CHAPTER II. A MOUNTAIN MAIDEN.
CHAPTER III. IN THE WAY OF HISTORY.
CHAPTER IV. LETTIE ALLAN.
CHAPTER V. THE STRANGER’S CONVALESCENCE.
CHAPTER VI. CLINTON’S STORY.
CHAPTER VII. “I HAVE LOST HER!”
CHAPTER VIII. NORINE’S WEDDING.
CHAPTER IX. MIXED HAPPINESS.
CHAPTER X. UNMIXED MISERY.
CHAPTER XI. NORINE’S POSITION.
CHAPTER XII. CONWAY’S VISITOR.
CHAPTER XIII. A RISING YOUNG MAN.
CHAPTER XIV. ELWELL’S DIVORCE.
CHAPTER XV. FANNY MORAIN.
CHAPTER XVI. AUNT MARY’S ANSWER.
CHAPTER XVII. A VIGOROUS ASSAULT.
CHAPTER XVIII. A SUCCESSFUL SPECULATION.
CHAPTER XIX. A CHANGE OF BASE.
CHAPTER XX. THE MEETING.
CHAPTER XXI. CONTENTMENT.
CHAPTER XXII. AN UNWELCOME VISITOR.
CHAPTER XXIII. PETER SHOWS HIS HAND.
CHAPTER XXIV. IN THE SUMMER TIME.
CHAPTER XXV. ELWELL’S POPULARITY.
CHAPTER XXVI. A BOMB.
CHAPTER XXVII. “OUR CONGRESSMAN-ELECT.”
CHAPTER XXVIII. OLD FRIENDS.
CHAPTER XXIX. CLOSING IN.
CHAPTER XXX. HOW ELWELL ESCAPED.
CHAPTER XXXI. THE TWO WIDOWS.
CHAPTER XXXII. NORINE’S CHRISTMAS PRESENT.
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_ALL TITLES ALWAYS IN PRINT_
1--Queen Bess By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
2--Ruby’s Reward By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
7--Two Keys By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
9--The Virginia Heiress By May Agnes Fleming
12--Edrie’s Legacy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
17--Leslie’s Loyalty By Charles Garvice
(His Love So True)
22--Elaine By Charles Garvice
24--A Wasted Love By Charles Garvice
(On Love’s Altar)
41--Her Heart’s Desire By Charles Garvice
(An Innocent Girl)
44--That Dowdy By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
50--Her Ransom By Charles Garvice
(Paid For)
55--Thrice Wedded By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
66--Witch Hazel By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
70--Sydney By Charles Garvice
(A Wilful Young Woman)
73--The Marquis By Charles Garvice
77--Tina By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
79--Out of the Past By Charles Garvice
(Marjorie)
84--Imogene By Charles Garvice
(Dumaresq’s Temptation)
85--Lorrie; or, Hollow Gold By Charles Garvice
88--Virgie’s Inheritance By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
95--A Wilful Maid By Charles Garvice
(Philippa)
98--Claire By Charles Garvice
(The Mistress of Court Regna)
99--Audrey’s Recompense By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
102--Sweet Cymbeline By Charles Garvice
(Bellmaire)
109--Signa’s Sweetheart By Charles Garvice
(Lord Delamere’s Bride)
111--Faithful Shirley By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
117--She Loved Him By Charles Garvice
119--’Twixt Smile and Tear By Charles Garvice
(Dulcie)
122--Grazia’s Mistake By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
130--A Passion Flower By Charles Garvice
(Madge)
133--Max By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
136--The Unseen Bridegroom By May Agnes Fleming
138--A Fatal Wooing By Laura Jean Libbey
141--Lady Evelyn By May Agnes Fleming
144--Dorothy’s Jewels By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
146--Magdalen’s Vow By May Agnes Fleming
151--The Heiress of Glen Gower By May Agnes Fleming
155--Nameless Dell By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
157--Who Wins By May Agnes Fleming
166--The Masked Bridal By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
168--Thrice Lost, Thrice Won By May Agnes Fleming
174--His Guardian Angel By Charles Garvice
177--A True Aristocrat By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
181--The Baronet’s Bride By May Agnes Fleming
188--Dorothy Arnold’s Escape By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
199--Geoffrey’s Victory By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
203--Only One Love By Charles Garvice
210--Wild Oats By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
213--The Heiress of Egremont By Mrs. Harriet Lewis
215--Only a Girl’s Love By Charles Garvice
219--Lost: A Pearle By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
222--The Lily of Mordaunt By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
223--Leola Dale’s Fortune By Charles Garvice
231--The Earl’s Heir By Charles Garvice
(Lady Norah)
233--Nora By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
236--Her Humble Lover By Charles Garvice
(The Usurper; or, The Gipsy Peer)
242--A Wounded Heart By Charles Garvice
(Sweet as a Rose)
244--A Hoiden’s Conquest By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon
The Breath of Slander;
OR,
Virtue Triumphs
BY
IDA READE ALLEN
AUTHOR OF
“The Man and His Millions,” “A Forced Promise,” “Told in
the Twilight,” “From Tears to Smiles.”
[Illustration]
STREET & SMITH CORPORATION
PUBLISHERS
79-89 Seventh Avenue, New York
Copyright, 1899
GEORGE MUNRO’S SONS
The Breath of Slander
(Printed in the United States of America)
THE BREATH OF SLANDER.
CHAPTER I.
A MOUNTAIN STORM.
It was a warm spring day--an oppressively warm day--although the stormy
month of March was not half gone, and the snow still lingered in the
hollows and around the roots of the scrub oaks where the warm rays of
the sun could not reach it.
March had come in like a lamb, and here it was the fourteenth day of
that usually boisterous month, and there had not been a stormy or
disagreeable day yet.
It was a wonderfully early spring--quite unprecedented. Even those
chronic liars, “the oldest inhabitants,” could not remember a warmer
one. So they sat around the village store, while they droned about the
hot summers and cold winters they had seen, being content to let the
present season alone as being beyond even their fertile imaginations.
The scene opens at a little wayside village among the mountains of
Pennsylvania. A very little village it was, with the usual blacksmith
shop sending forth the musical jingle and clang of hammer and anvil,
and the usual general store, keeping for sale or exchange the usual
stock of everything from medicine to hardware, and from books to boots
and shoes, not to mention such little matters as stoves and farm tools.
In front of this establishment was the usual oaken railing, supported
by stout oaken posts, and used for the double purpose of hitching
horses and furnishing a comfortable seat for the village loafers.
A little farther down the road, and on the opposite side, there stood
the usual village tavern, with its ample stoop or veranda, littered
with the usual number of stools and chairs in the usual state of
dilapidation.
This was about all there was of the little village, and one might have
sat on the tavern stoop, where the fat, sleepy-looking host was sitting
now, and look in vain for more.
He, however, did not appear to be looking for more, or, in fact, for
anything: for he sat and smoked, and stared placidly around him, where
everything was flooded with the yellow sunshine, and where a few flies
and other insects--adventurous fellows, who had ventured out of their
winter’s nap rather earlier than usual--now buzzed languidly around
him, as if they were hardly decided if it was worth their while to
remain awake.
Beyond this there was nothing to see but the mountain road that
wound in and out and around all obstructions, and stretched out in
the distance like a very dirty ribbon--only this, and the low-lying
mountain in front of him, and a hazy view of higher ones beyond.
It was all calm and slumberous, and mine host had sat placidly smoking
his after-dinner pipe for some time without interruption--not that the
interruption appeared to disturb him any when it did come, for he had
been spoken to several times from the interior of the house without
deigning a reply--when he was joined by a tall, fine-appearing young
man, whom he addressed briefly with “Mornin’.”
“Good morning,” replied the young man civilly, though it was afternoon.
“How far do you call it to the nearest town, landlord?”
“Well, sir. I calls thet diffrunt ’cordin’ to ther way you goes. Ef you
goes round by th’ road, it’s a good, fair twenty-eight miles; but ef
you goes over th’ mounting, it’s a mighty scant fifteen miles.”
The fat, lazy landlord looked on placidly while his guest made the
necessary preparations for departure. He was a fat, not over-cleanly
man, was the village landlord; not much given to talking, and--probably
for that reason--bearing the reputation among his village cronies of
being a powerful thinker; very slow in his movements, and still slower,
if possible, with his thoughts, so, by the time he appeared to realize
his misfortune in losing the only guest his house had entertained for
some days, the traveler had made all snug, and was filling his short
brier pipe ready for the road.
“Now, landlord,” he said briskly, after taking one or two preparatory
whiffs, “if you will just show me the road, I’ll make a start.”
Somewhat discomfited by his guest’s promptness, the landlord, after
closely examining the interior of his pipe, as if for inspiration,
and shaking his head profoundly after, as if he failed in finding
any--probably because the pipe was empty--pointed his fat index finger
down the road.
“I know that,” said the young man, testily; “but where is this mountain
road?”
“Ain’t none--leastwise no road. There’s er kind er path fer th’ first
few miles, en then yer get to ther top, an’ kin see yer way down.”
“Where is this path?” demanded the young man, impatiently.
Now, instead of answering this simple question, the landlord sauntered
heavily to the door, and after staring for some moments at the horizon,
sauntered as heavily back to the bar, and proceeded slowly and
carefully to fill his pipe, a proceeding that seemed to tax the good
nature of the traveler severely.
“Guess you didn’t hear my question, did you?” he inquired sarcastically.
The landlord nodded his head slowly, and lighted his pipe.
“Then why don’t you answer it?” demanded the young man, with increased
impatience. “Where is that confounded path?”
“Stranger, ye’ll hev ter take th’ road,” replied the host, puffing
calmly. “Yer can’t go over th’ mounting ter-day.”
“Why not?”
“’Cause, stranger, hit’s a-goin’ ter storm,” replied the landlord,
with an air of having definitely settled the whole matter.
The stranger saw the flood of sunshine covering everything with its
golden gleam, glanced rapidly at the cloudless sky overhead, and burst
into a hearty laugh at the transparent ruse. Who but a tavern-keeper
could think of a storm on such a day?
“Now landlord,” he said, after exhausting his mirth, “I’m really sorry
that I am obliged to leave you to-day; but I’m going, and I’m going by
way of the mountain; so the sooner you point out the beginning of that
confounded path, the sooner I can get on my way. Now, where does it
start from?”
Without a word in reply, the host marched heavily to the door, and
pointed to an opening in the scrubby timber directly in front of the
house, and only separated therefrom by the road and a stretch of field
devoted apparently to the cultivation of stones; and that was all it
seemed capable of bearing.
Without a word, the traveler slung his bag over his shoulder, and
started out.
“Say, stranger!” called the landlord.
The young man stopped.
“Hit’s a-goin’ ter rain.”
“Let it rain,” replied the stranger cheerfully, at the same time
starting away.
“An’ hit’s a-goin’ to blow.”
If the stranger heard him this time, he paid no attention, but
continued his way through the gate and into the field.
“Ah, stranger, hit’s er goin’ ter sto-r-r-r-m!” called the landlord,
with both hands to his mouth, trumpet-like.
But the stranger only looked back and laughed mockingly, and when
he reached the opening in the woods he again turned. The landlord
was standing in the same place, apparently making further dismal
predictions as to the weather.
With a wave of his hand, the traveler turned and entered the woods; a
step more carried him out of sight, as he was already out of hearing;
and turning his face resolutely to the path, he started sturdily on his
journey.
Not a very resolute face, this man’s, but a good-natured face framed
by dark hair, with a shrewd, good-natured pair of dark eyes--a pair of
eyes that could laugh, though perhaps with something more of scorn than
merriment. But for all their merry twinkle, they looked changeable.
In fact, viewing him as he trudged along, one would have noticed an
unstable look on every feature.
There was nothing wicked in the face, though it betrayed some traces
of passion; nothing even mean about it--a face, taken altogether, that
was likely to create a good impression at first sight; better at first
sight, perhaps, than after a more extended acquaintance.
There was a restless energy in his stride that spoke well for his
physical training, and his long, swinging step had carried him through
the patch of scrub oak and to the base of the mountain before he had
done laughing at the stupid landlord.
“Storm! ha, ha!” he laughed, as he emerged into the bright spring
sunshine, and inhaled deep breaths of the bracing mountain air. “A
storm to-day, the stupid!” and he laughed contemptuously.
Not so stupid after all, if he had but known, for the storm was nearer
than he thought, but he trudged on, content to be in the sunshine on
_his_ side of the mountain, and neither knowing nor caring for the
thick bank of clouds that were rapidly nearing him, and that were
darkening all the face of nature with their gloom.
They were on the other side of the mountain as yet, so he laughed at
the landlord’s stupidity and trudged merrily along.
Somewhat rougher was the road now, and harder climbing, and the rougher
and harder it became the higher he ascended. Still he trudged on,
stopping now at times to rest on some wayside stone, and muttering a
curse over the roughness of the road.
He was well up the mountain before he realized the truth of the
landlord’s prediction.
“The old rascal told the truth after all,” he muttered discontentedly;
“and I suppose I am in for a wetting unless I can find some shelter.”
But there was very little time to look for shelter now, for the
mountain storm was on him, and over him, and all around him, before he
fairly realized his danger--with a roaring and thundering as if all of
heaven’s artillery had been drawn into action at once, with lightning
and rain and wind all hustling and bustling around him, as if the gods
had doomed his insect life to extermination, and had called out all
their forces to execute the order.
Insect; ay, so he felt himself to be. What but an insect when compared
with the awful majesty of this storm? Still, insect-like, and with all
the insect tenacity of life, he labored on, clutching at every root and
shrub in his path, sometimes lying flat on his face and clinging to
the very earth; sometimes thrown down and whirled over and over by the
violence of the wind, only to crawl painfully upward again as soon as
he could obtain a foothold.
So he climbed on, stopping for shelter wherever he could find a bush or
projecting rock, only to struggle on again after he had got his breath.
And so the day passed and the darkness came to increase his misery and
danger--not slowly, or with any faint premonitions of a change, but
suddenly and completely, as if all the light of the universe had been
extinguished at once.
There seemed to be no twilight on this gloomy mountainside, and the
darkness of midnight came down and infolded him as completely as if he
were buried in a cloud, and then came fright and despair.
He had long since lost the path, and could only struggle on a foot at a
time, as he could feel his way ahead of him. Still he struggled upward.
At last in his despair he stopped, and turning his back to a stone,
tried to rest. He was numb and cold, and so completely exhausted that
it seemed impossible to struggle longer. Would this black night never
pass, or this storm cease, he wondered?
As yet the storm had abated nothing of its violence, but roared and
thundered and tore at him, as if it raged at his daring to maintain his
feeble life, and was determined to wrest it from him.
He was going down now, but whether he had crossed the ridge of the
mountain, or was going down the path he came, he did not know. He only
knew that the storm was at his back, and that it required a greater
effort to keep his footing.
He hardly realized that he was wounded and bleeding; but weak and
wounded as he was, he fully realized the necessity of continued
exertion; and so he struggled on, fighting hard and stubbornly for
his life, as only brave men fight in the face of danger that seems
impossible to surmount, and when they regard death as inevitable.
Morning at last, thank God: and ah, how fervent and heartfelt were
those thanks, for with the early dawn there came a break in the black
clouds overhead; and as suddenly as the storm had overtaken him, it
passed away, rumbling and growling sullenly, as if angry that his life
had lasted in spite of its awful rage.
He was down the mountain now and in a patch of scrubby timber; but
whether the same he had gone through on the preceding day or not he
could not tell.
As the morning light became stronger and clearer, he discovered a small
hut or cabin--deserted and partly ruined. To this he wearily made his
way, and sunk exhausted and senseless on the floor.
And the sun came out bright and warm, and all nature gloried in its
rays. Birds sung, insects hummed and chirped, and all things animate
and inanimate seemed to rejoice in the coming of spring--as if storms
were not.