I promised to do all that she wished, and I put the letter away
carefully.

“In the afternoon he came after her, in a cab. I happen to know the
number of the cab. It was E 003, and the name of the cabman was Nott. He
told me afterwards, the cabman did, that he took them to Paddington
Station.

“I kept the letter safe as safe, intending to send it if I did not hear
from her in ten days; and to burn it if I did.

“But this morning, madam, something happened which made me change my
mind and send it immediate.

“A neighbor came in to bid me good-bye before going a journey, and says
she:

“‘I travel by the third class. You don’t ketch me traveling alone in
first or second class after this—no, I will travel in third class, where
you can see all the people from one end to t’ other of the car and they
can all see you. That poor Christelle Ken’s death ought to be a warning
to us all.’

“‘Christelle Ken!’ says I, a thinking of my lodger; ‘what about her?’

“‘Eh—don’t you know? She as was murdered in the railway carriage last
Thursday a week ago!’

“‘Christelle Ken murdered in a railway carriage a week ago?’ says I,
with the marrow a curdling in my backbone.

“‘Where have you been living, woman,’ says she, ‘not to have heard of
that?’

“‘Tell me all about it,’ says I, as soon as I could speak again.

“And she did tell me all that was published in the papers about it; and,
moreover, she went to the news-agent’s at the corner and bought an old
_Times_ with the full account in it, which I read.

“And, madam, I am sorry to the bottom of my heart for that poor young
woman! It is worse than she feared? It is not the mad-house, but murder,
that has been her fate. And he did it, and nobody else but him; and not
that young gent as they took up for it. Let his friends, whoever they
be, call me for a witness, and also my servant, Mary Mossop, and
likewise Nott, the cabman, No. E 003, who took the party from here to
Paddington. I would like to see that guilty man punished, and that poor
simple girl avenged, and wouldn’t mind taking a journey up to Yockley
myself to see it done, madam. And I remain

“Yours to serve, DEBORAH PERKINS.”

“There!” exclaimed Net. “There is the landlady’s letter.”

“She will be a most important witness for the defense; so will the
cabman, Nott. They must both be subpœnaed immediately. What an
extraordinary story!” exclaimed Adrian Fleming.

“Read poor Kit’s letter!” impatiently demanded Antoinette.

“Yes, here it is,” said Net. And she unfolded the second letter, and
read:

“CHURCH LANE CHELSEA LONDON,}
“december the — 18—. }

“MI DEAR MISTRESS NET.—I no I hevint got enny rite to rite to yo after
behavin so bad to yo, but aint as bad as looks. mistress Net, I didn’t
brake mi prommis to yo when I cum away. I prommissed not to go away with
him until he took me away to his own fowke and owned me for his lawfull
wife.

“Yo mind the last nite I stade at yore house when I was so loe in mi
mind with somethink hevvy, hevvy hangging over mi poor head? Well
mistress Net it was so tho I diddent know it then.

“It was him wot was hangging over my poore hed all unbenonst to yo or
me.

“I wasn’t expectin to se him no more than the eevil one himself, whol he
stole in upon me that nite as I set all alone in the kitchen and tolde
me he hed kum to take me home to his fowke, and I must kum rite off.
Mistress net I begged and preyed of him to let me go and tell yo but he
wuddent. He tolde me he had kum to kepe his prommis and take me to his
fowkes but if I diddent kum with him then he wud nevver aske me agane.

“And so he bullyded me until I goed with him.

“But mistress he nevver kept no prommiss with me, but browt me to Lunnun
town to a lodgement house with a Mistress Purkkings, a good woman, I
will say that for her, where I have lived for all this time and he only
kumming to see me once in a whyle and skolding and threttening of me
till I am fair crazy which he sed, himself that he wud clap me into a
lunacy sylum if I wasn’t quiet. And now mistress net to the pint—

“To-day he kum to see me lukking so black he skeered the life out of me
most but he tolde me to get reddy to go with him home to Kavelande as
because his uncle Old mister Chrystofer Corle was dedd and he was
marster now and I shud be mistress.

“And fust I was glad mistress net but now my harrt misgives me like it
did once before and hevvy, hevvy hangs over mi poore head, ah! hevvy
more hevvy as it hung that nite!

“I mebby doin of him a gret wrong mistress net and if I am I beg his
pardon; but I do misdoubt him and fear him and I feel like somethink was
going to happen to me.

“Ime thinking mebby insted of taking me home to Kavelande he will be
clapping of me into a lunacy sylum where I will nevver be herd of no
more. And now mistress net I rite this letter for mi safety. If he keeps
his prommiss to me and takes me to Kavelande and make a leddy of me I
will rite to yo and all my friends to let yo know I am well, and hoping
yo the same; but if he don’t take me home and claps me into a lunacy,
then yo wont hear nothink from me after that, but yo will get this
letter sent to yo by the goode woman I live with, because I will leave
it with her and make her prommiss to send it to yo if as how _she_ dont
get a letter from me dated at Kavelande to tell her I am well and happy
in ten days.

“So if yo shud get _this_ letter mistress net yo may know that he
hazzent kep his prommiss to me to take me to Kavelande but has shet we
up in a lunacy or med way with me sommers.

“Eh, mistress net wot a wicked gel I be not to trust my owne husbande
wot I prommissed and wowed to luv, onner and bay, when it was redd over
us in the church; but I cannt help it; he hev tuk all the trust out of
me he hev.

“Eh, then if he keeps faith with me this time, I will try my best to
luv, onner, and bay him according to the lines red over us all the rest
of my life.

“Oh, mistress net how I wish I hed nevver seen him though. How I wish I
was back with yo and the bairns in the little cottage, where I was so
safe and happy.

“Eh, it was hevven there it was.

“Sometimes I dreeme I am back with yo, washing up the dishes with my
sleeves rolled up and I am so happy until I wake and find it all a
dreeme and then I cry fit to brake my harrt I do.

“I dunnot think I evver luvved enny body rale tru but my own home fowke
and yo and the bairns.

“But I wanted to be a leddy like a fule and this is wot I hev got for
it.

“Now mistress net I no yo will forgive and forget and if this letter
cums to yo, to tell yo I hevvent been herd of since I left this place on
this Thursday afternoon of December the —, please see to it that Mister
Brendon Corle is tukked up and med to tell where he hev poked me to, and
so I be tuk to the judges to say whedder I be lunacy or not.

“And Lord forgive me for doubting of my owne husbande which hev killed
all the faith in me, and med me feele like as if I was a helpless,
friendless sinner given up to the power of the deevil himself.

“Dear mistress net forgive me and prey for me and believe me, with all
my fawlts yor lovving humble servant to kummand.

“CHRISTELLE KEN by rites mi leddy BRENDON CORLE.”

As Net finished this strange epistle, there came a strong reaction over
her nerves, and she burst into tears and wept long and bitterly.

“Poor Kit! Poor Kit Ken!” she sobbed. “Going to her death with that dark
foreshadowing of fate over her simple, childish mind!”

“Ah! but she had cunning enough to write that letter! Heavens! what a
Nemesis! what an avenging agent that woman has been to her own
destroyer! Her first letter saved Lady Arielle Montjoie, and dashed
_him_ down suddenly from the pinnacle of his ambitious hopes. He
compassed her murder in the spirit of hatred and revenge, and now, from
her grave, she exerts a power that will crush him. That letter,
supported by the corroborative testimony of the lodging-house keeper and
the cabman, will be enough to vindicate Valdimir Desparde and to hang
Brandon Coyle,” said Adrian Fleming.

“It is all too much, too dreadful to think of,” shuddered Antoinette.

“Is there a train for London this evening?” inquired Net.

“One at eight, which you cannot possibly catch,” answered Adrian
Fleming.

“Which is the next?” inquired Net.

“Twelve, midnight.”

“I must take that.”

“You are mad! Start alone at midnight in the train for London!”
exclaimed Antoinette.

“Yes, dear, I must do so—I must not lose one hour if I can avoid it,”
repeated Net. “I must take these letters at once to Yockley, and put
them in the hands of Valdimir Desparde’s lawyers.”

“But at midnight—alone!”

“She shall not go alone,” said Adrian Fleming.

“Why not? I am not afraid,” said Net.

“Because I do not think it either safe or proper that you should start
on that midnight journey alone,” replied Adrian.

“I have been constrained by _duty_ to do some things that _were_ not
safe and _seemed_ not proper, within the last year,” quietly replied the
girl.

“But those days are past and gone, Mrs. Fleming,” retorted the young
husband, with the air of taking some authority upon himself.

“Have they really? And are you quite certain they will never return? I
am not,” said Net, speaking very gently.

“Come, come, do not quarrel! Will you two _never_ be reconciled?”
inquired Antoinette, uneasily.

“We are not at enmity,” answered Net.

“By Jove, I think you have ceased to care for me, as well as to trust in
me,” muttered Adrian Fleming, in a very low voice; then, with a sudden
flush, he continued: “I know that I have forfeited all claims to your
consideration; but I cannot really suffer you to start on a long journey
at midnight, and alone. I must attend you, but, madam, I will treat you
with as much distant respect as if I were only your courier or your
footman.”

Now Net’s delicate face flushed. She spoke but one word.

“Adrian,” and then her voice died away.

“You must accept my escort, Net,” he added.

“Adrian,” she recommenced, with recovered firmness, “if I hesitated, it
was because I _once_ accepted your escort on a journey rather too
hastily, too unadvisedly; and you know what followed.”

“Don’t speak of that time, Net. It is reminding a sane man of the acts
of his madness. I do not regret that journey, Net, but I repent what
followed. And now I shall go with you to Yockley.”

“I do not decline your escort, Adrian. I thank you for taking so much
trouble,” she replied, gently.

All her words and tones were very gentle, yet they all betrayed that her
confidence in the reality and stability of his affection for her was
shaken to its foundation.

“Well, I am glad that you are going together. But, dear Net, come back
to me as soon as you can,” said Antoinette with a smile.

“Indeed I shall! Oh! I regret very much to leave you, even for so short
a time. I would send these letters by mail and remain here, only—only a
life may depend upon their safe delivery, and I feel bound to take them
myself. But just as soon as I see them secure in the hands of Mr. Stair
I will hasten back to you,” said Net.

“Bede says that I am much better. I hope I shall be here when you
return, Net,” said Antoinette, cheerfully.

“I hope that your improvement may be a permanent one, dear,” replied
Net, raising the hand of the sick girl to her lips.

“Ah! well, ‘Hope springs eternal in the human breast,’” quoted
Antoinette, in a non-committal sort of way.

“Net, it is eight o’clock. You had better see about your packing, had
you not? It takes two hours to drive to the station,” said Adrian
Fleming.

“I brought nothing but a valise here, and I shall take nothing but a
small hand-bag back. I can be ready to start in fifteen minutes,” said
Net.

“And you have two hours before it is necessary to start to catch that
train. It is eight now, as Adrian says. You need not leave here until
ten. So, Mr. Fleming, you may ring and order the close carriage for that
hour, and then come back to take tea with us in this room,” added
Antoinette, as she rang the little hand bell that stood on the stand by
her side.

Adrian Fleming left the room to give orders about the journey, and a few
moments later Mrs. Trimmer entered in answer to her mistress’s bell.

“Tell Hart to serve the tea in this room,” said Miss Deloraine, and the
woman withdrew to obey.

Twenty minutes later the three friends were gathered around the tea
table, which was pushed up close to Antoinette’s invalid chair.

Scarcely ever had Miss Deloraine seemed brighter or more cheerful than
at this little social tea. No one then looking at her, in ignorance of
her real condition, could have believed her to be the subject of a fatal
malady. It is true that she was very much emaciated, but she was no
longer pale. Pleasant excitement in the society of her two friends had
brought color to her cheeks and lips, light to her eyes, and animation
to her manner.

Soon after tea the nurse came in and insisted that Miss Deloraine had
already sat up too long and must now retire.

Antoinette laughingly bade Adrian good-night and dismissed him, but she
retained Net by her side until the latest minute, making the girl
accompany her to her bed chamber, and even sit by her bed head until it
was time for Net to put on her bonnet and join Mr. Fleming in the hall.

By ten o’clock Net kissed her cousin good-bye, and, escorted by Adrian,
set out on her night ride to the railway station.

They drove fast, and succeeded in catching the midnight express.

CHAPTER XXXII.
DARKNESS BEFORE DAWN.

Pilgrims who journey through a stormy night,
Observe, as nearer to the day you draw,
Faint gleams that meet you from the coming light,
See darkness lighten more, till, full of awe,
You stand upon the sunlit mountain height.
TRENCH.

On Monday the trial was to come on, and up to this day—Saturday—no
witness could be found to prove an _alibi_ for the prisoner.

Desparde’s friends and his counsel were almost in despair; yet they
concealed their gloomy misgivings from him.

Lord Beaudevere had left Vivienne Desparde at Castle Montjoie with Lady
Arielle, and he himself had returned to Yockley and taken up his
quarters at the White Bear Inn; not the best public house in the town by
any means, but the nearest to the prison, and therefore the most
convenient.

Early on this Saturday morning Lord Beaudevere went to the prison, and
was at once admitted to the cell of his kinsman, where he had promised
to meet Messrs. Stair and Turner, counsel for the prisoner.

These gentlemen had not yet, however, arrived.

He found Valdimir Desparde alone, seated at his little table and
suffering under a deeper depression of spirits than he had yet
exhibited.

He started up from his chair to meet the baron as the latter entered the
cell.

“Any news?” was the question simultaneously, asked by the visitor and
the prisoner as their hands met.

“None whatever,” was the simultaneous answer. “Are not Stair and Turner
coming? They promised to meet me here at nine o’clock. It is nearly
half-past—here they are now!” suddenly exclaimed the baron, as footsteps
were heard coming down the corridor.

The next moment the door was opened and Messrs. Stair and Turner were
ushered in.

“Any news?” was the question simultaneously uttered by the two men in
the cell and the two men entering it.

“None,” was the answer in quartette.

They entered into a deep and earnest conference that lasted until two
o’clock, when the “legal gentlemen” adjourned to the White Bear for
luncheon, while Lord Beaudevere and Valdimir Desparde partook of
refreshments sent from the same house.

At three o’clock the gentlemen met again in the cell of the prisoner,
where the consultation was resumed.

They had been in deep conference for about an hour, when footsteps were
heard coming down the corridor, the door was once more opened, and
Adrian Fleming entered the cell with a vailed lady on his arm.

Exclamations of surprise from Lord Beaudevere, and of pleasure from
Valdimir, arose in chorus as the two gentlemen left their seats and held
out each a hand to welcome the new-comer.

“Glad to see you, my dear boy! Didn’t know you were in England. Thought
you were abroad still,” exclaimed Lord Beaudevere, heartily shaking his
hand.

“When did you arrive? You must have made up your mind suddenly, and
followed me by an early steamer,” said Valdimir Desparde, speaking in
the same moment.

“Thanks, Baron; I am equally happy to meet you. Yes, Desparde; that is
just what I did—made up my mind suddenly and followed you by the next
steamer. My rencontre with you, followed by your departure, made me so
homesick that I hurried after you by the next ship,” exclaimed Fleming,
answering right and left.

“And how very good of you to come and see me here so soon,” exclaimed
Valdimir. Then, remembering the presence of others, he said: “You know
Mr. Stair and Mr. Turner, I believe?”

“I have that pleasure,” said Fleming, bowing to the gentlemen indicated,
who returned his salutation.

This passed in about two minutes, during which Net stood, vailed and
silent.

“_And this lady?_” queried Lord Beaudevere, in a low voice; for his
old-school courtesy was scandalized at the seeming neglect in which the
lady stood.

The young gentleman smiled slightly as he took Net’s hand and presented
her, saying:

“My wife, Mrs. Adrian Fleming. She has some evidence to offer in this
case which I think you will consider very important for the defense.”

In the meantime Net had thrown aside her vail, and was shaking hands
with her old friend, the baron.

“How did you leave your cousin, my dear?” he kindly inquired.

“She is better; yet I should not have left her but to bring you some
evidence on this case which was too precious to be trusted to the
mails,” said Net, as she dived into the folds of her sack and drew from
an inner pocket a large, thick letter, which she handed to the baron.

“What is this, my dear?” he inquired, examining the packet earnestly,
while Desparde and his counsel, at the words “evidence,” and “defense,”
gathered around him.

“It is the same packet that was forwarded from Miston to Castle
Montjoie, and from Castle Montjoie sent by you to me at Deloraine Park.”

“And it is—it is—what is it?” demanded the baron, beginning to unfold
the many pages.

“It is a posthumous letter from the poor murdered girl, Kit Ken—” began
Net.

“Read them, Stair,” replied the baron, passing the letters over.

The barrister read them first, silently while his companions watched him
eagerly.

Then he looked up and said:

“These will do, Mr. Desparde. But now I must go out and get an officer
sent to London at once to subpœna and bring down three witnesses from
London—the cabman Nott, the landlady, and her maid-of-all-work. Mr.
Desparde, I congratulate you. We can dispense with the _alibi_ now,
since the murderer is identified,” said Stair, as he was about to leave
the cell.

“Hi! Stop! You are not going to take those letters away without telling
us their contents?” exclaimed Lord Beaudevere.

“My dear Baron, I have no time to wait. These witnesses must be got down
here by Monday morning. I must see an officer start by the first train
for London with the subpœna. Here, Turner, you can read these letters
aloud for the benefit of all concerned. Begin with the landlady’s first.
It is the best looking letter. You will know it by that. Desparde, I
will see you again before the doors are closed. _Au revoir._”

And he hurried away.

Mr. Turner took up the letters to read them.

Before he could find the place to begin, Stair came hurrying back, put
his head into the door, and exclaimed:

“I say, Turner! Don’t lose or mislay those letters! They are a thousand
times more precious than their weight in diamonds!”

“Be easy; they are perfectly safe,” answered the younger counsel.

And as Stair’s footsteps again receded from the door, Turner opened the
landlady’s letter and read it aloud, interrupted now and then, by the
exclamations, comments or questions of his small audience.

After finishing it he took up Kit Ken’s letter, and read that from
beginning to end, though with much more difficulty than had attended the
perusal of the landlady’s epistle, because of poor Kit’s imperfect
spelling, writing and pointing.

Many comments followed the reading of this piteous letter; some tears
were shed by Net and Baron Beaudevere over the tragic fate of the poor
victim.

In less time than was expected, Mr. Stair came back, and reported that
he had got his officers armed with a subpœna for the witnesses wanted,
and that he had started them off to London by the train that had left.

“We have done our mission here now,” said Net, “and we may go. Mr.
Desparde, I am very glad to have brought you down these letters which
are to be such powerful agents in your defense,” she added, turning
kindly towards the young man.

“Mrs. Fleming, I shall hold you in grateful remembrance so long as I
live,” earnestly replied Desparde.

“I don’t see any ground for gratitude in so simple an act,” replied Net.

Then turning to the baron, she said:

“Lord Beaudevere, I could not before bring my little personal interests
into a discussion involving such solemn results, but now I would like to
know how my babies are?”

“Plump and blooming as autumn apples! Appetites like little pigs! Petted
by all the family, and toadied by all the servants like a little prince
and princess They are spoiling them finely for you, my dear!” heartily
responded the baron.

“Thanks. I am very glad to hear they are well,” replied Net, with a
happy smile. “And now, I think, we must take leave. I wish to get the
next train; for I promised my cousin to hurry back to her.”

“But, my child, you have been traveling incessantly for eighteen hours,
now are you going to turn right back and travel eighteen more?”

“Yes, Baron, for so I promised my cousin, and she is ill,” gently
replied Net.

“And _you_ will be ill if you do not take care. Mr. Fleming, are you
going to allow your wife to do this willful deed?”

Adrian shrugged his shoulders and laughed.

Net took leave of her friends and went off to the train, escorted by her
husband.

They were soon on their way back to Devonshire.

The baron and the counsel remained in the cell with the prisoner, not
intending to leave him until they should be compelled to do so by the
prison regulations for the closing of the doors at six o’clock.

It was scarcely five when Net went away.

They had conversed but a few minutes when other steps were heard
approaching the door, and one of the clerks from Mr. Turner’s law office
entered the cell with a telegram in his hand.

“This has just arrived, sir, and by your orders I bring it to you.”

“Very well, Kinch,” replied Mr. Turner breaking the seal of the envelope
and examining its contents.

Then he sprang up, exclaiming:

“Hurrah for us! ‘It never rains but it pours?’ Listen to this:

“‘JOHN HARRIER, _Scotland Yard, London, to_ TOBIAS TURNER, ESQ.,
_Barrister, Yockley_.—We have dropped down upon an old party who came
over on the _Colorado_ with Mr. Desparde, and afterwards rode on the
same train with him from Southampton to Peterboro, and will be able to
prove an _alibi_, since he knows that Mr. Desparde could not have been
at Paddington on the day he was said to have engaged the reserved
compartment of the railway train in which the poor girl was found
murdered.’”

“Kinch!” exclaimed the lawyer, “go immediately and telegraph John
Harrier to have that man subpœnaed and sent here to testify on Monday.
Do you hear?”

“Yes, sir, certainly; but here is a letter that also came, post-marked
Dunross, that I thought you might like to see,” added the clerk, putting
in his principal’s hand a large white envelope with a staring red seal,
and then leaving the room.

Mr. Turner asked permission of his companions and then broke the seal.

“I told you so!” he exclaimed, when he had run his eyes over this
letter. “‘It never rains but it _pours_,’ quotha? I say it never rains
but it turns to a Noah’s flood. Listen here:

“HETHERBY HALL, KILLCUTHIE.
“December —, 18—.

“TO TOBIAS TURNER, ESQ.—_Sir_: I have just seen your advertisement for a
gentleman who rode from Peterboro to the Grand Junction on the night of
December the —— with a dark-complexioned young man, in an ulster
great-coat and a railway cap, who had recently returned from America,
and conversed about the relative advantages of that country and _this_,
and so forth.

“Now, I am the man you want, though I do not see how it can be for my
‘advantage’ to be found, unless the young fellow, who seemed to take a
great fancy to me, has died and left me all his money, and I don’t see
how he could do that unless he knew my name, which he don’t.

“Anyway, I am willing to be found.

“Here I am, and this is my name and address:

“ALEXANDER MCQUILLIGAN,
“Hetherby Hall, Killcuthie,
“Lock Ronald, Sutherland.

“P. S.—Would have answered your advertisement before this if I had seen
it sooner; but have been knocked up with bronchitis for the last week or
ten days, during which I never glanced at a paper.

“Only just now got about and found your advertisement.”

“What do you think of that?” inquired Turner, with a triumphant smile.

“I think our case is all right now! We must subpœna this gentleman and
let him know what we want with him! I hope he will not be greatly
disappointed on finding out that it is not to give him a fortune that
has been left him,” said Mr. Stair.

“Do you remember this man by his own letter, Valdimir?” inquired Lord
Beaudevere.

“Yes, I do,” replied Desparde, with a droll air. “He is one of those
poor and pompous old Highlandmen who would probably insist upon being
called ‘The McQuilligan.’ I remember him perfectly.”

But the hour had now come for the visitors to take leave.

They all arose and bade a cordial good-night to the lonely but now
hopeful prisoner.

“Well, Mr. Desparde,” said Mr. Turner on leaving him, “we most heartily
congratulate you on this day’s developments. We may now go into court
with the most confident anticipation of a triumphant victory.”

CHAPTER XXXIII.
THE TRIAL.

Justice, when equal scales she holds, is blind;
Nor cruelty nor mercy change her mind;
When some escape for that which others die,
Mercy to those to these is cruelty.
DENHAM.

What stronger breastplate than a heart untainted?
Thrice is he armed who hath his quarrel just,
And he but naked, though locked up in steel,
Whose conscience with injustice is corrupted.
SHAKESPEARE.

Adrian and Net caught the 5 P. M. express at Miston, and traveling day
and night without the loss of an hour, reached Deloraine station at ten
o’clock the next morning.

They found the same cab waiting beside the platform which had taken Net
to the hall on the morning of her first arrival.

Adrian engaged it at once and handed Net into her seat.

“Ask the man if he knows how Miss Deloraine is to-day,” whispered Net,
as she settled herself on the hard cushions.

“Have you heard any news of the young lady at the hall, this morning?”
inquired Mr. Fleming.

“The young lady was ill last night, sir. Hart, he come at ten o’clock
for Dr. Bede; I had been out with a party and met him taking the doctor
back,” replied the man, touching his hat, not only once but at every
other word he spoke.

“That was last night; but how is the young lady this morning? Better, it
is to be presumed,” hastily inquired, or rather suggested, Mr. Fleming,
on seeing the increased anxiety of his companion.

“Haven’t heard to-day, please, sir,” answered the man, trying to make up
by the abundance of his courtesy for the scarcity of his information.

“Well, then, take us thither—to the hall—as fast as possible! An extra
half-crown, mind, for extra haste,” exclaimed Fleming, as he sprang into
his seat and closed the door.

“All right, sir,” answered the cabman, as he touched his hat, mounted to
his seat and started his horses.

They bowled on at a rapid rate and made the distance in an hour and a
half.

As the cab rolled through the park gate, which was held open by an
elderly women, the driver inquired:

“Say, Mother Swing! How is the young Missus up at the house?”

“Bad as bad, when the doctor passed through here, arter leavin’ of her
last night. Him be gone up again this morning. Spects to hear when he
comes back,” answered the woman.

“_Gat ’long!_” exclaimed the cabman, addressing his horses, as he lashed
them up to a brisk trot along the avenue.

As they drew in sight of the house, Net, with her head at the side
window, anxiously watched for some sign to hint or some person to tell
of the condition of Antoinette Deloraine.

They met a boy in a smoke-frock with his hands in his pockets.

“How is your young mistress, this morning?” inquired Net.

“Anan?” cried the lad, with mouth and eyes equally wide open.

“Miss Deloraine! How is she this morning?” repeated Net, with only a
slight alteration in the form of her question.

“Oi dunnoo,” answered the boy, sauntering along on his way.

They came in sight of the house.

Net looked out eagerly.

There was no hatchment up over the portals, nor any other sign of death
in the house.

The doctor’s gig was standing before the door.

As they drove up, Net saw Dr. Bede come out of the house—a tall, gaunt,
stooping old man of seventy five years, with a thin, sharp red face and
a bald head, with a slight fringe of silver hair behind his ears and at
the nape of his neck. He wore a long, straight black coat buttoned up to
his chin and down to his toes.

Without waiting for him to get into his gig, Net beckoned him to the
window of the cab.

“How is Antoinette this morning?” she inquired.

“Much better, I am happy to say, my dear young lady,” answered Dr. Bede.

“I hear that she was very ill last night,” continued Net.

“_Very_, ma’am. She lay so long in a fainting fit that I began to think
I should never bring her out of it.”

“What caused it—any excitement?”

“No, nothing of the sort; the housekeeper and the nurse were with her at
the time, and she was in the midst of giving some commonplace directions
to the former, when all of a sudden, she dropped. This was about eight
o’clock, and the stupid women lost some time in trying to bring her
round themselves before they sent Hart after me. With all the haste I
could make, it was half-past ten before I got here, and she had lain
unconscious all the time. However, she seems all right again now, or,
rather, as near being all right as she ever can be in this world! Good
morning, madame! good morning, sir!”

And with a bow the worthy doctor got into his gig and drove away.

Adrian alighted and paid the cabman and discharged him; but _he_,
mindful of warmth and refreshment for “man and beast” on the occasion of
his last visit to the house, instead of wheeling off and going back,
kept on around by the stable, where he committed his horse to the care
of one of the grooms for rest and food, while he himself walked to the
house and entered the kitchen to be coddled and comforted by the cook.

Meanwhile, Adrian and Net had been admitted by the hall porter and
conducted up stairs by Hart.

In the upper hall they found Mrs. Trimmer waiting.

“My mistress desired that you should come to her immediately on your
arrival, sir, and madame,” said this Abigail.

“How is she now?” inquired Net.

“As bright as usual this morning, ma’am; but we thought she was gone
last night,” answered the woman, as she opened the door of the boudoir
and announced:

“Mr. and Mrs. Fleming.”

Net and Adrian entered.

Antoinette, in an elegant robe of pale blue silk, trimmed with
swan’s-down, and with her beautiful raven black hair carelessly but
gracefully dressed, reclined in her rose-colored easy-chair, with her
feet upon a rose-colored foot-cushion.

But how alabaster white and semi-transparent her wan face looked in
contrast to the shining, jetty blackness of her hair!

“Ah, you have come back—I am glad to see you!” she said, cheerfully,
holding out a hand to each.

Net could scarcely keep back her tears, so marked an alteration for the
worse did she perceive in Antoinette’s look and voice.

Little more than the merest civility passed between this
strangely-wedded, parted and reunited pair. Loving each other ardently,
they were still somewhat estranged—on Adrian’s side by his consciousness
of his former wrongs to Net, and his pride in belief that he had already
made all the amends that he was able to make, and as much, indeed, as
any “man” could bring himself to make; and on Net’s side, by the bitter
and humiliating memory that she had been once too easily won to marry
him when he believed that he was marrying her rival. Much as she loved
him she could not fully trust him, and she was resolved not to deceive
herself, or allow him to deceive her again.

So she waived all his advances with a perfectly gentle courtesy, which
infuriated him, because it gave him _nothing_—not even just cause of
offense.

It would have been some comfort to have quarreled with Net. Yes, since
he could not make love to her, the next best thing would have been to
find fault with her, he thought.

But she gave him no opportunity to do the one any more than the other.

Altogether the young man was in a very bad humor when he left the
breakfast table with Net.

Antoinette was looking so well, and so quiet, that Net thought she might
now broach a subject which she had been dreading to approach all the
morning.

“And now, dear, I must tell you something that I _hate_ to trouble you
with,” said Net, uneasily.

“And what is that?” inquired her cousin.

“I am called for the defense, and I must be in Yockley on Tuesday
morning. Consequently I must leave here to-morrow morning.”

“Oh, Net!” exclaimed the sick girl, in dismay.

Adrian stared at her in astonishment.

“How is that? You never told me that?” he said, in displeasure.

“You never hinted it, Net!” said her cousin.

“You need not escort me on this occasion, Mr. Fleming. I know the route
quite well by this time, and I shall be leaving in the early morning
instead of at midnight,” said Net, with gentle courtesy.

“But you will be arriving at Yockley at midnight, which will be much
worse than starting from here at the same hour. I shall attend you. I do
not choose that you shall take such a journey alone. You are my wife,”
answered the young man, coldly.

“And it will not hurt _him_ to fatigue himself. He has got nothing else
to do,” said Antoinette, with an amused look.

Adrian shrugged his shoulders and made no reply.

He soon excused himself and walked out, leaving the friends together.

Net spent the day in Antoinette’s room.

The half estranged young married pair did not meet again until they met
at the dinner-table, where the butler and the footman were both in
attendance.

“Do you know that you acted very wrong in that matter of returning here
only to have to take the journey back again to-morrow?” began Adrian
Fleming, at length, disregarding the presence of the servants.

“I have already explained my motives of action. They seemed more than
justifiable—they seemed obligatory to me, and, I hoped, satisfactory to
others,” answered Net, with mild affability that disarmed her accuser.

“Bah! She will neither love me nor quarrel with me!” said Adrian to
himself.

After dinner they took tea with Antoinette in her boudoir, and remained
with her until eight o’clock, her hour for retiring to bed.

Then Mr. Fleming bade her good-night and good-bye, as they would be off
in the morning before Miss Deloraine’s hour for rising.

But Net remained with her friend, helped to undress and get her to bed,
and then sat by her until Antoinette fell asleep, after which Net
retired to her own room to make her few preparations for starting on her
journey.

Meanwhile, Adrian Fleming, acting under protest, had ordered the close
carriage and best road horses to be at the door at six o’clock in the
morning, to go to Deloraine railway station.

Net’s hurried journeying “to and fro on the face of the earth” had one
good effect. They insured to her, whenever she found herself on a bed,
the sound sleep of fatigue, notwithstanding the cares that were on her
mind—cares connected with Antoinette Deloraine’s illness, with Valdimir
Desparde’s trial, and with Adrian Fleming’s false position towards
herself.

She slept soundly until five o’clock, when, according to her previous
orders, she was called.

While she was dressing by candle-light, for it was still dark at five
o’clock on that December morning, some one knocked at the door.

“Come in,” said Net.

Mrs. Trimmer entered the room and said:

“If you please, ma’am, my mistress is awake, and sends her love to you,
and asks that you will please to come in after you have had your
breakfast and bid her good-bye before you go.”

“Certainly I will. Tell your mistress so. How is she this morning?”

“Bright as a bird, ma’am; but nurse says she means to make her go to
sleep again after you have gone,” replied the woman, and she left the
room.

Net soon finished her simple traveling toilet, and hurried to the
breakfast-room, which was lighted by wax candles in the hanging
chandelier.

The table was set for two, but there was no one in the room.

Net rang for coffee, and as soon as it was brought, with its attendant
muffins, toast, eggs and rashers, she sat down and commenced her repast.

Adrian Fleming came in just as she was rising from the table.

“Excuse me,” she said, gently. “Antoinette has sent for me and I must
attend.”

Adrian bit his lips.

“It is always Antoinette, or the children, or any one else than myself,
who command your attention, Net,” he said, sulkily.

“The dying have omnipotent claims on us, Adrian,” she answered, quietly,
as she left the room.

She found Antoinette lying on her beautiful and luxurious bed, looking
as lovely, as happy and as comfortable as it was possible for an invalid
to be.

“I sent for you not only to kiss you good-by and to wish you a pleasant
journey, dear Net, but also that you may see for yourself and take away
with you an impression that will make your mind easy on my account until
you shall see me again. Net, I have not felt so well, for the last three
months, as I feel this morning. If you stay with me all the winter, I
should not wonder at all if I should live to take that summer trip with
you and the children which we have talked about. Net, I feel as if I
were going to get well,” she concluded, as she threw her arms around her
cousin’s neck.

“May the Lord in heaven grant it!” fervently and sincerely responded
Net, as she returned the embrace, and then seated herself on the side of
the bed.

Antoinette raised up and drew out a little drawer from the table by her
bed, and took from it her portemonnaie, which she opened and from which
she took a five-pound note, saying:

“Now you know, Net, if I were up and about I should buy some books or
toys to send the children. You must be my agent and buy them for me,
Net—”

Little Mammam opened her mouth to object to the amount, but was quickly
hushed by her cousin, who continued:

“I know that boy wants a velocipede as well as if I had heard him
express the wish, and I know that girl wants ‘another doll.’ I know that
all girls want another doll! I would get these things for the children,
if I were up and well; but as I am in bed and weak, you must get them
for me and give them to the children, and anything else they would like—
There, Net, not a word of opposition! Don’t dispute with a sick woman,
please! The doctor says I must be kept quiet! Now to be kept quiet, I
must not be contradicted,” added Antoinette, with a humorous smile.

“You are very, very good, and the children will be delighted,” said Net,
bending down and kissing her cousin.

“Come back as soon as you can _conveniently_, Net, and bring the
children, and settle down here for the winter; it is much warmer here
than in far Cumberland.”

“Yes, I will come back and bring the little ones.”

“And do not be uneasy about me, Net—_I am going to get well_,” said
Antoinette, brightly.

“Heaven grant that you may, my dear.”

“Look at the clock, Net, I do not want to make you lose the train. What
is the hour?”

“It is ten minutes past six,” answered Net, after glancing at the
time-piece on the mantel-shelf.

“And the carriage was ordered for six. You must go, dear. Kiss me
good-bye.”

And so they parted.

She hurried down stairs and out to the carriage, where now Adrian
Fleming was anxiously awaiting her.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXXIV.
THE ARRAIGNMENT.

It often falls, in course of common life,
That right, long time, is overborne by wrong,
Through avarice, or power, or guile, or strife,
That weakens her and makes opponent strong;
But Justice, though her doom she do prolong,
Yet at the last she will her own cause right.
SPENSER.

On the same Monday morning that witnessed the departure of the Flemings
from Deloraine Park, the little town of Yockley was in an unusual
commotion.

The assizes were to be opened that day.

The judges would enter the town at an early hour, and the great trial of
the Crown _vs._ Valdimir Desparde, indicted for murder, was the first
case on the docket.

The news of this impending trial, scattered broadcast through the
country, had attracted a multitude of people to the scene.

Mrs. Perkins, Miss Mossop and Mr. Nott had arrived from London, and were
accommodated at a lodging-house within a stone’s throw of the Guild
Hall.

Mr. Michael McDermott and Mr. Alexander McQuilligan had also arrived,
and were at the “Crown and Sceptre.”

Net Fleming would certainly be on time—that they knew.

Even the photographs of the absent and the dead had been procured from
the Miston photographer for identification by the witnesses.

Everything was arranged, down to the smallest detail, when at ten
o’clock, the sheriff himself appeared at the cell door and intimated
that he would conduct Mr. Desparde to the court-room.

The carriage containing our party rolled into the back gate and up to
the back door, unsuspected and unmolested.

The prisoner’s entrance had been managed so quietly that no one
suspected his identity, or noticed him in any way.

The business of the trial was begun.

The jury was impaneled from the crowd in the court-room, and in a very
short time, and then the prisoner was arraigned after the usual formula.

Thomas Potter, guard on the London and Northwestern Railway train, was
duly sworn.

He was severely cross-examined by the counsel for the defense, and
especially as to the identity of Mr. Valdimir Desparde with the person
who had engaged the reserved compartment.

But he was obstinately certain upon that point.

Being “cornered,” however, he admitted that he had not recognized Mr.
Desparde at Paddington, or, in fact at any subsequent station, until the
train reached the Grand Junction, where he saw Mr. Desparde’s face quite
plainly for the first time; and that he saw it often from that time,
until they reached Miston Branch Junction, where he missed him.

The counsel for the prisoner made a note here.

The next witness called was Mrs. Jane Bottom, who being sworn, testified
to the finding of the dead body in the railway carriage.

She was followed by the Misses Ann Jane and Maria Bottom, who
corroborated her testimony.

Edward Hetley, railway porter at Yockley station, and formerly of
Miston, testified to having seen the body of the murdered girl, and
recognized it as that of Christelle Ken.

Dr. Lowe, of Yockley, testified to having made the post-mortem
examination and to the cause of death—a wound, made by some
sharp-pointed instrument, through the heart.

Two of the doctor’s medical assistants corroborated his testimony.

With these witnesses the case for the crown closed.

The court adjourned, with the understanding that on the following
morning the senior counsel for the prisoner, Mr. Stair, would open for
the defense.

After the court had adjourned the crowd lingered to get a view of the
prisoner.

But the sheriff again circumvented them by quietly withdrawing Valdimir
Desparde through the door on the left of the Judges’ bench leading into
the sheriff’s office, and thence down the stairs to the back door.

Lord Beaudevere followed, and they all entered the carriage that was in
waiting.

The baron accompanied his kinsman to the prison and remained with him in
his cell, conversing cheerfully on his prospects until the hour came for
the closing of the doors.

Then, with the promise to be on hand early the next morning to attend
him to the court-room, Lord Beaudevere took leave and departed.

He entered his carriage and drove straight to the White Bear Inn, where
he had taken up his temporary abode, not so much on account of the
elegance and comfort of the quaint old house, as on that of its
proximity to the prison.

Just as he stepped into the house, a waiter, who seemed to be on the
lookout, came up, touched his hair, and handed him a small black-edged
envelope.

Lord Beaudevere recognized Vivienne’s handwriting, opened it immediately
and read the few lines it contained—

“DEAR BEAUE—Don’t be angry. We are here. Arielle _would_ come. I _had_
to attend her. The housekeeper and butler, being a staid old couple, are
with us in lieu of other attendants. We are in numbers 59 and 60.

“V.”

The baron frowned and compressed his lips with vexation as he beckoned
the waiter who had brought him the note.

“I suppose I must let them remain here until after the trial,” muttered
the baron. “The dare-devils! I had done my utmost to dissuade them to
take this step. Well! well! I must not scold them, for both are as
deeply concerned as I am in the matter which has brought me here.”

The next morning Net made her appearance at the hostelry and was
effusively greeted by the girls. Net was in earnest conversation with
the girls, when they were interrupted by a knock at the door.

Net herself went and opened it.

“A telegram for Mrs. Fleming,” said the voice of the waiter.

“When did this come?” inquired Net.

“Yesterday afternoon, ma’am. It has been waiting in the office for you
ever since,” replied the waiter.

Net closed the door and opened the telegram. Then she dropped down upon
the nearest chair, with a face blanched to marble.

The telegram was as follows:

“DELORAINE PARK, _December the —, 12 o’clock_ M. DR. BEDE to MRS. ADRIAN
FLEMING, _White Bear Inn, Yockley, Cumberland_: Miss Deloraine died at
7:15 A. M.”

“What is it? A telegram did he say? Does it relate to the witnesses for
the trial?” inquired Arielle, stepping out of bed to join her friend.
“Why, Net, you are as white as a ghost! What is it?”

“It is—a telegram from—Antoinette’s medical attendant—Dr. Bede. She
is—there has been—a change,” stammered Net, with quivering lips and
brimming eyes.

“Antoinette has _gone_! She has changed this world for the next!”
exclaimed Arielle, in an awestruck tone. “You will not go back this
morning?”

“No, it would be of no use to her for me to go, since she _is_ gone;
even if I were at liberty to do so, which I am not. I am subpœnaed as a
witness on this trial, you know,” gently replied Net.

“Yes, and your evidence is of vital importance to Valdimir.”

“But, of course, I must return to Deloraine Park, just as soon as I am
free to do so,” replied Net, struggling hard to keep back the tears that
sprang to her eyes.

She had seen so much of death in her short life—her father, her mother,
her step-father, her friends and relatives had dropped fast around her.
In truth, Net needed all her Christian faith to support her
spirit—needed every day to pray for faith and hope to sustain her
wounded and suffering love.

At this moment Vivienne came out of the bathroom, dressed for the day.

She greeted Net with a kiss, ascribed her pale face to the fatigue of
her night’s journey, and inquired how she had left Antoinette.

Then they told her the truth.

Vivienne was deeply shocked and grieved, though indeed she had been for
some days past expecting to hear the sad news which had just reached
them.

The clock struck nine and warned the three young women that they must
make themselves ready to attend the court, which was to meet within an
hour.

Net Fleming withdrew to the room engaged for herself, to make her clean
toilet for the breakfast table and later for the witness-stand.

Vivienne went into the parlor to communicate the news of Antoinette’s
death to Lord Beaudevere.

Half an hour later they all met around the board in Lady Arielle’s
private sitting-room, where the Flemings had been invited to join their
friends at breakfast.

“I am very glad you have come, Fleming,” said the baron, cheerfully;
“for I was rather embarrassed with the presence of these two young
ladies. Not expecting to find them here, I had promised Valdimir to go
with _him_ to the court, and but for your timely arrival I should have
had to disappoint him, and I should not like to have done that, I assure
you. Now, however, you can take charge of these girls and leave me to
attend my kinsman.”

“I shall be most happy to be useful,” replied Mr. Fleming, with a grave
bow, for he was still very much affected by the news of Antoinette’s
departure.

“You will have to get a second carriage, and, _mind_, drive to the
Orchard street entrance, where I will take you all up through the
sheriff’s office to seats near the bench,” concluded the baron, as they
arose from the table.

The young ladies retired to put on their bonnets and the gentlemen went
down to see to the carriages, that they might be well aired and
comfortable—for the day was a raw, damp, cold one.

A few minutes later two carriages were drawn up before the door.

Beaue, with courtly grace, put the three young ladies in one of them,
and, turning, said to Mr. Fleming:

“You had better drive at once to the Guild Hall. Enter by the Orchard
street gate, as I advised you, and wait at the rear door until I come
up. I have to go first to the prison; but it is not far, and I shall not
be more than ten or fifteen minutes behind you.”

Fleming bowed, entered the carriage, and seated himself beside Net.

The baron entered the second carriage.

And then both vehicles drove out of the inn yard and separated, the one
taking its way to the prison, the other to the court-house.

The distance to the prison was very short.

Lord Beaudevere found his kinsman and the sheriff already down in the
hall on the ground floor.

Immediately after the morning salutations they all three entered the
carriage to drive to the Guild Hall.

As they went on, the baron delighted his young kinsman with the news
that his sister and his betrothed had arrived in town.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXXV.
THE VERDICT.

The shadow of this woe will pass away,
Then will commence his high career,
He will rise up to it and make all possible,
The glory and the grandeur of each dream
And every aspiration be fulfilled.
ROBERT BROWNING.

The carriage containing Lady Arielle Montjoie, Mr. and Mrs. Fleming and
Miss Desparde was the first to reach the hall.

The court-room was, if possible, even more crowded than it had been on
the preceding day, the first of the trial.

Mr. Stair, the senior counsel for the prisoner, was already on his feet,
opening the case for the defense.

He began by giving a slight sketch of his client, whom he said was well
known to most persons present, and well-beloved and esteemed by all who
knew.

He then told the story of Valdimir Desparde’s movements from the moment
of his landing at Southampton on that fatal day of December to the
moment of his arrest at Miston, and proposed to account for every
instant of his time during that interval, and to prove by a host of
competent witnesses that it was utterly impossible for him to have been
the murderer of Christelle Ken, or to have been anywhere near the scene
of the murder at the time of its perpetration.

He next told the story of the murder as he held, and proposed to prove,
that it had occurred, and to support this theory he called—

“Mrs. Antoinette Fleming.”

Net came forward and took the stand; and being duly sworn, she testified
that the deceased, Christelle Ken, had been well known to her for
several years.

And then, in answer to the questions of the counsel, she gave a full and
particular history of poor Kit’s acquaintance with Brandon Coyle and the
circumstances that led her to the suspicion that Kit had been abducted
or persuaded away by him; and then was offered the posthumous letter of
poor Kit in evidence. It was read and it made a very great impression on
all who heard it.

Then was offered the letter of Mrs. Perkins, which was also read with
scarcely less effect.

Net was cross-examined by the counsel for the crown.

“Have you ever seen the prisoner at the bar in company with the
deceased?”

“Never,” answered Net.

“Have you any reason to believe that he had been intimate with her?”

“None whatever! I do not think Mr. Desparde even knew the girl Kit Ken,
either by name or by sight.”

“Had the deceased other followers?”

“None whatever; not one, except Brandon Coyle.”

The direct examination was then resumed, and Net told of Kit’s former
letter submitted to her by Lady Arielle Montjoie, and of the scene at
the reading of the late Earl of Altofaire’s will.

She was then allowed to retire, and the next witness was called.

“Mrs. Martha Curry.”

This was the housekeeper at Castle Montjoie—a little dark-skinned,
black-eyed woman of about fifty years of age.

She corroborated the testimony of the last witness in regard to the
scene in the dining-room at Castle Montjoie on the reading of the late
earl’s will. She also described the rage of Coyle, and his threats of
vengeance against Kit Ken. This scene occurred, she said, on the — of
December—the day before the murder.

Tobias Curry, husband of the last witness, and butler at Castle
Montjoie, corroborated the testimony of his wife.

“Mrs. Prudence Perkins” was next called.

This woman, it will be remembered, was the landlady of the lodging-house
in Church Lane, Chelsea.

She was shown the photographs of Brandon Coyle and Kit Ken, and she
identified them as portraits of her two lodgers, whom she had known as
Mr. and Mrs. Coyle.

She gave a narrative of their arrival and sojourn at her house, and of
their departure on the afternoon of the — day of December, preceding the
night of the murder.

On being shown the letter purporting to have been written by herself to
Mrs. Fleming, she identified it as her own. She identified the inclosed
letter as the one intrusted to her by poor Kit to be sent to Mrs.
Fleming in the event already mentioned.

She also testified to the suspicion and anxiety that troubled the poor
girl lest her “husband” should do her a mischief on the journey, though
her fears pointed rather to being betrayed into a private mad-house than
to murder.

Mrs. Perkins’ testimony suffered nothing in the cross-examination that
followed.

“Mary Mossop!”

The maid of-all-work at the Church Lane lodging-house took the stand,
corroborated the last witness’s testimony, and identified the
photographs as likenesses of her mistress’s lodgers, Mr. and Mrs. Coyle.

“John Nott!”

The cabman from Chelsea took the stand and testified to having driven
Mr. and Mrs. Coyle from Church Lane to Paddington Station on the
afternoon of the — day of December, and to having been present when Mr.
Coyle engaged the middle compartment of carriage 2, B, on the London and
Northwestern train for himself and his wife, and to having seen them
both get into it just before the train started.

Being shown the two photographs he identified them as the portraits of
the parties he had, on the afternoon of the — day of December, taken
from Church Lane to Paddington and seen enter the reserved compartment
in carriage 2, B, and who were known to him as Mr. and Mrs. Coyle.

He was slightly cross-examined without effect, and then permitted to
withdraw.

“Charles Smithers!”

This witness was the ticket agent at Paddington.

He swore to having been on duty at the window at the Paddington Station
on the — of December, and to having sold tickets for a reserved
compartment in railway carriage 2, B, on the London and Northwestern
railway train that left the station at four P. M.

“Witness, look at the prisoner at the bar,” said the senior counsel for
the defense.

Smithers turned and stared at Mr. Desparde, who smiled in his face.

“Was the prisoner at the bar the party to whom you sold the reserved
compartment?”

“No, sir; he was not. I never saw the prisoner before in my life,”
replied Smithers.

“Very well. Now look at these photographs. Did you ever see the
originals of _them_ before?” inquired Counselor Stair, passing the cards
of Coyle and Kit Ken to the man, who took and looked at them
attentively, and then replied:

“Yes, sir. _These_ are the likenesses of the man and woman who took the
reserved compartment of carriage 2, B, on the London and Northwestern
Railroad on the afternoon of that — day of December.”

The witness was more closely questioned, but his testimony only
established beyond all doubt that it was Brandon Coyle and _not_
Valdimir Desparde who engaged the reserved compartment on the train in
which his companion was afterwards a few hours later found murdered.

“John Gretterex!”

A portly, red-faced man of about forty years of age took the stand, and
testified to knowing Mr. Brandon Coyle by sight, and by name, and to
having seen him leave the middle compartment of railway carriage 2, B,
at midnight, December the —, at the Grand Junction Station, and having
seen him get upon the train for Southampton.

“John Kent!” was next called.

This witness testified that he knew Mr. Brandon Coyle and that he
traveled with him from the Grand Junction to Southampton on the early
morning of December the —, and afterwards saw him embark on a
steamer—the _Montana_—for New York.

“Michael McDermott!”

A ruddy-faced young Irish gentleman took the stand and testified to
having ridden in the same carriage with Mr. Valdimir Desparde from
Southampton to Peterboro on the — day of December, instant.

“Alexander McQuilligan!”

A tall, gaunt, sanguine-hued and red-haired Scotchman, took the stand
and testified to having ridden in the same carriage with the prisoner at
the bar, on the train from Peterboro to the Grand Junction, where he got
off, on the night of December —.

This was the last witness examined for the defense.

There was no rebutting testimony introduced.

Mr. Turner reviewed the evidence and claimed that the defense had
disproved all the charges of the crown and had proved the innocence of
their client.

The Lord Chief Baron Belair summed up very briefly, saying that so clear
a case needed no elucidation from him, and that he could safely leave it
as the testimony left it—in the hands of an intelligent and impartial
jury.

The jury consulted in their box, and, without leaving the court-room,
returned a verdict of—

“NOT GUILTY!”

This verdict was received with acclamations.

Friends and acquaintances came around the vindicated man with warm
congratulations.

The crowd in the court-room raised a shout that seemed to threaten to
lift the roof.

The news spread outside, and the hurrahs of the assembled multitude rent
the air.

The officers of the court did not attempt to preserve order on this
occasion.

The judges came down from the bench and shook hands with Mr. Desparde
and his immediate friends. So did the queen’s counsel, Parker, and his
assistants.

And through all this the shouts and hurrahs of the people rose to
heaven.

Never in this world was there a more triumphant vindication.

CHAPTER XXXVI.
VICTORY.

And thus, from the sad years of life,
We sometimes do short hours, yea, minutes strike,
Keen, blissful, bright, never to be forgotten;
Which, through the dreary gloom of time o’er past,
Shine like the sunny spots on a wild waste.
BAILLIE.

Wise Heaven doth see it just as fit
In all our joys to give us some alloys,
As in our sorrows, comforts; when our sails
Are filled with happiest winds, then we most need
Some heaviness to ballast us.
FOUNTAIN.

When the judges and the officers of the law had withdrawn, and the
huzzas of the crowd, inside and outside the court-house, had subsided,
Valdimir Desparde and his friends retired through the sheriff’s room and
down the rear stairs to the Orchard street entrance, where the two
carriages awaited them.

During the excitement in the court-room he found no opportunity of
approaching his betrothed or her companions, though he was most
impatient to do so.

Lord Beaudevere then whispered to him:

“I will take Arielle down stairs and put her in the carriage. You can
join her there, and no one else shall intrude upon you. I will go with
Vivienne and the Flemings in the other carriage.”

Valdimir pressed his hand in silent acquiescence, and then the baron led
Lady Arielle out of the still densely-crowded court-room and down stairs
to the back entrance, and put her into one of the carriages, whispering,
as he closed the door:

“Valdimir will join you here in a very few moments.”

And almost as he spoke Valdimir Desparde came up.

Lord Beaudevere, with a smile, gave way, and the young man entered the
carriage and seated himself beside his betrothed.

Lord Beaudevere gave the coachman his orders to drive to the White Bear
Inn, and then went to join the other members of his party who were
seated in the other vehicle.

Both carriages started, that of the young lovers taking the precedence.

As soon as the betrothed pair found themselves alone together, Valdimir
lifted the hand of Arielle and pressed it warmly to his lips and to his
heart.

Tears of joy stood in his eyes.

Neither could speak, but their silence was more eloquent than any words
could have been.

After a short drive, our party stopped at the inn.

Arielle had already laid off her hat and mantle, and was seated on a
short, hard, horse-hair sofa, in the parlor, with Valdimir by her side.

After a few pleasant words, Lord Beaudevere drew Adrian Fleming’s arm
within his own and took him out, ostensibly to see the landlord in
person as to the condition of his larder, but really to leave the lovers
to themselves for a little while; for Vivienne and Net had already gone
to their chambers to lay off their hats and coats.

_Only_ “for a little while” could the one private parlor in the crowded
inn be left to the young lovers.

Very soon they were disturbed by the entrance of the waiter to lay the
cloth for dinner.

When _he_ went out the two young ladies, Net and Vivienne, came in.

Then, for the first time since the verdict, the brother and sister met,
and embraced with so much emotion that scarcely an articulate word could
be uttered between them.

Vivienne presented her brother to Net Fleming, whom he had not seen
since his arrival in the country.

Mutual and hearty congratulations passed between them.

Net expressed her joy in his triumphal vindication, which she declared
to be equal to a public ovation.

Valdimir returned thanks and wished her much joy in her married life.

“And to think,” he added, in his total ignorance of the circumstances of
that marriage, “to think that Sly Boots, Adrian Fleming, never told me a
word about it when we met in New York, never even dropped a hint of it!”

At this moment the gentleman of whom they were speaking entered the
room.

More congratulations followed, with more or less sincerity, between
Messrs. Desparde and Fleming.

Dinner was served, and six of the hungriest people in the town sat down
to one of the best repasts ever laid there.

And they lingered long over its three courses and longer over the
dessert.

It was ten o’clock before the last cloth was drawn and the coffee
served.

While they were sipping this fragrant beverage the voice of the
indefatigable and ubiquitous newsboy was heard under the windows
yelling:

“_‘Ere’s yer Evening Noose—full account of the trial—Muster Valable
Despatch, and werdick for the ’cused. ’Ere’s yer—_”

Lord Beaudevere arose and rang the bell.

A waiter entered in answer to the summons.

“Go down and bring me a paper,” said the baron.

A few moments later the waiter entered the room with the paper and
handed it to the baron.

“What an exaggeration! Why, Valdimir, they have got it here that your
horses were taken off and your carriage was drawn through the streets by
relays of men, followed by a multitude of citizens. Ha! what is this?
Here is news!” continued the baron, as his eyes glanced to other parts
of the paper.

“What is it?” inquired Valdimir Desparde.

“I will read it,” answered Lord Beaudevere, and he began as follows:

“‘THE ASSASSIN OF CHRISTELLE KEN.

“‘There is not a shadow of a doubt on the minds of any who heard the
evidence on the trial of Mr. Valdimir Desparde, (whose honor has been
vindicated amid such thunders of applause as never yet attended the
acquittal of any person) that the murderer of poor Christelle Ken, was
no other than Brandon Coyle, of Caveland, Miston. Some dark stories have
been afloat in regard to that gentleman, by which it appears that
homicidal mania may be hereditary in his family. An officer armed with
the necessary warrants has gone down to Liverpool, and will sail
to-morrow morning for New York in quest of Mr. Brandon Coyle, who has
escaped to the United States, but it is hoped will be found and brought
back under the extradition treaty to answer for the crime for which Mr.
Desparde has been so unjustly accused, and of which he has been so
triumphantly acquitted.’

“There, that’s it! They are prompt. They lose no time—these law
officers. But I am grieved for Coyle—my poor, old neighbor. Ah! he
hatched a couple of cockatrice’s eggs when he took those two Simses to
his home!” sighed the baron.

“But poor Aspirita is not to blame for all this,” said Net, in a tone of
compassion.

“Humph!” said the baron, dryly. “She is too much like her brother in
everything to engage my sympathies. You do not know perhaps, my dear,
that she was his confederate in the transmission of those forged
letters, that deceived and misled both Valdimir and Arielle, and but for
providential agencies would have resulted in severing them forever.”

“I knew of the letter purporting to come from Mr. Desparde to Mr. Coyle,
giving a _mésalliance_ as the motive of his sudden journey to New York,
but I thought that Aspirita herself must have been also deceived when
she inclosed it to Arielle,” replied Net.

“No. Subsequent events proved that she was his confederate; for about
the same time a forged letter, purporting to have been from Arielle to
_her_—Aspirita—announcing Arielle’s engagement to be married to a
gentleman approved by her grandparents, was inclosed by Brandon Coyle to
Valdimir Desparde. The brother could not have done all this without the
assistance of his sister. She was his confederate in everything except
in the murder of poor Kit Ken.”

When the clock struck eleven they separated and retired to rest.

The following morning, the members of our party rose early, and when the
hurried morning meal was over they hastily assumed their outer garments
and went out to take their places in the hacks.

A short and pleasant ride through the crisp winter air and over the
frosty ground took them to the Miston Branch Station, where the party
separated—Lord Beaudevere, Lady Arielle Montjoie, Mr. and Miss Desparde
leaving the carriage to take the Miston train, and Mr. and Mrs. Adrian
Fleming continuing their journey to London _en route_ for Devonshire.

CHAPTER XXXVII.
AT DELORAINE PARK.

Softly
She is lying
With her lips apart,
Softly,
While you’re sighing
With a smitten heart.
Gently
She is sleeping—
She has breathed her last;
Gently,
While you’re weeping,
She to heaven has passed.
C. G. EASTMAN.

Mr. and Mrs. Adrian Fleming reached London late in the afternoon, and
had only time to take a luncheon before getting their seats on the
Southwestern train. They traveled all night, and about seven o’clock the
next morning they reached Deloraine Station.

They found the Deloraine carriage waiting for them.

“Ah, Beckwith! You got the telegram, then?” said Mr. Fleming, as the
coachman touched his hat.

“Yes, sir,” replied the man, repeating his gesture of respect.

The young footman, Harry Hart, opened the carriage door to admit his new
mistress and master; then handed in the portmanteaus, closed the door
again and sprang up behind.

The carriage drove off, taking its way towards the village and through
the main street.

They drew up at the Deloraine Arms, where the swinging sign was swathed
in back.

Here Adrian ordered coffee and muffins, which were brought to the
carriage, where he and Net partook of them.

Then they continued their way through the village, where every house was
closed and hung in mourning.

The carriage passed through the gates and wound its way along the road
leading through the park up to the hall.

The footman sprang down and rang the bell, and the door was opened to
receive the new mistress at the moment her husband handed her from the
carriage.

The footman, going before, led the way up stairs and threw open the door
of the drawing-room.

But Net did not go there. She passed on to the rooms that had been
appropriated to her private use, while she had been staying at the hall,
and she shut herself in alone and rang for the housekeeper.

Nelly, the maid, answered the bell.

“I want Mrs. Koffy,” said Net, who was too much agitated to remember her
usually considerate and courteous manner to all—even the humblest with
whom she might be brought into contact.

The girl went out and in a few moments Mrs. Koffy came in.

At the sight of her new mistress she threw her black silk apron over her
head and began to sob and cry.

“Sit down and try to compose yourself. I wish you to tell me some
particulars of your young lady’s last hours.”

Amidst tears and lamentations the housekeeper complied and gave as
coherent an account of the sad event as it was possible for her to do.

The good domestic then finished her recital with the interrogation:

“That is all, ma’am. Would you like to see her?”

“Yes,” said Net, with an irrepressible sigh.

The housekeeper arose to lead the way.

Net also arose and took off her bonnet and mantle to follow the woman,
who conducted her to the boudoir where poor Antoinette Deloraine had
passed the last days of her life, and where everything was now in the
most perfect order. Thence they passed into the bedchamber, where, on
the rose-colored silk and lace draped bed and under the rosy silk and
lace tent like canopy, lay, like the fair, waxen image of a beautiful
maiden, the form of Antoinette Deloraine.

Nurse Knollis was moving softly about the room, replacing faded flowers
with fresh ones. She courtesied to Mrs. Fleming, and then, having
completed her task, she withdrew.

“You may also go, Mrs. Koffy. I wish to remain here alone, if you
please,” said Net, taking her seat beside the bed.

“Now don’t you go to be taking on, my dear young lady; you will just be
making yourself ill for nothing,” expostulated the housekeeper, who
mistook the motives of her mistress.

“I! Oh, no, I should not do so, _here_ of all places,” quietly replied
Net. The housekeeper withdrew and left Net alone in the sphere of
ineffable peace which surrounds those who have recently fallen asleep in
the Lord.

Net felt this and soon lost herself in a benign repose that lasted she
knew not how long, but until she was aroused by a rapping at the door,
followed by the entrance of the housekeeper, who said:

“If you please, ma’am, the master is asking for you, and luncheon is on
the table.”

Net arose, pressed her lips upon the ivory brow of the beautiful
sleeper, covered the face again with its lace handkerchief, and withdrew
from the chamber.

“The luncheon is spread in the large breakfast-room below, madam. You
will find Hart in the hall, who will show you the way,” said Mrs. Koffy,
as she left her mistress at the head of the main stairway, and turned to
go down by the back steps.

Net went down and was duly shown by young Hart to the breakfast parlor,
where she found the lunch table laid and several gentlemen besides her
husband assembled.

They were all strangers to her; and Mr. Fleming proceeded to introduce
them.

“My wife, Mrs. Adrian Fleming, gentlemen!—My dear, the Rev. Mr. Deering,
Rector of St. Andrew’s church, Deloraine; Dr. Bede; Mr. Philip
Frodisham.”

The gentlemen bowed, the lady bowed, and they all sat down to the table.

The luncheon passed off agreeably, but very gravely.

After it was over, Mr. Frodisham requested an interview with Mrs.
Fleming, who led him into a little parlor on the same floor.

Mr. Frodisham was a venerable, hale old gentleman of not less than
seventy years, with a robust and upright form, a healthy, rosy face and
a fine, stately gray head. He was the senior partner of the firm of
Frodisham Brothers, who had had charge of the Deloraine estate for three
generations of that short-lived family.

“My dear Mrs. Fleming, first of all I wish to express to you my warm
admiration of the magnanimity with which you have acted towards your
deceased cousin. You might have enriched yourself by dispossessing her,
and the legal and moral right to do so was undoubtedly yours, and yet
you forebore to do it! You permitted your unfortunate cousin to live and
to die in the happy delusion that she was the legitimate daughter of the
late Alfred Deloraine, and the legal heiress of Deloraine Park—”

“As she ought in justice to have been, Mr. Frodisham; I may have had the
legal right to dispossess Antoinette, but assuredly I had not the moral
right to do so. I _could not_ have done so, indeed! And I am very glad
and thankful that my dear Antoinette never suspected the misfortune that
might have overwhelmed her reason had she learned it,” said Net.

“You are a very rare and magnanimous young lady. I must tell you _that_
before you go any farther. Now we must discuss business,” said the
attorney.

And he asked Net’s instruction upon certain points to be attended to
immediately; among them the details for the management of Antoinette
Deloraine’s funeral.

Net referred him to Mr. Fleming and to the rector. And so the interview
ended.

The funeral was arranged to take place on that day week.

Letters were written to the few relatives of the Deloraine family that
were left alive, and also to Sir Adrian and Lady Fleming, inviting them
to attend the obsequies.

Not one from a distance responded in person, except the baronet, who
arrived at Deloraine Park on the morning of the day set for the funeral.

Adrian Fleming had just gone out for a stroll through the park. The
baronet was welcomed by his daughter-in law, in the little
reception-room on the first floor.

“Well, Saucebox!” was Sir Adrian’s greeting to Net. “How are those
little bones of contention, the children? I dare say you have come to
your senses and got rid of them before this!”

“The children are well, Sir Adrian, and are still under my
guardianship,” gently replied Net.

“You do not mean to say that you have got them here, in this house!”
exclaimed the old gentleman.

“Not just at present. I left them at Castle Montjoie, in the care of the
countess, while I came to attend my cousin,” said Net, with a slight
smile.

“At—Castle Montjoie!—with the young countess!—those children!!!”
exclaimed the baronet, staring.

“Yes, Sir Adrian. Every one has not the same aversion to children that
you and Lady Fleming profess to have,” answered Net.

“Well! They will not probably remain for the rest of their natural lives
at Castle Montjoie. What do you intend to do with them afterwards?”

“I wish to bring them here; but—”

“Your husband will never consent to that absurd measure—never, if I know
him!” interrupted the baronet.

Net made no reply. Her eyes sank beneath the hard, steady stare of the
old man.

“What will you do in that case?” he demanded, without withdrawing his
gaze.

A look of care and trouble crossed the gentle face of little mammam for
a moment, and then passed off, as she said:

“I will ‘take no thought of the morrow,’ but ‘let the morrow take
thought for the things of itself. Sufficient unto the day is the evil
thereof.’ Sir Adrian, but for that text I should have passed many a
sleepless night in the course of my troubled life.”

“There—we won’t argue—I am going to get some of this railroad dust out
of my eyes! Where is your husband?” suddenly demanded the baronet.

“He has walked out. I expect him in every minute,” replied Net.

“Tired of the house, I suppose. Never could bear confinement or
solemnity. Both together too much for him. Well, I am going to my room.
I suppose you have one ready for me?”

“Oh, yes, Sir Adrian, and Hart will show you to it.”

“Well, I am going now to see if I can turn myself back again from a
blackamoor to a white man, as I used to be. And then I shall want
something to eat. When will lunch be ready?”

“As soon as you shall be ready for it, Sir Adrian.”

With that answer from Net the baronet strode out of the room and was
taken possession of by Hart, who conducted him to his chamber, where he
found his valet already installed and employed in opening his
dressing-case and portmanteau and laying out their contents.

Net in the meantime hastened to the housekeeper and directed her to have
something hot and appetizing for her exacting father-in-law.

Coming up from the consultation with Mrs. Koffy, Net met Adrian
returning from his walk.

“Your father has just arrived,” she said.

“Ah! Where is the old man?” he demanded, with pleasure in his eyes,
because, with all his failings he loved his father.

“He has gone up to his room. The blue room next beyond yours,” answered
Net.

Adrian bounded upstairs, taking three steps at a jump and was soon out
of sight.

Half an hour later the baronet, his son and daughter-in-law sat down to
a dainty repast in the little dining-room on the first floor.

Soon after this the funeral guests began to assemble.

All the county families in the vicinity of Deloraine Park came to pay
their last tribute of respect to the youngest, fairest and last of the
Deloraines.

The funeral took place in the afternoon. The remains were conveyed to St
Andrew’s Church, at the head of the hall lane and at the upper end of
the village. This church had been founded five centuries before by one
of the earlier ancestors of the house of Deloraine, and the family vault
was under the chancel.

The procession of carriages that followed the hearse extended nearly
from the lodge gates to the church door, where the coffin was met by the
rector.

The service consisted of the solemn and beautiful ritual of the Church
of England.

At its close the mortal remains of Antoinette Deloraine were deposited
in the crypt below the altar.

All the carriages then dispersed to their various destinations. Only
those of the limited household returned to Deloraine Hall, where dinner
awaited them.

The departed girl had been a minor, incapable of making a will, so that
there was no after ceremony of opening and reading such a document to be
performed.

Net Fleming was the heiress-at-law and came into immediate possession.

After dinner there remained in the house only Sir Adrian, who was to
spend the night at the hall, and Mr. and Mrs. Fleming, who were to make
it their permanent home.

It happened that some time after dinner Net went up to her dressing-room
to bathe her head, which was aching and burning from long-continued
fatigue and excitement. Now her dressing-room joined that of the old
baronet, back to back, so that the same branch of pipes supplied both
wash-stands with water. Only a thin partition separated them.

As Net stood bathing her head over the wash-basin she heard voices in
the next room. At first she paid no attention, and so did not recognize
them. They—the voices—might have belonged to the housemaid and valet for
aught she knew or cared.

But presently she recognized the voices as those of her husband and her
father-in-law; but still she did not listen, and therefore did not hear
the purport of their conversation, until suddenly some words uttered by
her husband struck her ear—ay! and struck her _heart_, nearly paralyzing
her where she stood. She could not move; she could not speak; she could
scarcely breathe, while she was compelled to listen.

And what were these words that smote all color from her cheeks, all
light from her eyes, nearly all life from her frame?

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XXXVIII.
THOSE BITTER, BITTER WORDS.

Yes, on the dull silence breaking
With a lightning’s flash—a word,
Bearing endless desolation
On its blighting wings, she heard.
Earth can forge no keener weapon
Dealing surer death and pain.
Shall the cruel echo answer
Through long years of pain?
A. A. PROCTOR.

“Oh, no, father!” exclaimed Adrian Fleming, with a laugh that sounded so
utterly heartless, under the circumstances. “Oh, no! you need not warn
me! There is no danger of my being burdened with those imps! I do not
_intend_ to let my wife bring those children into this house! I have
fully made up my mind on that subject. I have my own plans in regard to
the parson’s orphans, and I mean to carry them out at once, without
consulting ‘Mistress Net.’ It saves a world of trouble _to act_, instead
of to talk!”

“So it does! I am glad to hear you say it! That is right, my boy! Do you
be master! Your wife has been her own mistress so long that she has
acquired a very strong will; but you must break it if you wish to rule
in your home, as you should do. This _will_ be your home, of course?”
added the baronet, half interrogatively.

“Yes, in its season, and the town house on Westbourne Terrace, during
the London season.”

“Ah, to be sure! And it is a very good thing you have got them, else I
do not know how you would have managed—had to come to Fleming Chase,
perhaps, and that might have been awkward. There never was a house yet
large enough for two families.”

“No,” assented Adrian.

“But mind you, my boy, do not, because this fine estate is your wife’s
inheritance, and not yours, fall into the lamentable weakness of
becoming a mere cipher in your own house. You must assert yourself as
master, and one of your first acts of authority should be to pack those
children off to the alms-house, if she objects to the Clerical Orphan’s
Home for them,” said Sir Adrian, decisively.

“I shall place them in the Orphan’s Home myself, before a week is over
their heads, and I shall not take the trouble to consult Mrs. Adrian
Fleming on the subject. I shall take her by surprise, with the deed
accomplished,” replied the young man, with a laugh that sounded, ah! how
harshly and cruelly to the wounded ears and heart of the listening
woman.

“And now, mind you, keep to that resolution. Don’t be persuaded out of
it.”

“I tell you I shall not consult her; how, then, should she have the
opportunity of trying to persuade me out of it?” inquired Adrian,
somewhat impatiently.

“After it is all over, when she finds out how you have disposed of the
children, you will have some difficulty with your wife. You will have to
meet opposition, arguments, pleadings, tears, hysterics, Lord knows
what!”

“I shall know how to meet them!” laughed the young man.

“That is right! Don’t you yield a jot! If you should feel tempted for an
instant to do so, just take time to consider what a burden those
children would be to you. And how that burden would increase with
years—growing heavier and heavier every year. _Now_ it would be a
nursemaid and nursery governess to be maintained as well as the
children; then in a few years a tutor and a governess; then private
masters for the girl, and Eton and Oxford for the boy; then a commission
or a profession for him and a marriage portion for her.”

“A formidable array of responsibilities,” laughed Adrian.

“Yes! and marrying as early as you and your wife have done, you may
expect a very large family of your own. Think of that! and send these
brats to the alms-house at once and be rid of them,” concluded the
baronet, as he was heard to walk away.

“As I said before, I shall put them in the Orphan’s Home before a week
is over their heads, and without consulting my wife on the subject,”
reiterated Adrian Fleming, as he followed his father out of the room.

Then all Net’s strength forsook her and she sank down upon the floor and
buried her face in her folded arms on the cushion of her chair.

Oh, the hardness, the coldness, the selfishness and treachery of the
words she had just unwillingly overheard.

Her bitter anguish was not caused alone by grief for the prospective
fate of the children, but by shame for her husband’s conduct.

Was this the man she had vowed before Heaven to love and honor? Whom she
did devotedly love and tried sincerely to honor?

Nothing but his own self-convicting words could have convinced her that
he, Adrian Fleming, could be guilty of such baseness as he now proposed.

In all her former troubles—and she had had her share, as we know—she had
been enabled by faith to “cast ‘her’ burden on the Lord,” and to feel
that he did “sustain” her.

But she would not do so now. She seemed to have no strength to raise the
burden to cast it anywhere. She sank under it and let it settle down
upon her like the heavy stone of a sepulchre. She could not seek comfort
in prayer, she could not even find relief in tears.

While she lay there, with her head buried in her folded arms on the
cushion of her chair, the little maid, Cally, came through all the suite
of apartments, looking for her mistress, and finally reached the
dressing-room and started back in affright to see the lady in that
abject position.

“Oh, madame! madame! Are you ill?” she cried, apprehensively,
approaching.

“Yes, give me your hand, child,” faintly replied the lady, as she
endeavored to rise.

The frightened girl gave both her hands to her mistress, who got upon
her feet, and leaning on her maid, walked to the bedroom.

“Shall I call Mrs. Koffy, madame?” inquired Cally.

“No, child. Help me to undress, and then you may bring me a strong cup
of tea. I have a splitting headache, and must go to bed,” replied Mrs.
Fleming, sinking down into her easy-chair, and putting her feet out to
the little maid, who knelt to unlace her boots.

“Indeed, I do not wonder, dear madame, with all you have gone through
this week, traveling backwards and forwards from one end of England to
t’ other, between a murder trial there and a funeral here! It is a
wonder you have not been down in your bed before this, ma’am. I don’t
know how you kept up,” said Cally, as she put away the boots, and began
to take down her mistress’s hair and comb and brush it out.

“Does it do your head any good, my combing it out so, ma’am?”
affectionately inquired the girl.

“Yes, but do not linger over it, child; I am tired and I must lie down,”
said Net, wearily.

“No wonder, indeed,” sighed the little maid, in sympathy, as she wound
up her mistress’s hair and inclosed it in a little white silk net.

A few minutes after, her night toilet being complete, Net went to bed,
and the little maid brought her a cup of tea.

When Net had drank that, the girl set down the cup and then closed the
shutters, drew the curtains, mended the fire, lowered the light and
finally took the tassel of the bell-cord and laid it on the bed within
reach of her mistress, and inquired whether she should sit by her until
she—her mistress—should fall asleep.

“No, child, you may go. If I should ring you can return to me. In the
meantime, if any one should inquire for me, say that I have gone to bed
and do not wish to be disturbed. Do you hear?”

“Yes, madame, and I understand. You shall not be disturbed. I hope you
will sleep the headache off.”

“I hope so,” wearily replied the lady.

“Good-night, madame!”

“Good-night, child.”

The little maid withdrew.

Net clasped her hands above her burning and throbbing head, and tried to
pray again; but she could utter no more than the most helpless, human
cry.

“Lord! Lord! Have mercy.”

Later on there came a gentle knock at her door. It was repeated two or
three times before Net heard it, or rather before she noticed it or
thought to answer it, so deeply was she absorbed in her troubles.

“Who is there?” she inquired, expecting to hear the voice of a servant
in reply.

“It is I—Adrian. They tell me you are ill, Net. Will you let me come
in?” inquired Mr. Fleming from without.

Now Net and Adrian had never been fully reconciled. He had never yet
crossed the threshold of Net’s chamber, wherever they might have been
stopping.

Net’s heart shrank within her at the sound of his voice, and at the
request with which it was laden. She did not reply. She could not just
then.

“Will you let me come in and see you, Net, dear?” he repeated, and his
tones were kind and affectionate as were his words.

But Net was thinking of other words, in other tones, that were ringing
through her memory:

“‘I do not intend to let Net bring those children to this house. * * I
shall place them in an Orphan’s Home before a week is over their heads,
without consulting “Mistress” Net.’”

These were the words that rendered her deaf and insensible to any softer
words from Adrian Fleming.

“Net—do you hear me, love? Will you let me come in and see how you are?”
he resumed, after a listening pause.

“No, I thank you, Mr. Fleming. My head aches very badly, and I wish to
be left in silence and darkness,” she replied at last.

“I am very sorry. I would like to do something for you, Net. Is there
anything that I can do?”

“Nothing,” she answered, wearily.

“Is there anything you would like?”

“Yes, quietness, if you please.”

He took the hint and saying:

“Good-night, dear,” he went away.

Then the flood gates of Net’s grief were opened and she wept.

Ah! the contrast was so great between the gentle, affectionate words and
tones of this evening and the cold, sarcastic, cruel words and tones of
the afternoon.

Still later there was another rap on the door.

“Who is it?” inquired Net, a little impatiently.

“Knollis, madame. May I come in for a moment?” answered the nurse who
had attended Antoinette Deloraine during her last illness, and who had
not yet left the house, but was going away in the morning.

“I came to see how you are, ma’am, and if I could do anything for you
before I go to rest,” said the woman, approaching the bed.

“No, I do not think you can,” answered the sleepless and suffering girl.

“Nay, but, dear ma’am, the very weak and shaky tone of your voice proves
what’s the matter with you. You are as nervous and excitable as you can
be. All this trouble has been too much for you, ma’am, and if you do not
get to sleep to-night you will be ill to-morrow, sure enough,” urged the
woman.

Net made no reply.

“I will mix you a composing draught, ma’am, that will put you to sleep,
and give you a chance to recover yourself,” said the nurse.

Net would have been glad to sleep and forget her troubles; so she
answered:

“I thank you, nurse. You may give me that sleeping draught. I suppose
you know how to make it?”

“I? Oh, yes, my dear ma’am, I do!” replied Knollis; “and the sooner you
have it the better. I won’t be five minutes.”

She left the room and encountered Mr. Fleming in the hall.

He it was, really, who had sent the nurse in to see after his wife; and
now he was waiting outside to hear her report.

“How is Mrs. Fleming?” he inquired.

“She is just as nervous and excitable as it is possible for any human
creetur to be sir! I am going to give her a composing draught to quiet
her, and if she gets a good sleep to-night I hope she will be all right
to-morrow.”

“After you have administered that composing draught, can you not remain
with her through the night to watch its effects?” anxiously inquired Mr.
Fleming.

“Which it is my intention so to do, sir,” replied the nurse, courtesying
and hurrying off on her errand.

She soon compounded the medicine and took it to the suffering girl, who
took it willingly.

Net was not used to sedatives and narcotics—in fact, she had never taken
either in her life—and the consequence now was that the sleeping potion
took prompt and powerful effect upon her, so that she was soon buried in
a profound slumber that lasted through the night and late into the
forenoon of the next day.

Then she awoke much refreshed, and at first oblivious of her troubles.

The nurse was sitting by the bed.

“I hope, Mrs. Knollis, that you have not been there all night,” she
said.

“I?—dear ma’am, yes! I have not left you a minute, except to get a
mouthful of breakfast at nine o’clock, and then Cally Adler took my
place. How do you find yourself, ma’am, if you please?”

“I am very much better, I thank you.”

“But you will take your breakfast in bed?”

“Not at all. I am going to get up. I suppose the gentlemen have
breakfasted?”

“Oh, yes, ma’am—two hours ago, and gone.”

“Gone!” echoed Net. “Where have they gone?”

“I don’t know, ma’am; but here is a note Mr. Fleming left to be given
you when you waked,” answered the nurse, rising, taking a paper from the
mantel-piece and handing it to the lady.

By this time the tide of memory had turned and brought back all Net’s
troubles to her mind. She opened the note, with a sinking heart.

It ran as follows:

“DEAREST NET.—I am told by the nurse that you are sleeping comfortably
this morning, so I will not have you disturbed. I am going a part of the
way home with Sir Adrian; but I shall be back on Saturday morning. Take
care of yourself.

“Your true ADRIAN.”

Net did not know how to take this note, with the news it conveyed. Was
it a respite from that impending scene with her husband, which she
dreaded so much, yet which she was determined to have?—for she had
decided to make a strong appeal to Mr. Fleming on behalf of the
children.

Not that she had much hope of its success. The words that she had heard
seemed to preclude all possibility of a successful appeal to him in the
interests of the little orphans.

But Net resolved to hazard it all the same.

Now, however, it could not be made before Saturday morning, and Net
began to feel the delay as a reprieve.

She arose and dressed herself, and partook of a slight breakfast, and
then sat down and wrote to Lady Arielle Montjoie, thanking her warmly
for her protection of the children, and expressing a hope that she would
be able to relieve her of the charge within a few days.

Net sent this letter off immediately to be posted.

She was very anxious to see the children, but ah! very fearful that
insurmountable obstacles would be thrown in the way of her doing so
effectually.

CHAPTER XXXIX.
MR. ADRIAN FLEMING’S EXPEDITION.

Theirs were the shout, the song, the burst of joy,
Which sweet from childhood’s rosy lips resoundeth,
Theirs were the eager spirit naught could cloy,
And the glad heart from which all grief reboundeth.
Full of a wild and irrepressible mirth,
Like the sunbeams to the gladdened earth.

And theirs was many an art to win and bless,
The cold and stern to joy and fondness warming;
The coaxing smile—the frequent soft caress—
The earnest, tearful prayer, all wrath disarming,
Again the heart a new affection found,
Nor thought that love with them had reached its bound.
CAROLINE NORTON.

Adrian Fleming and his father had breakfasted privately that morning,
the former apologizing for his wife’s absence from the board by saying
that she was temporarily ill from the effects of excessive fatigue and
excitement, though not so as to occasion anxiety.

“Then perhaps you will keep your word and drive to the station with me,”
said the baronet.

“Certainly,” replied his son.

As soon as they had breakfasted they entered the carriage that was
waiting at the door and set out.

Adrian Fleming not only went to the Deloraine Station with his father,
but also accompanied him as far as the Deloraine Junction, where they
were to separate, Sir Adrian to take the cross country train to
Flemington, and Mr. Fleming to continue on to London _en route_ for
Cumberland.

“Now what on earth takes you to the North at this season of the year,
Adrian?” inquired the baronet, just before they reached the parting
place.

“Did I not tell you? I am going to see after those children,” replied
the young man.

“Ah! You will do. You are prompt. You have not said a word to your wife
about it yet?” inquired the baronet.

“Not a syllable! She was still sleeping off that nervous headache when
we left this morning.”

“Oh, ah, yes, to be sure! And you will act without consulting her?”

“Of course! I told you so! I will have both the children entered into
the Orphan’s Home before I say a single word to her on the subject.”

“That is right. It will save a world of controversy. Now we are at the
junction and I get out here. Good-bye.”

The baronet shook hands with his son, and got out as soon as the train
stopped, and crossed the track to take another one.

The train stopped for only thirty seconds.

Adrian Fleming reached Paddington Station at half-past three o’clock in
the afternoon, and had just time to enjoy a comfortable luncheon before
starting on the four o’clock train for Cumberland.

Adrian Fleming resigned himself to sleep, and slept through the greater
part of the night.

At sunrise he was aroused by the arrival of the train at the Miston
Branch Station, where he had to get out.

The Miston train was ready, and he took his seat in an empty compartment
of a first-class carriage, and settled himself again to sleep until the
train reached Miston Station.

There he found the fly from the Dolphin, with Jack Ken on the box,
waiting for a chance passenger.

He hailed the fly, engaged it, and told the boy to drive him on to the
Dolphin.

There he ordered breakfast, and after partaking freely of coffee,
muffins, toast, game, ham, and eggs, he ordered fresh horses put to the
fly to carry him to Castle Montjoie.

The horses then being fresh, the weight light, and the roads good, Mr.
Fleming made the distance in less than two hours, and reached the castle
about eleven o’clock.

On being admitted by the porter he inquired for the young Countess of
Altofaire.

“Her ladyship is at Cloudland on a visit to Lord Beaudevere and Miss
Desparde,” answered the pompous old man.

“Ah! Well, the little children of the late Dr. Starr, who are the wards
of my wife, are here, I believe?”

“Yes, sir, they are here, and in excellent health.”

“In whose charge have they been left?”

“In the care of a most respectable woman, who has been engaged as head
nurse, and of a nursemaid.”

“Well, I have come to take the children away. I am sorry the countess
should be absent at this crisis; but if you will show me into the
library and furnish me with stationery, I will write an explanatory
letter to her ladyship,” said Mr. Fleming.

“Certainly, sir,” replied the porter, himself leading the way to the
library, and laying out the writing materials upon the table.

“And you will send the nurse to me, if you please.”

“Certainly, sir,” replied the porter, pulling the bell.

A footman appeared in answer to it.

“Adams, go find nurse Cotton and tell her that Mr. Fleming, the gardeen
of the little Starr children, have come to take them home with him,”
were the instructions given.

The young footman “bobbed” and disappeared, and in a few moments Mrs.
Cotton entered.

She was a plump, fair, pleasant-looking matron, of perhaps fifty years
of age.

“You are the children’s nurse?” inquired Mr. Fleming.

“Yes, sir,” she answered, with a courtesy.

“Well, I have come to take them away. I am sorry the countess is not at
home, but I will leave a note for her. Can you go with them to their new
home?”

“To Delorin Park where Mrs. Fleming has gone to live, as I am told, sir?
Yes, sir, I think I can,” answered the woman.

“Can you be ready to leave the castle by two o’clock?”

“Yes, sir; if the housemaids will help me to pack the children’s
clothes,” said the nurse.

“The maids will _have_ to do it. They have little enough to orkkepy
their hands and keep ’em out of mischief, the Lord knows,” put in the
old porter.

“And now,” said Mr. Fleming, as he folded and directed the letter and
handed it to the porter, “I wish you to give this, with my warm thanks,
to Lady Altofaire. And, nurse, I wish you to send the children to me
here that I may renew my acquaintance with them. I used to be a favorite
when I was reading with their father.”

“Surely, sir, I will fetch them,” said the woman.

She went out and soon returned with the children, who broke away from
her hands at the sight of Adrian and rushed to him, clasping his knees,
looking up in his face, and opening the subject nearest their hearts
without the slightest ceremony.

“Nurse Totton say you’s doing to tate us home to mammam, and to wide in
a wailwoad tar!” began Luke.

“‘To wide in the wailwoad tar,’” echoed Ella.

“Humph! Will you like to go?” inquired Adrian, with a smile.

“Oh! Wese wike it so much!” exclaimed Luke.

“’Wike it so much!” echoed Ella.

“Wese dlad to see oo,” said Luke.

“‘’Ees, we is vezzy dlad to see oo,’” added Ella.

And both children scrambled up on his knees and hugged and kissed him.

“What is my name, now? I bet you don’t know!” said Mr. Fleming.

“Oh, ’ees we does! Oo’s name is A-dy-wan,” exclaimed Luke, in triumph.

“’Ees! Zat’s it—Ade-we-in! We luzzes Ade we-in!” added Ella, clasping
the young man around the neck and giving him as strong a squeeze as her
little arms could manage.

If Adrian Fleming meditated any treason against these confiding
children, his heart must have been harder and blacker than his worst
enemy could have conceived.

“Now, guess what I have brought you!” he exclaimed, diving his hand down
in the deep pockets of his ulster, which, in the first busy hour of his
arrival, he had not yet taken off.

“Nussin,” replied Luke, carelessly.

“Why do you think so?”

“’Tause you never did b’ing us nussin,” added the child, speaking
positively from his own experience.

“No mens never did b’ing us nussin,” confirmed Ella, with a look of
disapprobation. “Mammam b’ings us petty fings, and so does Ayel and
Vivin and Kit, but no mens never does, now daddy’s gone to Heaven.”

“Did daddy bring you pretty things?” inquired Adrian, laughing.

“Ezzer so pretty!” exclaimed Luke; “but no ozer mens but daddy ezzer
did.”

“Wouldn’t you like to have another daddy to bring you pretty things?”
inquired Adrian.

“Oh, ’es, indeedy!” exclaimed both children.

“Very well, then, look here!” exclaimed the visitor, drawing from his
pocket a parcel and opening it.

“_Oh-h-h h!_” cried the children simultaneously.

The parcel contained two automaton toys—a fiddler and a dancer.

The children had cried out with delight only on beholding the figures,
without suspecting their accomplishments, for the fiddler was a gorgeous
youth in blue cap, red jacket and yellow trousers, and the dancer was a
beautiful damsel in a green dress spangled with gold.

But when the figures were wound up and set to fiddling and dancing, the
breath of the children was momentarily suspended in ecstasy and their
faces were a sight to behold!

At least Adrian Fleming thought so.

Never perhaps since the days of his own infancy had the young man
enjoyed a pastime at once so pleasant and so innocent as this of
witnessing the amazement and delight of these children.

And now it struck him, rather as an _epicurean_ in pleasure than as a
benefactor, that he would like to continue such a new and droll
amusement by giving the children a succession of delightful surprises
before finally consigning them to the Orphan’s Home he had in view.

While he was thus entertaining himself the butler entered the room and
inquired at what hour, “sir,” he would like luncheon.

Mr. Fleming consulted his watch and answered:

“It is now twelve o’clock. We leave the castle at two. I shall feel
obliged by a glass of wine and a biscuit at about one o’clock.”

The old servant bowed and inquired:

“If you would like to go to a dressing-room, sir, Adams will wait on
you.”

“Very well, send Adams to me, and send the nurse to take the children.”

The butler bowed himself out, and was succeeded by Adams and the little
nursemaid, Nelly Lacy.

But the children made a rush to grab their automaton toys—Luke to seize
the fiddler and Ella the dancer—to show to the girl; but, ah! the
machinery had just run down and the fiddling and dancing stopped short.

“Mate em alive adain, Misser F’emin’!” said Luke, thrusting the fiddler
into one of Adrian’s hands, while Ella pushed the dancer into the other.

The young man, laughing good-humoredly, wound them up, the fiddler first
and then the dancer, and set them going on the table.

Then leaving the children to the care of Nelly, with the direction to
remember and have them ready for their journey at two o’clock, he
followed the footman, who conducted him to a bedroom and dressing-room
where he might refresh his toilet.

At one o’clock Adrian Fleming sat down to a luncheon, where the
stipulated modest “glass of wine and biscuit” was amplified into oysters
on the half shell, pigeon pie, Westphalia ham, quince tarts, calf-foot
jelly, pale sherry and sparkling Moselle.

Adrian Fleming could always appreciate a good meal, and he did full
justice to this.

At two o’clock the carriage that had brought Adrian Fleming to the
castle was again at the door, and the children were all ready and eager
for the journey.

Well wrapped up in their fur-lined coats, they were standing in the
lower hall, while one of the grooms stood holding open the door of the
carriage. They were all waiting for Mr. Fleming, who was drawing on his
gloves.

Anxious as the little ones had been for this journey, at the very last
they had raised some objections to leaving unless certain conditions,
for which they stipulated, should be fulfilled.

Among the rest was the chief one—that P’udence should go.

“And who’s P’udence?” demanded the young man.

“Oo not know who P’udence is?” inquired Luke, in a tone of pity
bordering on contempt, for the gentleman’s ignorance.

“P’udence is our tat,” exclaimed Ella.

“And wese not doe wizzout her,” said Luke.

“Quite right! Take the cat. If they don’t like her at the Orphan’s Home
they can loose her or drown her. What I want to do is to get you
peaceably there and be done with it.”

All but the first two words of this speech was spoken _sotto voce_, and
did not reach the ears of the children.

Another stipulation was that Nelly, their nursemaid, should go; and to
that also their good-natured guardian assented, with the same mental
reservation.

“If they don’t want these women at the Orphan’s Home, as probably they
will not, I can pay their way back here again. All _I_ want is a
comfortable and pleasant journey with the little folks until I turn them
over into other hands, and then let other people take all the discomfort
and unpleasantness of crossing them, if they choose.”

So the old nurse, Mrs. Cotton, the maid Nelly, and the cat Prudence,
who, with sundry growlings, spitting and scratching had been put into a
covered basket and fastened down, became the companions of their
journey.

Mr. Fleming, the children, and the cat, rode in the carriage, and the
two women and the luggage in the “break” that followed it.

They reached Miston in time to take the four o’clock train.

Mr. Fleming engaged a whole compartment in a first-class carriage for
himself and the children, and sent the two women and the cat into the
second class, and so they started.

This journey with two intelligent, curious and inquisitive children
might have been considered a troublesome one by most gentlemen, but not
so by Adrian Fleming, who never permitted anything to trouble him.

He was highly amused in watching the children’s delight in their first
railroad ride.

And before he had time to be wearied with them they reached Miston
Branch Junction, where they were to change trains.

He put the children and their cat in a compartment with the two women,
and took another for himself and his cigar.

The train reached London at a late hour in the evening.

The children were fast asleep and had to be aroused in order to be taken
from the carriage.

Mr. Fleming engaged rooms at the Paddington Hotel, and the little ones
were conveyed thither and put to bed by the nurses.

Adrian Fleming went out and telegraphed to his wife that he had run up
to London on business and would be detained there the whole of the next
day, but would start for Deloraine Park the next evening and reach home
on the following morning.

Having sent this dispatch he returned to the hotel and ordered dinner,
and after partaking of it, went to the theatre to spend the evening.

So ended his day.

On Friday morning he arose late, breakfasted later, and then rang for
the nurse and inquired for the children.

“If you please, sir,” began Mrs. Cotton, “the precious lambs have been
going on like wild-cats all the morning, in their impatience to get at
you.”

“Very well! Dress them up for a ride and bring them to me. I am going
out with them.”

In less than fifteen minutes the children were brought to Mr. Fleming,
accoutred for their drive.

They were “uproariously?” glad to see him, climbed over and over him and
covered him with caresses.

“Well! Do you want to go out and ride in a carriage, and see all the
beautiful shops where the walking dolls and the fiddlers and dancers
come from?”

“Oh, ‘es, Misser Flemin’.”

“Look here,” said Adrian. “Didn’t you tell me that no ‘mens’ but ‘daddy’
ever gave you anything?”

“’Es, wese did,” said Luke.

“Well, then, if I give you things, you ought to call _me_ daddy.”

“Aw wight, daddy!” said Luke, while Ella burst out laughing.

He led them down stairs and put them into a carriage and took them first
to Madame Taussaud’s wax-work show, at which they were in raptures.

After that he gave them a lunch at the pastry-cook’s near, and allowed
them to have just whatever they liked. Then he took them to an afternoon
circus, where they seemed to have lost their senses in wonder and
delight.

It was late in the afternoon when they came out and re-entered the
carriage.

Then Adrian took them to the Burlington Arcade, in the Strand—that
paradise of toys. And here he let them run wild among the treasures and
get everything they wanted; and, though the amusement cost him a
considerable sum, he thought it worth the money.

“Besides, it is their last day out in the wicked world—poor little
imps!—so let them make the most of it.”

Finally he took them home to the hotel to tea.

“Well, how do you like London?” he inquired, laughing, as he sat at
table and watched them devouring bread and butter and jam.

“Oh, I fink wese have tomed to heaven!” cried Luke, rapturously.

Adrian laughed aloud.

“Wot oo laugh for, daddy?” inquired Ella.

“Because I think that with all this sight-seeing and gormandizing you
will soon have reason to think you have come to the other place!
However, we have had the fun: now let the people at the Orphan’s Home
have the trouble!” said Mr. Fleming.

The children stared. They did not understand him.

And very soon they had to be prepared to resume their journey.

The hotel was but a few steps from the station, and the whole party were
soon on board the train, where Adrian Fleming had put the children,
nurses and cat, in one compartment to themselves and taken another for
himself.

Adrian Fleming, lighted and smoked out one fine Havana and threw away
the stump. Then he pulled his traveling cap down over his eyes, thrust
his hands down in the deep pockets of his ulster, turned himself
sideways on his double seat, drew up his feet, leaned back his head,
closed his eyes and settled himself to slumber through the night
journey.

Meanwhile the two women in the first-class carriage having the
compartment to themselves, the children and the cat, and seeing the
tired and sleepy children nod and pitch about, made up a bed of shawls
and cloaks on the cushions of the opposite seat, and after loosing the
clothes of the little ones, laid them there, where they slept soundly
through all the noise and turmoil of travel, until the train stopped at
the station nearest the Clerical Orphan’s Home selected by Adrian
Fleming for their future residence.

And this was not very far from Deloraine Park.

[Illustration: [Fleuron]]

CHAPTER XL.
WHAT THOSE BITTER WORDS MEANT.

Rejoice, oh, grieving heart!
The hours fly fast!
With each some sorrow dies.
With each some shadow flies,
Until at last
The red dawn in the East
Shows that the night has ceased,
And pain is past.
Rejoice, then, grieving heart,
The hours fly fast.
ANONYMOUS.

Net Fleming had passed another sleepless night and anxious day, and
then, on the Thursday evening, she received the telegram from her
husband announcing that he was detained in London on business, but would
leave town on Friday evening and reach Deloraine Station at 7 A. M. on
Saturday morning, and would like to have the close carriage sent to meet
him.

This was no more than Net had expected; for he had told her in his note
of leave-taking that he should be back again on Saturday morning.

Thursday night and Friday morning passed in poignant anxiety, and Friday
afternoon brought a letter that threw Net into despair.

It was from Lady Arielle Montjoie, in answer to Net’s letter of
Wednesday, and it conveyed the startling intelligence that Mr. Adrian
Fleming had arrived at the castle on the Thursday morning and taken the
children away during her absence in spending the day with her friend
Vivienne at Cloudland.

Lady Arielle told this news without a suspicion that the children had
been removed without the knowledge and consent of their little mammam.

She concluded her letter by hoping that the little ones might have a
pleasant journey to Deloraine Park, and that Net might find them looking
well and happy on their arrival.

“And she thinks that _I_ sent for them, and that Mr. Fleming is bringing
them here, when in fact he is taking them off to that Orphan’s Home!
‘_Orphan’s Home!_’ Orphan’s Prison! Orphan’s Purgatory, rather! Oh, my
poor babies! I would almost rather have laid you in your little graves!
And how can I respect my husband after this? How can I even trust him?
Oh, Adrian! Adrian! how you have fallen!” she wailed.

In all her trouble, however, she did not forget to send an order to the
stables that the coachman should leave the Park at five o’clock the next
morning and go to Deloraine Station to meet his master, who would arrive
at seven.

Then she retired to her own room, prayed and went to bed—not to sleep,
but to think of the children and the dreary, desolate life they would
lead at the misnamed “Home,” to resolve that she would not abandon them
to such captivity without a struggle, but that she would expostulate
with Adrian Fleming and remind him of his own words in regard to herself
and these children, that “none but a brute would desire to separate them
from her.”

But Net did not believe that her expostulations would have any effect.
She could not comfort herself with any such hope.

She began, as she lay there in her misery, to repeat over to herself the
consoling promises of the Holy Word:

“Cast thy burden upon the Lord and He shall sustain thee.”

“Cast all your care upon Him, for He careth for you.”

She tried to do this. She prayed for grace and strength to do it; but,
notwithstanding all her efforts she could not get rid of her trouble in
that way, and so it was near morning before she fell asleep and slept
the profound sleep of mental and bodily exhaustion.

It was nine o’clock in the forenoon when she opened her eyes. She did
not know whether she had awakened naturally, or whether she had been
aroused by the commotion below, that now seemed to be ascending the
stairs and approaching her own room.

There seemed to be many voices and many steps. Wondering what could be
the matter, Net arose, thrust her feet into slippers, drew on her
dressing-gown, and went and opened the door.

She started back in astonishment, for she found herself confronted with
Adrian Fleming, who had just reached the spot, with a child on each
shoulder.

Yes! amazing as it seemed, there were her two babies, in their brown fur
coats and hats, reminding her of two little rabbits.

“Well, Net! I have stolen a march on you and brought the children home!
‘Actions speak louder than words,’ my Net! And so I thought I would go
and fetch the imps myself by way of convincing you that they should be
welcome,” he exclaimed in a joyous tone, as he set the children down
upon their feet.

“Daddy toot wese to ze cirtus to see ze wile beases,” cried Luke,
running to his little mamma.

“And divved wese fizzlin and dancin’ dollies,” added Ella, clasping
little mammam’s knees.

Net sat down on the nearest chair and drew the children to her, and
embraced and kissed them fondly before she faltered:

“I heard—I thought—I heard you tell the baronet that—that I should never
bring the children here, but that—you would put them in the Orphan’s
Home!”

“Ha, ha, ha! _You_ heard that? _How_ did you hear that, Net?”

“I—was in my dressing-room, you were in Sir Adrian’s. They join with
only a thin partition, and I heard. I did not listen, but I could not
help hearing.”

“And you heard me tell Sir Adrian that I never meant to let you bring
the children here, but meant to put them in an Orphan’s Home?”

“Yes,” faltered Net, as she caressed her babies.

“Well, you heard aright. I _did_ say that. I never meant that you should
bring the children here, for I meant to take all that trouble off your
hands and bring them myself. And I meant to put them in an Orphan’s
Home, and _this_ is the home for the orphans into which I meant to put
them. Ha, ha, ha! Do you understand now, my Net!” he demanded gayly.

“Oh, Adrian, how much misery it would have saved me if I had known this
sooner. But did Sir Adrian understand your words as you have explained
them to me?” inquired Net, between the caresses she was lavishing on her
recovered children.

“No! He understood them as you did. I could not have a row with the
governor on account of these little chaps, you know. But, dear Net, if I
could have guessed that you had ever heard those words of mine I should
have explained them to you before I left the house. I only went in that
secret way to prepare a pleasant surprise for you in the arrival of
these children.”

“Oh, Adrian, how unjust I have been to you,” said Net.

“I think that is quite likely,” laughed the young man—adding: “I am not
half a bad fellow, Net! And if you could only forgive my bad behavior at
a time when I was crazy, and could give me another chance, you would
find that I am not irreclaimably and unpardonably wicked.”

“Oh, dear Adrian! It is not _you_ whom I cannot pardon, but _myself_!
Don’t you understand, dear, that I cannot forgive myself for making that
humiliating mistake of accepting from you the offer of marriage that was
intended for another woman,” said Net, between laughing and crying, as
the tear-drops sparkled through her smiles like rain-drops through the
sunshine.

“You accepted an offer of marriage that should have been made to you and
you only, for you, and you only, had the right to expect such a one,”
gravely replied Adrian.

“MAMMAM!” exclaimed Luke, who was as exacting of attention as ever,
“less me down to do and see about Pudence? Pudence is in ze bastet!”

“And dit ze fizzler and dancer to show oo!” added Ella.

Both children were now struggling to get away; so Net released them, and
Adrian opened the chamber door, at which stood Nelly the nursemaid ready
to take them in charge.

And so, through the children, a full reconciliation was effected between
the young married pair.

“But, Adrian, you must never permit those ridiculous children to call
you ‘daddy!’” exclaimed happy Net, smiling through her tears.

“Why not, if they like to?” inquired the young man, laughing.

“Because it is _too_ absurd!”

“But they call you ‘mammy,’ or something like it.”

“Oh! but I am used to hearing them do that. They began to do it with
their first cry, I do believe. But whatever could have put it into their
little noddles to call you ‘daddy’?”

“Because I married their mammy, I suppose.”

“Nonsense, Adrian. What did they know about that?”

“Can’t say. Young England is very knowing.”

“But how came they to do it? Tell me that.”

“Then I suppose it was because I gave them gifts, and no other ‘mens,’
as they say, except their daddy, ever gave them anything.”

“Such an _old_ title! They might as well call you ‘granddad.’”

“They may if they like! What odds? But now, my dear Net, let us at once
go seriously into the subject of these children and settle their status
with us.”

“What is it that you wish in regard to them, Adrian?” inquired Net, a
little doubtfully and fearfully, for a sudden suspicion seized her that
she might not have understood him aright, and that he might wish to send
the children away, after all.

“What do I wish? I wish, as I suppose you do, to keep the children here
under our own eyes, and bring them up as if they were our own little
brother and sister, left to our love and care.”

“Oh! Adrian, shall we do that? Oh, you _are_ good! You are _so_ good! No
one knows how good you are but myself!” exclaimed Net, catching his hand
and caressing it.

“I told you I wasn’t half a bad fellow, didn’t I?” laughed the young
man; and then he resumed: “You remember Antoinette spoke of some
personal property of her own which she wished to give to these children,
and would have given had she been of legal age to make a will?”

“Yes, I remember.”

“And that she left it with you, as heiress, to carry out her wishes in
this respect?”

“Yes.”

“Well, Net, we must do so. I have consulted her lawyers. This property
consists of money, which has accumulated during her long minority, and
is at present lying idle in bank. It amounts to about ten thousand
pounds. It must be at once invested in the names of these orphan
children, and the interest must be left to accumulate until they shall
have reached their majority. You and I, Net, will in the meantime be at
the cost of their maintenance and education.”

“Oh, Adrian, how good you are!”

“Not nearly so wicked a fellow as you thought me, when you overheard
that conversation between my father and myself, and misunderstood me!
Ah! Net, you know the old proverb—‘Listeners never hear any good—’”

“I was not listening willingly, Adrian,” interrupted Net, with a violent
blush.

“Do I not know that, Net? But, oh! my dear, if I had thought you had
heard and misunderstood that conversation, I should never have gone off
and left you to that terrible suspense. I was planning a joyful surprise
for you, my dear Net; but if I had known, I should have given you a
prosy explanation instead of a pleasant surprise.”

“It has been a pleasant, a joyful, a delightful surprise, Adrian. And
now I think we will get ready for our breakfast,” said Net, who all this
time had been sitting in her wrapper and slippers.

Adrian laughed and went off to his dressing-room to change his dusty
traveling suit.

Nelly Lacy answered Net’s summons and took off the children for the same
purpose.

Half an hour after they all met around the breakfast table, to which,
for this occasion only, and because it was the day of their arrival at
their new home, the two children were allowed to come.

CHAPTER XLI.
LORD BEAUDEVERE’S STORY TOLD BY A CHRISTMAS FIRESIDE.

Right well our Christian sires of old
Loved when the year its course had rolled,
And brought blithe Christmas back again
With all his hospitable train.
Domestic and religious rite
Gave honor to the holy night.
On Christmas eve the bells were rung;
On Christmas eve the hymns were sung;
All hailed with uncontrolled delight
And general voice the happy night
That to the cottage as the crown
Brought tidings of salvation down.
SIR WALTER SCOTT.

It was Christmas Eve.

In the great hall of Cloudland a huge wood fire was burning. From the
lofty oak ceiling, dark and polished by time and not by art, the ancient
iron cresset swung and lighted a scene that might have belonged to the
ninth rather than to the nineteenth century.

This hall was the most ancient part of the building. Klodd, the Saxon,
with his rude boors, had feasted there long before it passed into the
hands of his conqueror, John or Jean Beaue, the groom of Norman William
and the ancestor of the Barons Beaudevere.

Through all the restorations, enlargements and modern improvements of
the castle, the barons had never allowed this hall to be touched, except
in one particular:—in the reign of one of the earlier Henries the great
chimney at the farther end opposite the door had been built. And ever
since that time, at Christmas-tide, the yule log had been yearly drawn
in and laid on the back of the immense cavernous fireplace, and the
baron’s family had there gathered around the Christmas fire.

It was a weird, ghostly, yet interesting and fascinating scene.

The heavy stone walls were decorated with stags’ antlers, and other
trophies of the chase, and hung with ancient armor and weapons, and
looked as if they were haunted by the forms of old knights—

“Whose swords were rust,
Whose bones were dust;
Whose souls were with
The Lord, we trust.”

It was furnished with heavy oaken tables, chairs and settles, before
which were laid, in lieu of rugs, well-tanned skins of leopards, bears
and buffaloes.

Never in all the centuries had lain so huge a yule log or blazed so
splendid a fire as this that burned in the ancient chimney-place and
lighted the old hall.

A historical oak, a marvel of age and size, had stood in the Cloudland
forest from time immemorial. It had long ceased to show a leaf in
summer, and every winter its dry twigs rattled and fell with every
blast.

In the preceding summer a thunderbolt had blasted the patriarch of
centuries. Then the baron’s steward had ordered the riven giant limbs to
be cut and sawed and given away by cords of wood to the poor on the
estate, and the huge hole to be trimmed and carted to the castle for the
yule log.

Now it was blazing in the broad fireplace of the castle hall, and around
it were gathered a group consisting of Lord Beaudevere, Lady Arielle
Montjoie, Miss Desparde, and Mr. Valdimir Desparde.

The order to serve dinner was given, and in a few moments it was
announced.

Lord Beaudevere gave his arm to Lady Arielle, and Valdimir to his
sister, and so they went into the dining-room and enjoyed a very good
meal.

After dinner they adjourned to the hall, gathered around the great fire,
seated themselves on the old oaken chairs, and, with their feet upon the
lion’s skin that did duty for a rug, began to talk of Christmas times,
ancient as well as modern—a theme suggested by the surroundings as well
as by the season.

It was noticeable that this talk was chiefly among the three young
people, and that Lord Beaudevere gave brief and often eccentric answers
to questions and remarks addressed to him. He seemed troubled and
abstracted.

Presently, in the lull of the conversation, he said:

“I think, my young friends, that the hour has come when I must tell you
that passage in my early history which, from morbid sensitiveness, I
have hitherto kept from you.”

Lady Arielle, feeling that this address was made to Valdimir and
Vivienne, and that the story to be told concerned them, arose quietly to
steal away from the hall.

But Lord Beaudevere stopped her with a word:

“Stay! Resume your seat, Lady Arielle. This interests you as well as
ourselves. Are you not one of us?”

The young lady sat down again gladly, for, in truth, she was as curious
as any one to hear the story of Lord Beaudevere’s early life, as it
affected her betrothed husband and his sister.

Lord Beaudevere passed his hand once and again over his thoughtful and
troubled brow, then smiled on the expectant circle, and began:

BEAUE’S LITTLE ROMANCE.

“My father, the late baron, had but one son and no daughter. He lost my
mother when I was but a few months old, and he never gave her a
successor. It followed that my earliest idea of my mother was of an
angel in heaven.

“I had, therefore, neither brother nor sister, but in place of both—in
place of all childish companions—I had my little cousin, my father’s
orphan niece, whom he had adopted for the sake of his dear lost sister.

“We were of the same age, and as much attached to each other as any twin
pair that ever lived. The nurses used to call us the ‘love birds.’

“We shared the same nursery until we were five years old, when we were
separated. That was the first sorrow of my life, and you will laugh, my
lad and lasses, when I tell you it was one of my sharpest.

“But think of it! I had never, within my memory, gone to sleep except
with my arms around Vivi’s neck, or hers around mine. So I cried all
night in my lonesome crib, and so had she in hers, as I learned when I
met her at the nursery breakfast the next morning—met her with as much
joy as if we had been parted for years instead of for hours!

“We still shared the same day nursery, and the same lessons under our
young nursery governess, until we were seven years old, when a more
accomplished teacher took charge of us, a lady, who conducted our
education for the next three years.

“Then came another trial, and we were separated by day as well as by
night. A tutor was engaged for me and I took my lessons in a room off my
father’s library instead of in the school-room, which was given up now
to Vivi and her governess.

“But still we met at meal times, where we also enjoyed the society and
surveillance of the tutor and governess. And so two more years passed
away, and I had to go to Eton. I pass over that parting. I do not
suppose that any school-boy in existence ever behaved so badly as I did
on leaving home; it was all because I was leaving Vivi.

“But if any boy ever carries anything sentimental or mawkish to Eton
College it is bound to be knocked and cuffed out of him, mind you. To
say nothing of my studies, which really did engage and interest my mind,
I had fights enough on my hands to employ all my leisure time and keep
me from pining after Vivi.

“But when the holidays drew near all my slumbering love was re-awakened,
and I thought of nothing but of going home and meeting Vivi.

“And every time I went home and saw her she seemed more beautiful than
ever, and I loved her more.

“I spent four years at Eton, and then came home for a visit previous to
entering the university at Oxford.

“I was then a mere stripling of sixteen, _not_ tall for my age—quite the
reverse—for I was of slow growth, and no taller nor stouter than many a
boy of thirteen.

“I came home and found Vivi, at sixteen years of age, shot up into a
beautiful and blooming young woman, a head taller than myself. This was
mortifying to me, especially as she assumed the airs of a woman and
treated me as a child.

“I was in despair until certain news reached us from India. The letters
and documents came just a few days before I was to have left home for
Oxford to enter Trinity College—where, by the way, all my forefathers
and uncles have been educated since the college was founded.

“The news was that our uncle—my father’s and Vivi’s mother’s brother—a
wealthy merchant of Calcutta, had died unmarried, and left the whole of
his immense wealth to his sole nephew, John Beaue, and sole niece,
Vivienne Leville—share and share alike—upon one condition—that they
should marry each other. But if either one should refuse to marry the
other, the party so refusing should forfeit all share in the estate,
which should then go undivided to the party refused, with the further
condition that the last inheritor should have no power to alienate any
part of the property in favor of the defaulting and disinherited one,
and in case of attempting to do so, should forfeit the whole, which
should then go to found a Lunatic Asylum.

“Such was the purport of our uncle’s will. My father told me he hoped I
would not be such an idiot as to forfeit such a splendid fortune by
refusing to marry Vivienne Leville.

“I told him, with truth, that, on the contrary, so far was I from any
thoughts of refusing to marry my cousin, and so dear was she to my soul,
that if my uncle and my father had both threatened to disinherit me
_for_ marrying her, I should have tried to win her all the same.

“My father wanted the betrothal to take place then; so did I, you may
depend. This was accomplished without any love-making on my part. We
three—my father, my cousin and myself—being together in the
drawing-room, after dinner, my father broached the subject to Vivi, by
speaking of our uncle’s death and reading the will.

“‘If you accept the conditions of the will and marry John, my girl, you
will be the future Baroness Beaudevere, with an income from your united
fortunes of fifty thousand pounds a year. Come, what do you say?’

“‘Jack has not asked me yet,’ laughed my cousin.

“‘Has not he? Well, he told me just now that he had meant to marry you,
if he could get you, even if the consequences had been his
disinheritance instead of his enrichment!’

“‘Did you say that, Jack?’ she asked.

“‘Yes, and I meant it, Vivi,’ I stammered, for I was an awkward boy,
then at the most awkward age of boyhood.

“‘Very well, then. It is settled,’ said my father; and he took our hands
and joined them.

“‘Is it settled, Vivi?’ I asked.

“‘Yes,’ she laughed.

“‘And you _will_ be my wife, truly?’ I asked breathlessly.

“‘Of course,’ she answered.’ Do you suppose I am going to forfeit fifty
thousand pounds per annum for _you_? Go along, boy!’

“Though I was not quite satisfied with the way in which she answered me
and could have wished she had been more earnest, I went away to Oxford
next morning as happy as a king! I was _sure_ of her now, or at least I
_thought_ so! I sent her a betrothal ring from London set with a
solitaire diamond worth a farm.

“No day was yet fixed for our marriage. We were yet but young. It was
understood, however, that we were betrothed to each other, and neither
of us in the matrimonial market. The baron, my father, was so well
satisfied with our engagement that he took very good care to let it be
known generally.

“At the end of every college term I came home here to visit my cousin,
my betrothed. And every time found her more lovely and attractive. She
did not keep on growing taller. She had stopped growing, for which
circumstance I was very thankful; for _I_ had not stopped growing. I was
quickly overtaking her in height. When we were both eighteen I was as
tall as she was. When we were twenty-one I was half a head taller.

“Then I graduated from old Trinity with some honor, and we all came up
to London to our town house for the season.

“My father, from excessive caution, had not brought my young cousin up
for a season in town before this, lest there should be some possible
chance of some other aspirant for her hand that might make trouble; but
now that I had left the university never to return, and our marriage day
was fixed and near at hand, we all came up to town for the season and
occupied our house in South Audley street. We got the dowager Lady
Leville, a distant relation of my mother’s, to come and stay with us to
chaperone Vivi.

“Vivi was first of all presented at court and then entered
society—_threw_ herself into it rather—wildly, madly, as only a country
girl secluded from the world until she was twenty-one and then brought
out in London at the height of the fashionable season, under such
auspices as hers, could do.

“I went with her everywhere, followed her, watched her, closely,
jealously. Among the many admirers her beauty and reputed wealth drew
around her was one whom I cannot even now recall without a pang—Thadeus
Valdimir Desparde, a captain in the horse guards. He was called by women
the handsomest and most fascinating man in London. He was called by the
men the best, freest, most generous fellow alive.

“I cannot dwell upon this part of the story, my friends—I suffered the
tortures of souls in purgatory when I saw how interested in this man my
cousin had become. No, I cannot go into details. Even my father saw the
danger at last, and he expostulated with his niece, and—only offended
her!

“Our marriage day drew near. Our wedding was to have taken place in
London. But my father, seeing the danger, suddenly resolved to leave
town and have our marriage celebrated at Cloudland. Vivienne made no
opposition to the plan, and my hopes of happiness were revived,—only for
a few hours, however, for the day before we were to have left London
Vivienne Leville disappeared.”

Here the baron paused in his story and put his hand to his head—a
gesture common to him when disturbed.

Miss Desparde, whose eyes had been fixed on him with the deepest
sympathy throughout his narration, now left her seat and drew a hassock
to his side, sat down by him and took his hand and kissed it.

The baron drew his hand away from her and laid it on her head with a
gesture of benediction. Then he resumed his story with more
cheerfulness:

“When we next heard of my cousin she was the wife of Captain Desparde.
She wrote a letter to my father and myself, pleading forgiveness, saying
that she loved me as a dear brother, but _could_ not think of me in any
other light; that she loved Captain Desparde with all the strength of
her being, and was willing to forfeit for his sake the coronet of
Beaudevere and the wealth of the Indies, and to go with him to Jamaica,
where the regiment into which he had exchanged was ordered.

“That was the last we heard of Vivienne for seven years. I had a brain
fever, but got over it without any lasting injury to my constitution. A
year passed away, and my father urged upon me my duty, as an only son
and the sole heir to the old barony, to marry. But I could not bring my
mind to it. Four more years passed away, and then my father left me. He
had been a childless widower and long passed middle age when he married
my mother, and so he was quite aged when he passed away, and I, at the
age of twenty-six, became the last Baron of Beaudevere.

“I traveled on the Continent for two years, and then returned to
Cloudland, a disappointed, solitary, but, thank Heaven! not a soured or
embittered man.

“Then I one day received a letter that gave me an electric shock!—a
letter from my cousin Vivienne, asking me to come to her for the Lord’s
sake, for that she was widowed and dying in destitution and dishonor—”

“DISHONOR!” exclaimed Valdimir and Vivienne, in one voice of agony.

“Stay! She thought so. It was _her_ mistake then, as it was _yours_
afterwards, my lad. And from the same cause. You were in error. No
dishonor ever attached to your name, my young cousins. And now let me go
on.

“I read the letter in my eagerness, on recognizing her handwriting,
before I even looked at the date. When I did, I saw that it was written
from Kingston on the Island of Jamaica. You will despise me, my young
people, but I arose up from reading that letter, ‘all on fire with joy,’
determined to go at once—to start that very day for London and sail in
the first ship or craft, whatever it might be, that should leave the
West India Docks. And I knew that one or more left every day; for I had
resolved to marry my cousin yet if she would have me—to marry her
widowed and destitute and dying as she was, and dishonored as she might
be, if such a thing could be possible.

“I went down to London without a servant; I found a sailing ship outward
bound with the tide and engaged my passage on her. In due time I reached
the Island of Jamaica and the town of Kingston. I found my kinswoman,
with two children, in poor lodgings, and in a dying condition—much
further gone than I had expected to find her; to have spoken of marriage
to her would have been the bitterest mockery.

“I found her suffering not only from bodily but from mental distress.
She gave me a history of her short married life. It had been a happy
marriage, because it had been a love match, although her husband had
been wild very wild, and had got into debt, and finally been obliged to
sell out his commission under penalty of being dismissed from her
majesty’s service—only for debt, for nothing worse at that time, she
said.

“But then she hesitated, wept, wrung her hands, and—could not tell me,
but showed me a paper. My dears, you know the fallacy of newspaper
reports? A garbled account of that execution in New Orleans had been
published in the _West Indian Signal_, by which it was made to appear
that Captain Valdimir Desparde was the felon who had suffered the
extreme penalty of the law on that occasion.

“I was shocked beyond all measure, but I was also very incredulous. I
knew there must have been some mistake. But my first care was to remove
my dying cousin and her two children to more comfortable apartments, and
to provide her with all that her condition required, the best medical
attendance among the rest.

“Then—as I could not talk with _her_ upon a subject so extremely
distressing and exciting—I set about, through other channels, to find
out the truth in regard to Captain Desparde. And I soon learned it, as
_she_ might have learned if she had known how to inquire.

“I discovered that Captain Desparde had left Kingston to go on some
business to New Orleans, had remained there but a short time and
embarked on a steamboat to return to his wife and children, whom, it
appears, he had fondly loved through all his wild career, when the
steamer was wrecked and many of the crew and passengers were lost.

“His name, by some mistake, never appeared in the list of the lost, nor
was it known to his wife that he had embarked on that ill-fated ship.
But I ascertained the fact beyond all doubt.

“It was much easier to assure myself of the identity of the felon who
was executed in New Orleans under the _alias_ of Valdimir Desparde.

“When I found myself in possession of the whole unquestionable truth I
made it known to my cousin, and soothed her last hours with the good
news that her husband had died a blameless man, and notwithstanding all
his wildness, had left an unstained name to their children.

“And I promised to adopt those children, and bring them up as my own. A
week after that my cousin fell asleep in my arms to wake no more in this
lower world. We left her mortal remains in St. John’s Cemetery at
Kingston, and I brought her children home with me.

“My lad and lasses, my story is told, and now you know why I have lived
a bachelor all my past life, and why I must expect to be solitary all my
future,” concluded the baron, with a sigh and a smile.

Vivienne, who was still sitting on a low hassock at his feet, holding
his hand, and gazing up into his face with her dark eyes full of
tenderest sympathy and deepest reverence, now spoke in low, impassioned
tones:

“Not solitary while I live, dearest Beaue. She treated you badly, Beaue;
but she could not help it, you know, if she loved somebody else. She
would have treated you worse if she had been false to herself and
married you under such circumstances. And, dearest Beaue, she left you
_me_—my mother left you _me_—and I will never leave you—never, never
leave you!”

The baron laid his hand upon her beautiful young head and smiled as he
might have smiled on a child, as he said:

“But some one may be taking you away from me, dear. I could not be so
selfish as to wish to prevent that.”

“I know what you mean, Beaue,” said Vivienne. “You mean that I may be
asked in marriage. Well, I have often been asked. I could not help it,
with all my coldness and discouragement of such offers; but I shall
never, never, never leave you, Beaue, and, of course, never
marry—unless—” Her voice failed.

“Unless what, my dear?” inquired the baron, kindly stroking her head.

She did not answer, nor did he understand her.

Would he _ever_ understand her?

Hardly; for Beaue was rather self-depreciating in all respects; and
besides that, he was one of those who could not be made to believe a
truth—sometimes made manifest—that a young woman could love an old man.

He turned to Valdimir and said:

“You will now perhaps understand the morbid sensitiveness that kept me
silent on the subject of your early life, Desparde.”

The young man bowed gravely. He was thinking how much Lord Beaudevere
must have vailed under the convenient term of “wildness” that was at
least reprehensible in the career of the late Captain Desparde. The
selling of his commission to pay his debts; the subsequent bringing of
his family to destitution—and leaving them so in a foreign city, while
he himself went off somewhere else—all these circumstances in themselves
hinted at a story, that might yet be told, not pleasant for the son to
hear.

But he had heard enough.

And now the clock struck twelve, and the Christmas bells rang out in
joyous peals of welcome as to a newborn babe.

The circle around the fire arose and smilingly exchanged their mutual
good wishes, and retired to rest.

Lady Arielle Montjoie, as we have continued to call her, because of her
extreme youth and our own habit, although since the death of the late
earl she had been Countess of Altofaire—remained at Cloudland until
after Twelfth day, and then returned to Castle Montjoie, accompanied by
Vivienne.

Early in the new year came news of Brandon Coyle. The officers that had
been sent out in pursuit of him returned without him and with
intelligence that under any other circumstances must have been received
with grief, but under the existing ones was hailed by his relatives with
a sense of infinite relief.

Brandon Coyle had never reached the shores of the New World.

One stormy winter day, when the ship was in extreme peril off the coast
of Newfoundland, and he persisted in staying on deck against the advice
of the officers, he was blown overboard and drowned. Rescue had been
impossible. Even his body was irrecoverably lost.

The captain of the ship took charge of his effects and held them subject
to the order of his heirs.

The detective officers on their arrival at New York learned these facts,
took possession of the property of the deceased, and returned with it to
England. After making their report to the Chief of Police, they came
down to Caveland and delivered up their trust to old Mr. Coyle.

Four thousand nine hundred pounds of the five thousand drawn upon the
forged check were recovered and returned to the bank.

And old Mr. Coyle and his niece breathed freely. This ending was so much
better than that which they had had every reason to fear for Brandon
Coyle.

The old squire, “with the sigh of a great deliverance,” took his niece
to Italy for the winter.

While they were sojourning in Rome they made the acquaintance of a young
Roman gentleman of incredible nobility and poverty, who, attracted by
the beauty and wealth of the heiress, laid his title and his destitution
at her feet.

Aspirita, in desperation, accepted them and became the Marchesa Maniola.

Old Mr. Coyle returned to his native land with a double sense of
satisfaction and security. Brandon could never now be hung for murder;
Aspirita would never now run away with a footman.

He settled down to his own quiet, kindly, comfortable life at Caveland,
beloved and honored by his servants and tenantry, and esteemed and
respected by his neighbors.

And so we leave the old squire.

MARRIAGE IN MAY WEATHER.

In the prime of the spring a happy party was gathered at Castle Montjoie
to witness the marriage of John Beaue, Baron Beaudevere, of Cloudland,
to Vivienne, only daughter of the late Captain Desparde, of her
majesty’s army; and also that of Mr. Valdimir Desparde with Arielle
Montjoie, Countess of Altofaire.

Yes, Beaue was happy at last—as happy as it was in the nature of man to
be—in the assurance of his young bride’s pure and devoted love, which
had grown for him from her childhood up, and had been founded on an
admiration for his character which almost amounted to adoration.

By Arielle’s instance, the marriage of the baron and his chosen bride
took precedence, but was immediately followed by that of Mr. Desparde
and the young countess.

The ceremonies were performed in the chapel by the Rev. Mr. Lucas,
assisted by the Rev. Mr. Matthew, and were conducted in a very
unostentatious manner.

The brides were dressed alike in white silk, with white Brussels lace
vails, orange flower wreaths, and pearl ornaments. There were no
bride-maids nor groomsmen.

In the first marriage Valdimir Desparde gave his sister away. In the
second marriage the baron performed the same office for the young
countess.

The witnesses were very few—old Mr. Coyle, Dr. Bennet, Mr. and Mrs.
Adrian Fleming, and the family solicitor, who had come down for the
marriage settlements, and the upper servants, who were gathered in the
rear.

The old housekeeper and butler were aghast at this simplicity, and
declared that it was enough to make all the old earls and countesses
rise up out of their coffins and come in procession to remonstrate
against their last descendant being married in this plain manner.

And they told each other traditions that had been handed down to them
about the grand weddings of former times at Castle Montjoie.

After the last ceremony the company adjourned to the dining-room, where
the wedding breakfast was laid.

Old Squire Coyle was invited to take the head of the table. All honor
was done this old gentleman by the neighbors that loved him.

The breakfast went on merrily.

Mr. Adrian Fleming arose in his place and made a little speech in
proposing the health of the two brides.

Beaudevere arose and responded on the part of the ladies.

Then other healths were drank, and the merry meal came to an end.

The brides withdrew to change their wedding-dresses for traveling suits
of lavender poplin, with sacks, hats and gloves to match, and half an
hour later drove off in an open carriage with their husbands, followed
by a shower of good wishes and old slippers.

They drove together to the Miston Station and took the London train _en
route_ for Paris.

They passed the conventional four weeks very pleasantly in the French
capital, and then returned to their country homes in Cumberland.

Mr. Desparde and the young countess took up their abode at Castle
Montjoie, and Lord and Lady Beaudevere settled down at Cloudland.

They visited each other often.

* * * * *

Only a few years have passed since then, but children have been born to
both households, and girls and boys are growing up in the old homes.

Valdimir Desparde is no longer the heir presumptive of the Barony of
Beaudevere, for an heir-apparent has seen the light; but Valdimir is
compensated in another way. By the terms of the marriage settlements, it
will be remembered, he had agreed to assume the name and arms of
Montjoie. For that reason and others, within three years after his
marriage with the last heiress of the house, he was granted the
reversion of the old title and became the Earl of Altofaire.

THE END.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

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A NOVEL.

ROBERT GRANT,

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THE FORSAKEN INN.

By ANNA KATHARINE GREEN.

_ILLUSTRATED BY VICTOR PERARD._

Anna Katharine Green’s novel, “The Forsaken Inn,” is admitted to be her
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For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent, postpaid, on
receipt of price, by the publishers.

------------------------------------------------------------------------

TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES

● Typos fixed; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.

*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK BRANDON COYLE'S WIFE ***

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