The young man nodded, went back a moment_Norine's Revenge, and, Sir Noel's Heir

followed the colonel into the carriage. The drive was a very silent

one--dark gloom lay on the faces of the two men. A vague, chilling

presentiment of impending evil on the Indian officer, as he uneasily

watched the young man who had so nearly been his son.

Aileen Jocyln, roaming like a restless ghost through the lonely rooms,

saw them alight, and came out to the hall to meet her betrothed. She

held out both hands shyly and wistfully, looking up, half in fear, in

that rigid death-white face of her lover.

"Aileen!"

He took the hands, and held them fast a moment; then dropped them, and

turned to the colonel.

"Now, Colonel Jocyln."

The colonel led the way into the library. Sir Rupert paused a moment on

the threshold to answer Aileen's pleading glance.

"Only for a few moments, Aileen," he said, his eyes softening with

infinite love; "in half an hour my fate shall be decided. Let that fate

be what it may, I shall be true to you while life lasts."

With these enigmatical words, he followed the colonel into the library,

and the polished oaken door closed between him and Aileen.

CHAPTER XIV.

PARTED.

Half an hour had passed.

Up and down the long drawing-room Aileen wandered, aimlessly,

restlessly, oppressed with an overwhelming dread of, she knew not what,

a prescience of evil, vague as it was terrible. The dark gloom of the

rainy evening was not darker than that brooding shadow in her deep,

dusky eyes.

In the library Colonel Jocyln stood facing his son-in-law elect, staring

like a man bereft of his senses. The melancholy half light coming wanly

through the oriel window by which he stood, fell full upon the face of

Rupert Thetford, white and cold, and set as marble.

"My God!" the Indian officer said, with wild eyes of terror and

affright, "what is this you are telling me?"

"The truth, Col. Jocyln--the simple truth. Would to Heaven I had known

it years ago--this shameful story of wrong-doing and misery!"

"I don't comprehend--I can't comprehend this impossible tale, Sir

Rupert."

"That is a misnomer now, Colonel Jocyln. I am no longer _Sir_ Rupert."

"Do you mean to say you credit this wild story of a former marriage of

Sir Noel's? Do you really believe your late governess to have been your

father's wife?"

"I believe it, colonel. I have facts and statements, and dying words to

prove it. On my father's death-bed, he made my mother swear to tell the

truth, to repair the wrong he had done; to seek out his son, concealed

by his valet, Vyking, and restore him to his rights! My mother never

kept that promise--the cruel wrong done to herself was too bitter; and

at my birth she resolved never to keep it. I should not atone for the

sin of my father; his elder son should never deprive _her_ child of his

birthright. My poor mother! You know the cause of that mysterious

trouble which fell upon her at my father's death, and which darkened her

life to the last. Shame, remorse, anger--shame for herself--a wife only

in name; remorse for her broken vow to the dead, and anger against that

erring dead man."

"But you told me she had hunted him up and provided for him," said the

mystified colonel.

"Yes; she saw an advertisement in a London paper, calling upon Vyking to

take charge of the boy he had left twelve years before. Now Vyking, the

valet, had been transported for house-breaking long before that, and my

mother answered the advertisement. There could be no doubt the child was

the child Vyking had taken charge of--Sir Noel Thetford's rightful heir.

My mother left him with the painter, Legard, with whom he grew up, whose

name he took; and he is now at Thetford Towers."

"I thought the likeness meant something," muttered the colonel under his

mustache, "his paternity is plainly enough written in his face. And so,"

raising his voice, "Mrs. Weymore recognized her son. Really, your story

runs like a melodrama, where the hero turns out to be a duke, and his

mother knows the strawberry mark on his arm. Well, sir, if Mrs. Weymore

is Sir Noel's rightful widow, and Guy Legard his rightful son and

heir--pray what are you?"

The colorless face of the young man turned dark red for an instant, then

whiter than before.

"My mother was as truly and really Sir Noel's wife as woman can be the

wife of man in the sight of Heaven. The crime was his; the shame and

suffering hers; the atonement mine. Sir Noel's elder son shall be Sir

Noel's heir--I will play usurper no longer. To-morrow I leave St.

Gosport; the day after England, never perhaps, to return."

"You are mad," Colonel Jocyln said, turning very pale; "you do not mean

it."

"I am not mad, and I do mean it. I may be unfortunate; but, I pray God,

never a villain. Right is right; my brother Guy is the rightful

heir--not I."

"And Aileen?" Colonel Jocyln's face turned dark and rigid as iron as he

spoke his daughter's name.

Rupert Thetford turned away his changing face.

"It shall be as she says. Aileen is too noble and just herself not to

honor me for doing right."

"It shall be as I say," returned Colonel Jocyln, with a voice that rang,

and an eye that flashed. "My daughter comes of a proud and stainless

race, and never shall she mate with one less stainless. Hear me out,

young man. It won't do to fire up--plain words are best suited to a

plain case. All that has passed between you and Miss Jocyln must be as

if it had never been. The heir of Thetford Towers, honorably born, I

consented she should marry; but, dearly as I love her, I would see her

dead at my feet before she should marry one who was nameless and

impoverished. You said just now the atonement was yours--you said right;

go, and never return."

He pointed to the door; the young man, stonily still, took his hat.

"Will you not permit your daughter, Colonel Jocyln, to speak for

herself?" he said at the door.

"No, sir. I know my daughter--my proud, high-spirited Aileen, and my

answer is hers. I wish you good-night."

He swung round abruptly, turning his back upon his visitor. Rupert

Thetford, without one word, turned and walked out of the house.

The bewildering rapidity of the shocks he had received had stunned

him--he could not feel the pain now. There was a dull sense of aching

torture upon him from head to foot--but the acute edge was dulled; he

walked along through the black night like a man drugged and stupefied.

He was only conscious intensely of one thing--a wish to get away, never

to set foot in St. Gosport again.

Like one walking in his sleep, he reached Thetford Towers, his old home,

every tree and stone of which was dear to him. He entered at once,

passed into the drawing-room, and found Guy Legard, sitting before the

fire, staring blankly into the coals; and May Everard, roaming

restlessly up and down, the firelight falling dully on her black robes

and pale, tear-stained face. Both started at his entrance--all wet, and

pale and haggard; but neither spoke. There was that in his face which

froze the words on their lips.

"I am going away to-morrow," he said, abruptly, leaning against the

mantel, and looking at them with quiet, steadfast eyes.

May uttered a faint cry; Guy faced him almost fiercely.

"Going away! What do you mean, Sir Rupert? We are going away together,

if you like."

"No; I go alone. You remain here, it is your place now."

"Never!" cried the young artist, passionately--"never! I will go out and

die like a dog, of starvation, before I rob you of your birthright!"

"You reverse matters," said Rupert Thetford; "it is I who have robbed

you, unwittingly, for too many years. I promised my mother on her

death-bed, as she promised my father on his, that you should have your

right, and I will keep that promise. Guy, dear old fellow! don't let us

quarrel, now that we are brothers, after being friends so long. Take

what is your own; the world is all before me, and surely I am man enough

to win my own way. Not one other word; you shall not come with me; you

might as well talk to these stone walls and try to move them as to move

me. To-morrow I go, and go alone."

"Alone!" It was May who breathlessly repeated the word.

"Alone; all the ties that bound me here are broken; I go alone, and

single-handed, to fight the battle of life Guy, I have spoken to the

rector about you--you will find him your friend and aider; and May is to

make her home at the rectory. And now," turning suddenly, and moving to

the door, "as I start early to-morrow, I believe I'll retire early.

Good-night."

And then he was gone, and Guy and May were left staring at each other

with blank faces.

The storm of wind and rain sobbed itself out before midnight; and in the

bluest of skies, heralded by banners of rosy clouds, rose up the sun

next morning. Before that rising sun had gilded the tops of the tallest

oaks in the park, he, who had so lately called it all his own, had

opened the heavy oaken door and passed from Thetford Towers, as home,

forever. The house was very still--no one had risen; he had left a note

to Guy, with a few brief, warm words of farewell.

"Better so," he thought--"better so! He and May will be happy together,

for I know he loves her, and she him. The memory of my leave-taking

shall never come to cloud their united lives."

One last backward glance at the eastern windows turning to gold; at the

sea blushing in the first glance of the day-king; at the waving trees

and swelling meadows, and gray, old ivy-grown front, and then he passed

down the avenue, out through the massive entrance-gates, and was gone.

CHAPTER XV.

AFTER FIVE YEARS.

Moonlight falling like a silvery veil over Venice--a crystal clear

crescent in a purple sky shimmering on palace and prison, churches,

squares and canals, on the gilded gondolas, and the flitting forms

passing like noiseless shadows to and fro.

A young lady leaned from a window of a vast Venetian hotel, gazing

thoughtfully at the silver-lighted landscape, so strange, so unreal, so

dream-like, to her unaccustomed eyes. A young lady, stately and tall,

with a pale, proud face, deep, dark eyes, solemn, shining, fathomless,

like mountain tarns; floating dark ringlets and a statuesque sort of

beauty that was perfect in its way. She was dressed in trailing robes of

crape and bombazine, and the face, turned to the moonlight, was cold and

still.

She turned her eyes from the moonlit canal, down which dark gondolas

floated to the music of the gay gondolier's song; once, as an English

voice in the piazza below, sung a stave of a jingling barcarole,

"Oh, gay we row where full tides flow

And bear our bounding pinnace;

And leap along where song meets song,

Across the waves of Venice."

The singer, a tall young man, with a florid face, and yellow side

whiskers, an unmistakable son of the "right little, tight little"

island, paused in his song, as another man, stepping through an open

window, struck him an airy sledge-hammer slap on the back.

"I ought to know that voice," said the last comer.

"Mortimer, my lad, how goes it?"

"Stafford!" cried the singer, seizing the outstretched hand in a genuine

English grip, "happy to meet you, old boy, in the land of romance! La

Fabre told me you were coming--but who would look for you so soon? I

thought you were doing Sorrento?"

"Got tired of Sorrento," said Stafford, taking his arm for a walk up

and down the piazza; "there's a fever there, too--quite an

epidemic--malignant typhus. Discretion is the better part of valor,

where Sorrento fevers are concerned. I left."

"When did you reach Venice?" asked Mortimer, lighting a cigar.

"An hour ago; and now who's here? Any one I know?"

"Lots. The Cholmonadeys, the Lythons, the Howards, of Leighwood; and,

by-the-by, they have with them the Marble Bride."

"The which?" asked Mr. Stafford.

"The Marble Bride, the Princess Frostina, otherwise Miss Aileen Jocyln,

of Jocyln Hall, Devonshire. You knew the old colonel, I think--he died

over a year ago, you remember."

"Ah, yes! I remember. Is she here with the Howards, and as handsome as

ever, no doubt?"

"Handsome to my mind, with an uplifted and unapproachable sort of

beauty. A fellow might as soon love some bright particular star, etc.,

as the fabulously wealthy heiress of all the Jocylns. She has no end of

suitors--all the best men here bow at the shrine of the ice-cold Aileen,

and all in vain."

"You among the rest, my friend?" with a light laugh.

"No, by Jove!" cried Mr. Mortimer; "that sort of thing, the marble

style, you know, never was to my taste. I admire Miss Jocyln immensely;

just as I do that moon up there, with no particular desire ever to get

nearer."

"What was that story I heard once, five years ago, about a broken

engagement? Wasn't Thetford of that ilk hero of the tale? The romantic

Thetford, who resigned his title and estate to a mysteriously-found

elder brother, you know. The story rang through the papers and the clubs

at the time like wildfire, and set the whole country talking, I

remember. She was engaged to him, wasn't she, and broke off?"

"So goes the story--but who knows? I recollect that odd affair perfectly

well; it was like the melo-dramas on the Surrey side of the Thames. I

know the 'mysteriously found elder brother,' too--very fine fellow, Sir

Guy Thetford, and married to the prettiest little wife the sun shines

on. I must say Rupert Thetford behaved wonderfully well in that

unpleasant business; very few men would do as he did--they would, at

least, have made a fight for the title and estates. By-the-way, I wonder

what ever became of him?"

"I left him at Sorrento," said Stafford, coolly.

"The deuce you did! What was he doing there?"

"Raving in the fever; so the people told me with whom he stopped. I just

discovered he was in the place as I was about to leave it. He had

fallen very low, I fancy; his pictures didn't sell, I suppose; he has

been in the painting line since he ceased to be Sir Rupert, and the

world has gone against him. Rather hard on him to lose fortune, title,

home, bride, and all at one fell swoop."

"And so you left him ill of the fever? Poor fellow!"

"Dangerously ill."

"And the people with whom he is will take very little care of him. He's

as good as dead. Let us go in--I want to have a look at the latest

English papers."

The two men passed in, out of the moonlight, off the piazza, all

unconscious that they had had a listener. The pale watcher in the

trailing black robes scarcely heeding them at first, had grown more and

more absorbed in the careless conversation. She caught her breath quick

and hard, the dark eyes dilated, the slender hands pressed tight over

the throbbing heart. As they went in off the balcony, she slid from her

seat and held up her clasped hands to the luminous night sky.

"Here me, O God!" the white lips cried. "I, who have aided in wrecking a

noble heart, hear me, and help me to keep my vow! I offer my whole life

in atonement for the cruel and wicked past. If he dies, I shall go to my

grave his unwedded widow. If he lives--"

Her voice faltered and died out, her face dropped forward on the

window-sill, and the moonlight fell like a benediction on the bowed

young head.

CHAPTER XVI.

AT SORRENTO.

The low light in the western sky was fading out; the bay of Naples lay

rosy in the haze of the dying day; the soft, sweet wind floated over the

waters; the fishing boats were coming in; and on this scene an invalid,

looking from a window high up on the sea-washed cliff of Sorrento, gazed

languidly.

For he was surely an invalid who sat in that window chair and gazed at

the wondrous Italian sea, and that lovely Italian sky. Surely an

invalid, with that pallid face, those spectral, hollow eyes, those

sunken cheeks, those bloodless lips; surely an invalid, and one but very

lately risen from the very gates of death, a pale shadow, worn and weak

as a child.

As he sits there, where he has sat for hours, lonely and alone, the door

opens, and an English face looks in--the face of an Englishman of the

lower classes.

"A visitor for you, sir--just come, and a-foot; a lady, sir. She will

not give her name, but wishes to see you most particular, if you

please."

"A lady! To see me?"

The invalid opens his dark eyes in wonder as he speaks.

"Yes, sir; an English lady, sir, dressed in black, and a wearing of a

thick veil. She asked for Mr. Rupert Thetford as soon as she see me, as

plain, as plain, sir--"

The young man in the chair started, half rose, and then sunk back; an

eager light lit in the hollow eyes.

"Let her come in, I will see her."

The man disappeared; there was an instant's pause, then a tall, slender

figure, draped and veiled in black, entered alone.

The visitor stood still. Once more the invalid attempted to rise, once

more his strength failed him. The lady threw back her veil with a sudden

emotion.

"My God, Aileen!"

"Rupert!"

She was on her knees before him, lifting her suppliant hands.

"Forgive me! forgive me! I have seemed the most heartless and cruel of

women. But I too, have suffered. I am base and unworthy; but, oh!

forgive me, if you can."

The old love, stronger then death, shone in her eyes, plead in her

passionate, sobbing voice, and went to his very heart.

"I have been so wretched, so wretched all these miserable years. While

my father lived, I would not disobey his stern command, that I was never

to attempt to see or hear from you, and at his death I could not. You

seemed lost to me and to the world. Only by the merest accident I heard

in Venice you were here, and ill--dying. I lost no time; I came hither

at once, hoping against hope to find you alive. Thank God I did come. O

Rupert! for the sake of the past forgive me."

"Forgive you!" and he tried to raise her. "Aileen--darling!"

His weak arms encircled her, and the pale lips pressed passionate kisses

on the tear-wet face.

So while the glory of the sunset lay on the sea, and until the stars

spangled the sky, the reunited lovers sat in the soft haze, as Adam and

Eve may have sat in the loveliness of Eden.

"How long since you left England?" Rupert asked, at length.

"Two years ago; poor papa died in the South of France--you mustn't blame

him too much, Rupert."

"My dearest, we will talk of blaming no one. And Guy and May are

married? I knew they would be."

"Did you? I was so surprised when I read it in the _Times_; for you know

May and I never corresponded--she was frantically angry with me. Do they

know you are here?"

"No, I rarely write, and I am constantly moving about; but I know that

Guy is very much beloved in St. Gosport. We will go back to England, one

of these days, my darling, and give them the greatest surprise they have

received since Guy Thetford learned who he really was."

He smiled as he said it--the old bright smile she remembered so well.

Tears of joy filled the beautiful upturned eyes.

"And you will go back? O Rupert! it needed but this to complete my

happiness."

He drew her closer, and then there was a long delicious silence, while

they watched together the late-rising moon climbing the misty hills

above Castellamare.

CHAPTER XVII.

AT HOME.

Another sunset, red and gorgeous, over swelling English meadows, waving

trees, and grassy terrace, lighting up with its crimson radiance the

gray forest of Thetford Towers.

In the pretty, airy summer drawing-room, this red sunset streams through

open western windows, kindling everything into living light. It falls on

the bright-haired girlish figure, dressed in floating white, seated in

an arm-chair in the centre of the room, too childish-looking, you might

fancy, at first sight, to be mamma to that fat baby she holds in her

lap; but she is not a bit too childish. And that is papa, tall and

handsome, and happy, who leans over the chair and looks as men do look

on what is the apple of their eye, and the pride of their heart.

"It's high time baby was christened, Guy," Lady Thetford--for, of

course, Lady Thetford it is--was saying; "and, do you know, I am really

at a loss for a name. You won't let me call him Guy, and I sha'n't call

him Noel--and so what is it to be?"

"Rupert, of course," Sir Guy suggests; and little Lady Thetford pouts.

"He does not deserve the compliment. Shabby fellow! To keep wandering

about the world as he does, and never to answer one's letters; and I

sent him half a ream last time, if I sent him a sheet, telling all

about baby, and asking him to come and be godfather, and coaxing him

with the eloquence of a female Demos--, the man in the tub you know. And

to think it should be all of no use! To think of not receiving a line in

return. It is using me shamefully; and I don't believe I will call baby

Rupert."

"Oh, yes you will, my dear! Well, Smithers, what is it?"

For Mr. Smithers, the butler, stood in the doorway, with a very pale and

startled face.

"It's a gentleman--leastways a lady--leastways a lady and gentleman. Oh!

here they come theirselves!"

Mr. Smithers retired precipitately, still pale and startled of visage,

as a gentleman, with a lady on his arm, stood before Sir Guy and Lady

Thetford.

There was a half shout from the young baronet, a wild shriek from the

young lady. She sprung to her feet, and nearly dropped the precious

baby.

"Rupert! Aileen!"

She never got any further--this impetuous little Lady Thetford, for she

was kissing first one, then the other, crying and laughing, and talking

all in a breath.

"Oh! what a surprise this is! Rupert my dear, my dear, I'm so glad to

see you again! O Aileen! I never, never hoped for this! Guy, O Guy, to

think it should all come right at last!"

But Guy was wringing his brother's hand, with bright tears standing in

his eyes, and quite unable to reply.

"And this is the baby, May? The wonderful baby you wrote me so much

about," Mr. Rupert Thetford said. "A noble little fellow, upon my word;

and a Thetford from top to toe. Am I in season to be godfather?"

"Just in season. The name was to have been Rupert in any case, but a

moment ago I was scolding frightfully, because you had not answered my

letter, little dreaming you were coming to answer in person. And Aileen

too! Oh! my dear, my dear, sit down at once and tell me all about it."

Mrs. Thetford smiles at the old impetuosity, and in very few words tells

the story of the meeting and the marriage.

"Of course you remain in England?" Sir Guy eagerly asked, when he had

heard the brief _resume_ of those past five years. "Of course Jocyln

Hall is to be headquarters and home?"

"Yes," Rupert says, his eyes for a moment lingering lovingly on his

wife, "Jocyln Hall is home. We have not yet been there; we came at once

here to see the most wonderful baby of modern times--my handsome little

namesake."

"It is just like a fairy tale," is all Lady Thetford can say then; but

late that night, when the reunited friends were in their chambers, she

lifted her golden head off the pillow, and looked at her husband

entering the room. "It's so very odd, Guy," slowly and drowsily, "to

think that, after all, a Rupert Thetford should be _Sir Noel's Heir_."

A DARK CONSPIRACY.

"In love with her--_I_ want to marry her!" cried Tom Maxwell in a fine

fury. "I tell you I hate her, and I hope she may die a miserable,

disappointed, cantankerous old maid!"

Striding up and down the floor, his face flaming, his eyes flashing, his

very coat-tail quivering with rage--a Bengal tiger, robbed of her young,

could not have looked a much more ferocious object. And yet ferocity was

not natural to Tom Maxwell--handsome Tom, whose years were only

two-and-twenty, and who was hot-headed and fiery, and impetuous as it is

in the nature of two-and-twenty to be, but by no means innately savage.

But he had just been jilted, jilted in cold blood; so up and down he

strode, grinding his teeth vindictively, and fulminating anathema

maranathas against his fair deceiver.

"The miserable, heartless jilt! The deceitful, shameless coquette!"

burst out Tom, ferociously. "She gave me every encouragement that a

woman could give, until she drew me on by her abominable wiles to make a

fool of myself; and then she turns round and smiles and puts her

handkerchief to her eyes and is 'very sorry,'" mimicking the feminine

intonation, "'and never dreamed of such a thing, and will be very happy

to be my friend; but for anything further--oh! dear, Mr. Maxwell, pray

don't think of it!' Confound her and the whole treacherous sex to which

she belongs! But I'm not done with her yet! I'll have revenge as sure as

my name is Tom Maxwell!"

"As how?" asked a lazy voice from the sofa. "She's a woman, you know.

Being a woman, you can't very well call her out and shoot her, or

horsewhip her, or even knock her down. A fellow may feel like that--I

often have myself, after being jilted; but still it can't be did. It's

an absurd law, I allow, this polite exemption of womankind from condign

and just punishment; but it is too late in the day for chaps like you

and me to go tilt against popular prejudices."

It was a long speech for Paul Warden, who was far too indolent generally

to get beyond monosyllables. He lay stretched at full length on the

sofa, languidly smoking the brownest of meerschaums, and dreamily

watching the smoke curl and wreath around his head. A genial,

good-looking fellow, five years Tom's senior, and remarkably clever in

his profession, the law, when not too lazy to exercise it.

Tom Maxwell paused in his excited striding to look in astonishment at

the speaker.

"You jilted!" he said, "You! You, Paul Warden, the irresistible!"

"Even so, _mon ami_. Like measles, and mumps, and tooth-cutting, it's

something a man has to go through, willy nilly. I've been jilted and

heart-broken some half-dozen times, more or less, and here I am to-night

not a ha'penny the worse for it. So go it, Tom my boy! The more you

rant and rave now, the sooner the pain will be over. It's nothing when

you're used to it. By-the-way," turning his indolent eyes slowly, "is

she pretty, Tom?"

"Of course!" said Tom, indignantly. "What do you take me for? Pretty!

She's beautiful, she's fascinating. Oh, Warden! it drives me mad to

think of it!"

"She's all my fancy painted her--she's lovely, she's divine," quoted Mr.

Warden; "but her heart, it is another's, and it never-- What's her name,

Tom?"

"Fanny Summers. If you had been in this place four-and-twenty hours, you

would have no need to ask. Half the men in town are spooney about her."

"Fanny. Ah! a very bad omen. Never knew a Fanny yet who wasn't a natural

born flirt. What's the style--dark or fair, _belle_ blonde, or _jolie_

brunette?"

"Brunette; dark, bright, sparkling, saucy, piquant irresistible! Oh!"

cried Tom, with a dismal groan, sinking into a chair, "it is too bad,

_too_ bad to be treated so!"

"So it is, my poor Tom. She deserved the bastinado, the wicked witch.

The bastinado not being practicable, let us think of something else. She

deserves punishment, and she shall have it; paid back in her own coin,

and with interest, too. Eh? Well?"

For Tom had started up in his chair, violently excited and red in the

face.

"The very thing!" cried Tom. "I have it! She shall be paid in her own

coin, and I'll have most glorious revenge, if you'll only help me,

Paul."

"To my last breath, Tom; only don't make so much noise. Hand me the

match-box, my pipe's gone out. Now, what is it?"

"Paul, they call you irresistible--the women do."

"Do they? Very polite of them. Well?"

"Well, being irresistible, why can't you make love to Fanny Summers,

talk her into a desperate attachment to you, and then treat her as she

has treated me--jilt her?"

Paul Warden opened his large, dreamy eyes to their widest, and fixed

them on his excited young friend.

"Do you mean it, Tom?"

"Never meant anything more in my life, Paul."

"But supposing I could do it; supposing I am the irresistible conqueror

you gallantly make me out; supposing I could talk the charming Fanny

into that deplorable attachment--it seems a shame, doesn't it?"

"A shame!" exclaimed poor Tom, smarting under a sense of his own recent

wrong; "and what do you call her conduct to _me_? It's a poor rule that

won't work both ways. Let her have it herself, hot and strong, and see

how she likes it--she's earned it richly. You can do it, I know, Paul;

you have a way with you among women. I don't understand it myself, but I

see it takes. You can do it, and you're no friend of mine, Warden, if

you don't."

"Do it! My dear fellow, what wouldn't I do to oblige you; break fifty

hearts, if you asked me. Here's my hand--it's a go."

"And you'll flirt with her, and jilt her?"

"With the help of the gods. Let the campaign begin at once, let me see

my fair, future victim to-night."

"But you'll be careful, Paul," said Tom, cooling down as his friend

warmed up. "She's very pretty, uncommonly pretty; you've no idea how

pretty, and she may turn the tables and subjugate you, instead of you

subjugating her."

"The old story of the minister who went to Rome to convert the Pope, and

returned a red-hot Catholic. Not any thanks. My heart is iron-clad; has

stood too many sieges to yield to any little flirting brunette.

Forewarned is forearmed. Come on, old fellow," rising from his sofa, "if

'tis done, when it is done, 'twere well 'twere done quickly.'"

"How goes the night?" said Tom, looking out; "it's raining. Do you

mind?"

"Shouldn't mind if it rained pitchforks in so good a cause. Get your

overcoat and come. I think those old chaps--what-do-you-call-'em,

Crusaders? must have felt as I do now, when they marched to take

Jerusalem. Where are we to find _la belle_ Fanny?"

"At her sister's, Mrs. Walters, she's only here on a visit; but during

her five weeks' stay she has turned five dozen heads, and refused five

dozen hands, my own the last," said Tom, with a groan.

"Never mind, Tom; there is balm in Gilead yet. Revenge is sweet, you

know, and you shall taste its sweets before the moon wanes. Now then,

Miss Fanny, the conquering hero comes!"

The two young men sallied forth into the rainy, lamp-lit streets. A

passing omnibus took them to the home of the coquettish Fanny, and Tom

rang the bell with vindictive emphasis.

"Won't she rather wonder to see you, after refusing you?" inquired Mr.

Warden, whilst they waited.

"What do I care!" responded Mr. Maxwell, moodily; "her opinion is of no

consequence to me now."

Mrs. Walters, a handsome, agreeable-looking young matron, welcomed Tom

with a cordial shake of the hand, and acknowledged Mr. Warden's bow by

the brightest of smiles, as they were ushered into the family parlor.

"We are quite alone, this rainy night, my sister and I," she said. "Mr.

Walters is out of town for a day or two. Fanny, my dear, Mr. Warden; my

sister, Miss Summers, Mr. Warden."

It was a pretty, cozy room, "curtained, and close, and warm;" and

directly under the gas-light, reading a lady's magazine, sat one of the

prettiest girls it had ever been Mr. Warden's good fortune to see, and

who welcomed him with a brilliant smile.

"Black eyes, jetty ringlets, rosy cheeks, alabaster brow," thought Mr.

Warden, taking stock; "the smile of an angel, and dressed to perfection.

Poor Tom! he's to be pitied. Really, I haven't come across anything so

much to my taste this month of Sundays."

Down sat Mr. Paul Warden beside the adorable Fanny, plunging into

conversation at once with an ease and fluency that completely took away

Tom's breath. That despondent wooer on the sofa, beside Mrs. Walters,

pulled dejectedly at the ears of her little black-and-tan terrier, and

answered at random all the pleasant things she said to him. He was

listening, poor fellow, to that brilliant flow of small talk from the

mustached lips of his dashing friend, and wishing the gods had gifted

him with a similar "gift of the gab," and feeling miserably jealous

already. He had prepared the rack for himself with his eyes wide open;

but that made the torture none the less when the machinery got in

motion. Pretty Fanny snubbed him incontinently, and was just as

bewitching as she knew how to his friend. It was a clear case of diamond

cut diamond--two flirts pitted against each other; and an outsider

would have been considerably puzzled on which to bet, both being so

evenly matched.

Tom listened, and sulked; yes, sulked. What a lot of things they found

to talk about, where he used to be tongue-tied. The magazine, the

fashion-plates, the stories; then a wild launch into literature, novels,

authors, poets; then the weather; then Mr. Warden was travelling, and

relating his "hair-breadth escapes by flood and field," while

bright-eyed Fanny listened in breathless interest. Then the open piano

caught the irresistible Paul's eyes, and in a twinkling there was Fanny

seated at it, her white fingers flying over the polished keys, and he

bending above her with an entranced face. Then he was singing a

delightful love-song in a melodious tenor voice, that might have

captivated any heart that ever beat inside of lace and muslin; and then

Fanny was singing a sort of response, it seemed to frantically jealous

Tom; and then it was eleven o'clock, and time to go home.

Out in the open air, with the rainy night wind blowing bleakly, Tom

lifted his hat to let the cold blast cool his hot face. He was sulky

still, and silent--very silent; but Mr. Warden didn't seem to mind.

"So," he said, lighting a cigar, "the campaign has begun, the first blow

has been struck, the enemy's ramparts undermined. Upon my word, Tom, the

little girl is uncommonly pretty!"

"I told you so," said Tom, with a sort of growl.

"And remarkably agreeable. I don't think I ever spent a pleasanter

_tete-a-tete_ evening."

"So I should judge. She had eyes, and ears, and tongue for no one but

you."

"My dear fellow, it's not possible you're jealous! Isn't that what you

wanted? Besides, there is no reason, really; she is a professional

flirt, and understands her business; you and I know just how much value

to put on all that sweetness. Have a cigar, my dear boy, and keep up

your heart; we'll fix the flirting Fanny yet, please the pigs!"

This was all very true; but, somehow, it wasn't consoling. She was

nothing to him, Tom, of course--and he hated her as hotly as ever; but,

somehow, his thirst for vengeance had considerably cooled down. The cure

was worse than the disease. It was maddening to a young man in his frame

of mind to see those brilliant smiles, those entrancing glances, all

those pretty, coquettish, womanly, wiles that had deluded him showered

upon another, even for that other's delusion. Tom wished he had never

thought of revenge, at least with Paul Warden for his handsome agent.

"Are you going there again?" he asked, moodily.

"Of course," replied Mr. Warden, airily. "What a question, old fellow,

from you of all people. Didn't you hear the little darling telling me to

call again? She overlooked you completely, by-the-by. I'm going again,

and again, and yet again, until my friend, my _fides Achates_, is

avenged."

"Ah!" said Tom, sulkily, "but I don't know that I care so much for

vengeance as I did. Second thoughts are best; and it struck me, whilst I

watched you both to-night, that it was mean and underhand to plot

against a woman like this. You thought so yourself at first, you know."

"Did I? I forget. Well, I think differently now, my dear Tom; and as you

remark, second thoughts are best. My honor is at stake; so put your

conscientious scruples in your pocket, for I shall conquer the

fascinating Fanny or perish in the attempt. Here we are at my boarding

house--won't you come in? No. Well, then, good-night. By-the-way, I

shall be at the enemy's quarters to-morrow evening; if you wish to see

how ably I fight your battles, show yourself before nine. By-by!"

Mr. Maxwell's answer was a deeply bass growl as he plodded on his way;

and Paul Warden, running up to his room, laughed lightly to himself.

"Poor Tom! Poor, dear boy! Jealousy is a green-eyed lobster, and he's a

prey to it--the worst kind. Really, Paul, my son, little black eyes is

the most bewitching piece of calico you have met in your travels lately;

and if you wanted a wife, which you don't, you couldn't do better than

go in and win. As it is--Ah! it's a pity for the little dear's sake you

can't marry."

With which Mr. Warden disrobed and went to bed.

Next evening, at half-past eight, Tom Maxwell made his appearance at

Mrs. Walters, only to find his _fides Achates_ there enthroned before

him, and basking in the sunshine of the lovely Fanny's smiles. How long

he had been there Tom couldn't guess; but he and Fanny and Mrs. Walters

were just settling it to go to the theatre the following night. There

was a bunch of roses, pink-and-white, his gift, Tom felt in his bones,

in Fanny's hand, and into which she plunged her pretty little nose every

five seconds. It was adding insult to injury, the manifest delight that

aggravating girl felt in his friend's society; and Tom ground his teeth

inwardly, and could have seen Paul Warden guillotined, there and then,

with all the pleasure in life.

That evening, and many other evenings which succeeded were but a

repetition of the first. An easy flow of delightful small talk, music,

singing, and reading aloud. Yes, Paul Warden read aloud, as if to goad

that unhappy Tom to open madness, in the most musical of masculine

voices, out of little blue-and-gold books, Tennyson, and Longfellow, and

Owen Meredith; and Fanny would sit in breathless earnestness, her color

coming and going, her breath fluttering, her eyes full of tears as often

as not, fixed on Paul's classic profile. Tom didn't burst out openly--he

made no scene; he only sat and glowered in malignant silence--and that

is saying everything for his power of self-control.

Two months passed; hot weather was coming, and Fanny begun to talk of

the heat and the dust of the town; of being home-sick, for the sight of

green fields, new milk, strawberry-patches, new-laid eggs, and pa and

ma. It had been a very delightful two months, no doubt; and she had

enjoyed Mr. Warden's society very much, and gone driving and walking

with him, and let him take her to the theatre, and the opera, and played

for him, and sung for him, and danced with him, and accepted his

bouquets, and new music, and blue-and-gold books; but, for all that, it

was evident she could leave him and go home, and still exist.

"It's all very nice," Miss Summers had said, tossing back her black

ringlets; "and I have enjoyed this spring ever so much, but still I'm

glad to get home again. One grows tired of balls, and parties, and the

theatre, you know, after awhile, Mr. Warden; and I am only a little

country-girl, and I shall be just as glad as ever for a romp over the

meadows, and a breezy gallop across the hills once more. If you or Mr.

Maxwell," glancing at that gloomy youth sideways out of her curls, "care

much for fishing, and come up our way any time this summer, I'll try

and treat you as well as you have treated me."

"But you haven't treated us well, Miss Fanny," Mr. Warden said, looking

unspeakable things. "You take our hearts by storm, and then break them

ruthlessly by leaving us. What sort of treatment do you call that?"

Miss Summers only laughed, and looked saucy; and danced away, leaving

her two admirers standing together out in the cold.

"Well, Tom," Mr. Warden said, "and so the game's up, the play played

out, the curtain ready to fall. The star actress departs to-morrow--and

now, what do you think of the performance?"

"Not much," responded Tom, moodily. "I can't see that you have kept your

promise. You've made love to her, I allow, _con amore_, confoundedly as

if you meant it, in fact; but I don't see where the jilting comes in; I

can't see where's my revenge."

"Don't you?" said Paul, thoughtfully lighting his cigar. "Well, come to

think of it, I don't either. To tell you the truth, I haven't had a

chance to jilt her. I may be irresistible, and I have no doubt I am,

since you say so; but, somehow, the charm don't seem to work with our

little favorite. Here I have been for the last two months just as

captivating as I know how; and yet there's that girl ready to be off

to-morrow to the country, without so much as a crack in the heart that

should be broken in smithereens. But still," with a sudden change of

voice, and slapping him lightly on the shoulder, "dear old boy, I don't

despair of giving you your revenge yet!"

Tom lifted his gloomy eyes in sullen inquiry.

"Never mind now," said Paul Warden airily; "give me a few weeks longer.

Lazy as I am, I have never failed yet in anything I have seriously

undertaken; and, upon my word, I'm more serious about this matter than

you may believe. Trust to your friend, and wait."

That was all Mr. Warden would deign to say.

Tom, not being able to do otherwise, took him at his word, dragged out

existence, and waited for his cherished revenge.

Miss Summers left town next day, and Tom, poor, miserable fellow, felt

as if the sun had ceased to shine, and the scheme of the universe become

a wretched failure, when he caught the last glimmer of the lustrous

black eyes, the last flutter of the pretty black curls. But his Damon

was by his side to slap him on the back and cheer him up.

"Courage, old fellow!" cried Mr. Warden; "all's not lost that's in

danger. Turn and turn about; your turn next."

But, somehow, Tom didn't care for revenge any more. He loved that

wicked, jilting little Fanny as much as ever; and the heartache only

grew worse day after day; but he ceased to desire vengeance. He settled

down into a kind of gentle melancholy, lost his appetite, and his relish

for Tom and Jerrys, and took to writing despondent poetry for the weekly

journals. In this state Mr. Warden left him, and suddenly disappeared

from town. Tom didn't know where he had gone, and his landlady didn't

know; and stranger still, his bootmaker and tailor, to whom he was

considerably in arrears, didn't know either. But they were soon

enlightened.

Five weeks after his mysterious disappearance came a letter and a

newspaper, in his familiar hand, to Tom, while he sat at breakfast. He

opened the letter first and read:

IN THE COUNTRY.

"DEAR OLD BOY--I have kept my word--you are avenged gloriously.

Fanny will never jilt you, nor any one else again!"

At this passage in the manuscript, Tom Maxwell laid it down, the cold

perspiration breaking out on his face. Had Paul Warden murdered her, or

worse, had he married her? With a desperate clutch Tom seized the paper,

tore it open, looked at the list of marriages, and saw his worst fears

realized. There it was, in printers' ink, the atrocious revelation of

his bosom friend's perfidy.

"Married, on the fifth inst., at the residence of the bride's

father, Paul Warden, Esq., of New York to Miss Fanny Summers,

second daughter of Mr. John Summers, of this town."

There it was. Tom didn't faint; he swallowed a scalding cup of coffee at

a gulp, and revived, seized the letter and finished it.

"You see, old fellow, paradoxical as it sounds, although I was the

conqueror, I was, also, the conquered. Fanny had fallen in love

with me, as you foresaw, but I had fallen in love with her also,

which you didn't foresee. I might jilt her, of course, but that

would be cutting off my own nose to spite my friend's face; and

so--I didn't! I did the next best thing for you, though,--I married

her! and I may mention, in parenthesis, I am the happiest of

mankind; and as Artemus Ward remarks, 'My wife says so too.'

"Adieu, my boy. We'll come to town next week, where Fan and I will

be delighted to have you call. With best regards from my dear

little wife, I am, old fellow,

"Your devoted friend,

"PAUL WARDEN."

Mr. and Mrs. Warden did come to town next week; but Mr. Maxwell didn't

call. In point of fact he hasn't called since, and doesn't intend to,

and has given his friend Paul the "cut direct." And that is how Paul

Warden got a wife, and Tom Maxwell his revenge.

FOR BETTER FOR WORSE.

"And all is gone?"

"Why, no, sir; no, Mr. Fletcher--not all. There's that six hundred a

year, and that little place down at Dover, that you settled on your

wife; you will save that out of the wreck. A trifle--a mere nothing, I

am aware, out of such a noble inheritance as yours, Mr. Fletcher--but

still something. Half a loaf you know, sir, is--"

He stopped abruptly at a motion of Richard Fletcher's hand. He was a

lawyer, and used to this sort of thing; and not much effected by the

story, he had run down from New York to tell Mr. Fletcher; his rich

client had speculated rashly, and lost--a common case enough. A week ago

he was worth half a million; to-night he is not worth a sixpence--that

was all. There were his wife's settlements, of course; but they were his

wife's--and Mr. and Mrs. Fletcher were two.

"I thought I had better let you know at once, Mr. Fletcher," the lawyer

said; "it's sure to be in everybody's mouth to-morrow. And now, if I'm

to catch the nine-fifty up-train, I had better be starting. Good-night,

sir. Worse luck now, better next time."

"Good-night," Richard Fletcher said, mechanically. He was leaning

against the low, iron gateway, his folded arms lying on its carved top,

and the black shadows of the beeches shutting him in like a pall. Up the

avenue colored lamps gleamed along the chestnut walks, blue, red, and

green, turning the dark November night to fairy-land. The wide front of

the stately mansion was all aglow with illumination, with music, and

flowers, and fair women; and fairest, where all were fair, its proud

young mistress, Marian Fletcher.

Two men, stragglers from the ball-room, with their cigars lighted, came

down through the gloom, close to the motionless figure against the iron

gate--only another shadow among the shadows--so close that he heard

every word.

"Rather superb style of thing, all this," one said. "When Dick Fletcher

does this sort of thing, he does do it. Wonderful luck he's had, for a

poor devil, who five years ago hadn't a rap; and that wife of

his--magnificent Marian--most lovely thing the sun shines on."

"Too lovely, my friend, for--she's ice."

"Ah! To her husband? Married him for his fortune, didn't she? The old

story, very poor, very proud; and sold to the highest bidder. Craymore

stood to win there once, didn't he?"

"It was a desperate flirtation--an engagement, the knowing ones do say;

but Capt. Craymore knows better than to indulge in such a luxury as a

penniless wife. So Fletcher came along, made rich by a sudden windfall,

and she's Mrs. Fletcher to-night; and more beautiful and queenly than

ever. I watched her dancing with Craymore half an hour ago, and--Well,

I didn't envy Fletcher, if he is worth half a million. Let's go back to

the house, it's beginning to rain."

"Suppose Fletcher were to lose his fortune--what then?"

"My good fellow, he would lose his wife in the same hour. Some women

there are who would go with their husbands to beggary--and he's a fine

fellow, too, is Fletcher; but not the lovely Marian. There, the rain

begins!"

The shadow among the beeches stood stiller than stone. A long, low wind

worried the trees, and the rain beat its melancholy drip, drip. Half an

hour, an hour, two, passed, but the figure leaning against the iron-gate

was as still as the iron itself. But slowly he stirred at last, became

conscious he was dripping, and passed slowly out of the rainy gloom, and

up the lamplit-avenue, and into the stately home, that, after to-night,

would be his no more.

Another half-hour, and he was back in the glitter and dazzle and music

of the brilliant suit of drawing-rooms, his wet garments changed, the

fixed whiteness of his face telling but little of his sudden blow. He

had not been missed; his radiant three months' bride shone there in

diamonds, and laces, and roses resplendent--and who was to think of the

rich Fletcher! "Only a clod," whom she had honored by marrying. Capt.

Craymore was by her side, more fascinating than ever. How could she find

time to think of any one so plebeian as the underbred rich man she had

married, by his entrancing side?

But it was all over at last. The "lights were fled, the garlands dead,"

and Mrs. Fletcher up in her dressing-room, in the raw morning light, was

under the hands of her maid. She lay back among the violet-velvet

cushions, languid and lovely, being disrobed, and looked round with an

irritated flush at the abrupt entrance of the master of the house. He

did not often intrude; since the first few weeks of their marriage he

had been a model husband, and kept his place. Therefore, Mrs. Fletcher

looked surprised, as well as annoyed now.

"Do you wish to speak to me, Mr. Fletcher?" she asked, coldly; for after

an evening with Capt. Craymore she was always less tolerant of her

_bourgeois_ husband.

"Yes--but alone. I will wait in your sitting-room until you dismiss your

maid."

Something in his colorless face--something in the sound of his voice

startled her; but he was gone while yet speaking, and the maid went on.

"Hurry, Louise," her mistress said, briefly; and Louise coiled up the

shining hair, arranged the white dressing-gown, and left her.

Marian Fletcher arose and swept into the next room. It was the daintiest

_bijou_ of boudoirs, all rose-silk, and silver, and filigree-work, and

delicious Greuze paintings, smiling down from the fluted panels. A

bright wood-fire burned on the hearth, and her husband stood against the

low chimney-piece, whiter and colder than the marble itself.

"Well," she said, "what is it?"

He looked up. She stood before him in her beauty and her pride, jewels

flashed on her fairy hands--a queen by right divine of her azure eyes

and tinselled hair--his, yet not his; "so near, and yet so far." He

loved her, how well his own wrung heart only knew.

"What is it?" she repeated, impatiently. "I am tired and sleepy. Tell me

in a word."

"I can--ruin!"

"What?"

"I am ruined. All is gone. I am a beggar."

She started back, turning whiter than her dress, and leaned heavily

against a chair.

"Ruined!" she repeated. "A beggar!"

"Ugly words, are they not? but quite true. I did not know it until last

night; Kearstall came from town to tell me. My last grand speculation

has failed, and in its failure engulfed everything. I am as poor as the

poorest laborer on this estate; poorer than I was five years ago, before

this fortune was left me."

There was a sort of savage pleasure in thus hideously putting things in

their ugliest light. Rich or poor, she despised him alike. What need was

there for him to mince matters?

"There are your settlements, your six hundred a-year and the Dover farm,

that crumb of the loaf is left, and remains yours. I am sorry for you,

Mrs. Fletcher--sorry that your sacrifice of youth and loveliness, on the

altar of Mammon, has been in vain. I had hoped, when I married you, of

winning some return for the limitless love I gave you. I know to-night

how futile that hope has been. Once again, for your sake, I am sorry;

for myself I do not care. The world is a wide place, and I can win my

way. I give you your freedom, the only reparation for marrying you in my

power to make. I leave here to-night, New York to-morrow; and

so--farewell!"

She stood like a stone; he turned and left her. Once she had made a

movement, seeing the white anguish of his face, as though to go to

him--but she did not. He was gone, and she dropped down in the

rose-and-silver glitter of her fairy-room, as miserable a woman as day

ever dawned on.

A month later, and she was far away, buried alive in the Dover Cottage.

All had gone; the nine days wonder was at an end; the "rich Fletcher"

and his handsome wife had disappeared out of the magic whirl of society;

and society got on very well without them. They had been, and they were

not--and the story was told. Of all who had broken bread with the ruined

man, there were not two who cared a fillip whether he were living or

dead.

The December wind wailed over the stormy sea, and the wintry rain lashed

the windows of the Dover Cottage. Marian Fletcher sat before the blazing

fire in a long, low, gloomy parlor, and Capt. Craymore stood before her.

He had but just found her out, and he had run down to see how she bore

her altered fortunes. She bore them as an uncrowned queen might, with

regal pride and cold endurance. The exquisite face had lost its

rose-leaf bloom; the deep, still eyes looked larger and more fathomless;

the mouth was set in patient pain--that was all. The man felt his heart

burn as he looked at her, she was so lovely, _so_ lovely. He leaned

over, and the passionate words came that he could not check. He loved

her. She loved him; she was forsaken and alone--why need they part?

She listened, growing whiter than a dead woman. Then she came and faced

him, until the cowered soul within him shrank and quailed.

"I have fallen very low," she said. "I am poor, and alone, and a

deserted wife. But Capt. Craymore, I have not fallen low enough to be

your mistress. Go!"

Her unflickering finger pointed to the door. There was that in her face

no man dare disobey, and he slunk forth like a whipped hound. Then as on

that night when she had parted from her husband, she slipped down in

her misery to the ground, and hid her face in her hands. Now she knew

the man she had loved, now she was learning to know the man who had

loved her. The one would drag her down to bottomless depths of blackness

and infamy; the other had given up all for her--even herself--and gone

forth a homeless, penniless wanderer, to fight the battle of life.

"Oh! truest and noblest!" her heart cried, in its passionate pain, "how

I have wronged you! Bravest and best heart that ever beat in man's

breast--am I only to know your worth when it is too late?"

It seemed so. Richard Fletcher had disappeared out of the world--the

world she knew--as utterly as though he had never been in it. The slow

months dragged drearily by; but he never came. The piteous advertisement

in the _Herald_ newspaper stood unanswered when the spring-buds burst;

and she was alone in her worse than widowhood, in the Dover Cottage

still.

With the glory of the brilliant new summer, new hope dawned for her. A

tiny messenger, with Richard Fletcher's great brown eyes, smiled up in

her face, and a baby head nestled against her lonely heart. Ah! she knew

now how she loved baby's father, when the brown eyes, of which these

were the counterpart, were lost to her forever.

So, with the great world shut out, and with only baby Richard and her

two servants, life went on in the solitary cottage. The winds of winter

had five times swept over the ceaseless sea, and little Richard could

toddle and lisp; and in Marian Fletcher's heart hope slowly died out.

She had lost him through her own fault; he, to whom she had been bound

in the mysterious tie of marriage, would never look upon her cruel face

again.

She sat one stormy November night, thinking very sadly of the true heart

and strong love she had cast away. Her boy lay asleep before the ruddy

fire; the rain and wind beat like human things against the glass. She

sat looking seaward, with weary, empty eyes, so desolate--so desolate,

her soul crying out with unutterable yearning for the wanderer to come

back.

As she stood there gazing sadly out at the wild night falling over the

wild sea, her one servant came hurriedly into the room with startled

affright in her eyes.

"Oh, ma'am," she cried, "such a dreadful thing! The up-train from New

York has had an accident, has fell over the embankment just below here

and half the passengers are killed and wounded. The screams as I came

past was awful to hear. But surely, ma'am," the woman broke off in

dismay as her mistress seized her hat and shawl, "you won't go out and

it raining and a blowing fit to take you off your feet. You can't do

nothing, and you'll get your death."

But Mrs. Fletcher was out already, heedless of wind or rain, and making

her way to the scene of the accident. "Poor souls," she was thinking,

"so sudden and frightful a fate. Perhaps I can be of help to some one."

For her life trouble had done this for her; made her tender of heart,

and pitiful of soul to all who suffered.

A great crowd were there from Dover village as she drew near, beginning

to bear away the wounded, the dying and the dead. Groans and cries of

infinite misery made the rainy twilight hideous. Mrs. Fletcher

shuddered, but she stooped resolutely over a man who lay almost at her

feet, a man whom she might have thought dead but for the low moan that

now and then came from his lips.

She bent above him timidly, her heart fluttering at something vaguely

familiar in his look.

"Can I do anything for you?" she asked, "I fear you are very very badly

hurt."

The eyes opened; in the dim light he half arose on his elbow. "Marian,"

he said, and fell back and fainted wholly away.

And so her prayers were answered after many days, and death itself

seemed to have given back her husband to Marian Fletcher's arms. Over

his pillow life and Death fought their sharp battle, for many long

weeks, while she watched over him, and prayed beside him in what agony

of remorse, and terror and passionate tenderness only Heaven and herself

ever knew.

Those ceaseless, agonized prayers prevailed. In the pale dawn of a

Christmas morning, the heavy brown eyes opened and fixed upon her face,

no longer in delirium, but with the kindling light of recognition, and

great and sudden joy.

"Marian," he said faintly, "my wife."

She was on her knees beside him, his weak head lying in her caressing

arms.

"My dearest, my dearest, thank God; my own, my cherished husband,

forgive your erring wife."

His face lit with a rare smile, as he looked up into the pale, tear wet,

passionately earnest face.

"It is true then what I heard, what has brought me home. You have sought

me. But Marian, what if I must tell you I am still poor, poor as when we

parted." She shrunk away as though he had hurt her.

"I have deserved that you should say this to me," she said in a stifled

voice, "I have been the basest of the base in the past--why should you

think me other than heartless and mercenary still. But oh, Richard,

don't you see--I love you now, so dearly and truly, my husband, that I

can never have any life apart from you more. Do not talk to me of

poverty--only tell me you will never leave me again." "Never again," he

answered, "till death us do part. But Marian, though I am no longer the

millionaire you married, I do not return to you quite a beggar. More or

less I have retrieved the past, and we can begin life anew almost as

luxuriously as we left it off." Her face clouded for a moment.

"Ah! I am sorry. I wanted to atone: how can I now? I have been your wife

in the sunshine. I thought to show you what I could be in the shadow,

and now all that is at an end. I can never show you how I have repented

for--that night."

But Richard Fletcher only smiles a smile of great content. And in the

silence that ensues, there comes over the snowy fields the joyful bells

of the blessed Christmas morning, and in their hearts both bless God for

the new life, that dawns with this holy day.

* * * * *

1885.

G. W. CARLETON & CO.

NEW BOOKS

AND NEW EDITIONS,

RECENTLY ISSUED BY

G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,

33 West 23d Street, New York.

The Publishers, on receipt of price, will send any book

on this Catalogue by mail, _postage free_.

All handsomely bound in cloth, with gilt backs suitable for libraries.

Mary J. Holmes' Novels.

Tempest and Sunshine $1 50

English Orphans 1 50

Homestead on the Hillside 1 50

'Lena Rivers 1 50

Meadow Brook 1 50

Dora Deane 1 50

Cousin Maude 1 50

Marian Grey 1 50

Edith Lyle 1 50

Daisy Thornton 1 50

Chateau D'Or 1 50

Queenie Hetherton (New) 1 50

Darkness and Daylight 1 50

Hugh Worthington 1 50

Cameron Pride 1 50

Rose Mather 1 50

Ethelyn's Mistake 1 50

Millbank 1 50

Edna Browning 1 50

West Lawn 1 50

Mildred 1 50

Forrest House 1 50

Madeline (New) 1 50

Christmas Stories--and portrait 1 50

Charles Dickens--25 Vols.--"Carleton's Edition."

Pickwick and Catalogue $1 50

Dombey and Son 1 50

Bleak House 1 50

Martin Chuzzlewit 1 50

Barnaby Rudge--Edwin Drood 1 50

Child's England--Miscellaneous 1 50

Christmas Books--Two Cities 1 50

Oliver Twist--Uncommercial 1 50

David Copperfield 1 50

Nicholas Nickleby 1 50

Little Dorrit 1 50

Our Mutual Friend 1 50

Curiosity Shop--Miscellaneous 1 50

Sketches by Boz--Hard Times 1 50

Great Expectations--Italy 1 50

_Full Sets_ in half calf bindings 50 00

Marion Harland's Novels.

Alone $1 50

Hidden Path 1 50

Moss Side 1 50

Nemesis 1 50

Miriam 1 50

At Last 1 50

Sunnybank 1 50

Ruby's Husband 1 50

My Little Love 1 50

True as Steel (New) 1 50

Augusta J. Evans' Novels.

Beulah $1 75

Macaria 1 75

Inez 1 75

St. Elmo 2 00

Vashti 2 00

Infelice (New) 2 00

Carleton's Popular Quotations.

Carleton's New Hand-Book--Familiar Quotations,

with their authorship $1 50

Carleton's Classical Dictionary--A Condensed

Mythology for popular use 75

May Agnes Fleming's Novels.

Guy Earlscourt's Wife $1 50

A Wonderful Woman 1 50

A Terrible Secret 1 50

A Mad Marriage 1 50

Norine's Revenge 1 50

One Night's Mystery 1 50

Kate Danton 1 50

Silent and True 1 50

Maude Percy's Secret (New) 1 50

Heir of Charlton 1 50

Carried by Storm 1 50

Lost for a Woman 1 50

A Wife's Tragedy 1 50

A Changed Heart 1 50

Pride and Passion 1 50

Sharing Her Crime 1 50

A Wronged Wife 1 50

The Actress Daughter (New) 1 50

Allan Pinkerton's Works.

Expressmen and Detectives $1 50

Mollie Maguires and Detectives 1 50

Somnambulists and Detectives 1 50

Claude Melnotte and Detectives 1 50

Criminal Reminiscences, etc. 1 50

Rail-Road Forger, etc. 1 50

Bank Robbers and Detectives 1 50

Gypsies and Detectives 1 50

Spiritualists and Detectives 1 50

Model Town and Detectives 1 50

Strikers, Communists, etc. 1 50

Mississippi Outlaws, etc. 1 50

Bucholz and Detectives 1 50

Burglar's Fate and Detectives 1 50

Bertha Clay's Novels.

Thrown on the World $1 50

A Bitter Atonement 1 50

Love Works Wonders 1 50

Evelyn's Folly 1 50

Under a Shadow 1 50

Beyond Pardon (New) 1 50

A Woman's Temptation 1 50

Repented at Leisure 1 50

A Struggle for a Ring 1 50

Lady Damer's Secret 1 50

Between Two Loves 1 50

Put Asunder (New) 1 50

"New York Weekly" Series.

Brownie's Triumph--Sheldon $1 50

The Forsaken Bride. do. 1 50

Earl Wayne's Nobility. do. 1 50

Lost, a Pearle-- do. 1 50

Young Mrs. Charnleigh-Henshew 1 50

His Other Wife--Ashleigh 1 50

A Woman's Web--Maitland 1 50

Curse of Everleigh--Pierce 1 50

Peerless Cathleen--Agnew 1 50

Faithful Margaret--Ashmore 1 50

Nick Whiffles--Robinson 1 50

Grinder Papers--Dallas 1 50

Lady Leonora--Conklin 1 50

Miriam Coles Harris' Novels.

Rutledge $1 50

Frank Warrington 1 50

Louie's Last Term, St. Mary's 1 50

Missy 1 50

A Perfect Adonis 1 50

The Sutherlands 1 50

St. Philips 1 50

Round Hearts for Children 1 50

Richard Vandermarck 1 50

Happy-Go-Lucky (New) 1 50

A. S. Roe's Select Stories.

True to the Last $1 50

The Star and the Cloud 1 50

How Could He Help it? 1 50

A Long Look Ahead 1 50

I've Been Thinking 1 50

To Love and to be Loved 1 50

Julie P. Smith's Novels.

Widow Goldsmith's Daughter $1 50

Chris and Otho 1 50

Ten Old Maids 1 50

Lucy 1 50

His Young Wife 1 50

The Widower 1 50

The Married Belle 1 50

Courting and Farming 1 50

Kiss and be Friends 1 50

Blossom Bud (New) 1 50

Artemas Ward.

Complete Comic Writings--With Biography,

Portrait and 50 illustrations $1 50

The Game of Whist.

Pole on Whist--The English standard work.

With the "Portland Rules" $ 75

Victor Hugo's Great Novel.

Les Miserables--Translated from the

French. The only complete edition $1 50

Mrs. Hill's Cook Book.

Mrs. A. P. Hill's New Southern Cookery

Book, and domestic receipts $2 00

Celia E. Gardner's Novels.

Stolen Waters. (In verse) $1 50

Broken Dreams. do. 1 50

Compensation. do. 1 50

A Twisted Skein. do. 1 50

Tested. 1 50

Rich Medway. 1 50

A Woman's Wiles. 1 50

Terrace Roses. 1 50

Captain Mayne Reid's Works.

The Scalp Hunters $1 50

The Rifle Rangers 1 50

The War Trail 1 50

The Wood Rangers 1 50

The Wild Huntress 1 50

The White Chief 1 50

The Tiger Hunter 1 50

The Hunter's Feast 1 50

Wild Life 1 50

Osceola, the Seminole 1 50

Hand-Books of Society.

The Habits of Good Society--The nice

points of taste and good manners $1 00

The Art of Conversation--For those

who wish to be agreeable talkers 1 00

The Arts of Writing, Reading and

Speaking--For Self-Improvement 1 00

New Diamond Edition--The above three

books in one volume--small type 1 50

Josh Billings.

His Complete Writings--With Biography,

Steel Portrait and 100 Illustrations $2 00

Old Probability--Ten Comic Alminax,

1870 to 1879. In one volume, Illustrated 1 50

Charles Dickens.

Child's History of England--With

_Historical Illustrations_

for School use $ 75

Parlor Table Album of Dickens'

Illustrations--With descriptive text 1 50

Lord Bateman Ballad--Comic Notes

by Dickens; Pictures by Cruikshank 25

Annie Edwardes' Novels.

Stephen Lawrence $ 75

Susan Fielding 75

A Woman of Fashion 75

Archie Lovell 75

Ernest Renan's French Works.

The Life of Jesus. Translated $1 75

Lives of the Apostles. Do. 1 75

The Life of St. Paul. Translated 1 75

The Bible in India--By Jacolliot 2 00

G. W. Carleton.

Our Artist in Cuba, Peru, Spain

and Algiers--150 Caricatures of Travel $1 00

M. M. Pomeroy (Brick).

Sense. A serious book $1 50

Gold Dust. Do. 1 50

Our Saturday Nights 1 50

Nonsense. (A comic book) 1 50

Brick-dust. Do. 1 50

Home Harmonies 1 50

Miscellaneous Works.

The Children's Fairy Geography--With

hundreds of beautiful illustrations $1 75

Carleton's Popular Readings--Edited

by Anna Randall Diehl. 2 vols., each 1 50

Laus Veneris, and other Poems--By

Algernon Charles Swinburne 1 50

Sawed-off Sketches--Comic book by

"Detroit Free Press Man." Illustrated 1 50

Hawkeye Sketches--Comic book by

"Burlington Hawk Eye Man." Do. 1 50

Naughty Girl's Diary--By the author

of "A Bad Boy's Diary." Do. 1 00

The Culprit Fay--Joseph Rodman Drake's

Poem. With 100 illustrations 2 00

L'Assommoir--An English Translation

from Zola's famous French novel 1 00

Parlor Amusements--Games, Tricks,

Home Amusements, by Frank Bellew 1 00

Love [L'Amour]--English Translation

from Michelet's famous French work 1 50

Woman [La Femme]--The Sequel

to "L'Amour" Do. Do. 1 50

Verdant Green--A racy English college

story. With 200 comic illustrations 1 50

Clear Light from the Spirit

World--By Kate Irving 1 25

Bottom Facts Concerning Spiritualism--By

John W. Truesdell 1 50

Why Wife and I Quarreled--Poem by

the author of "Betsey and I are Out" 1 00

A Northern Governess at the Sunny

South--By Professor J. H. Ingraham 1 50

Birds of a Feather Flock Together--By

Edward A. Sothern, the actor 1 50

Yachtman's Primer--Correct Instructions

for Amateur Sailors. By Warren 50

Longfellow's Home Life--By Blanche

Roosevelt Machetta. Illustrated 1 50

Redbird's Christmas Story--An

Illustrated Juvenile. By Mary J. Holmes 50

Every-Day Home Advice--For Household

and Domestic Economy 1 50

Ladies' and Gentlemen's Etiquette Book

of the best Fashionable Society 1 00

Love and Marriage--A book for unmarried

people. By Frederick Saunders 1 00

Under the Rose--A Capital book,

by the author of "East Lynne." 1 00

So Dear a Dream--A novel by Miss Grant,

author of "The Sun Maid." 1 00

Give me thine Heart--A capital new

domestic Love Story by Roe 1 00

Meeting Her Fate--A charming novel

by the author of "Aurora Floyd." 1 00

Faithful to the End--A delightful

domestic novel by Roe 1 00

So True a Love--A novel by Miss Grant,

author of "The Sun Maid." 1 00

Humorous Works.

Abijah Beanpole in New York $ 50

Never--Companion to "Don't." 25

Always--By author of "Never." 25

Stop--By author of "Never." 25

The Fall of Man--A satire 50

Chronicles of Gotham--A satire 25

The Comic Liar--By Alden 1 50

Cats, Cooks, etc.--By E. T. Ely 50

West India Pickles. W. P. Talboys 1 00

Bad Boy's Reader--Frank Bellew 10

Store Drumming as a Fine Art 50

Mrs. Spriggins--By Widow Bedott 1 50

Phemie Frost--Ann S. Stephens 1 50

That Awful Boy--N. Y. Weekly 50

That Bridget of Ours. Do. 50

Orpheus C. Kerr--Four vols. in one 2 00

Miscellaneous Works.

Dawn to Noon--By Violet Fane $1 50

Constance's Fate. Do. 1 50

French Love Songs--Translated 50

Lion Jack--By P. T. Barnum 1 50

Jack in the Jungle. Do. 1 50

How to Win in Wall Street 50

The Life of Sarah Bernhardt 25

Arctic Travels--By Dr. Hayes 1 50

Whist for Beginners 25

Flashes from "Ouida." 1 25

Lady Blake's Love Letters 25

Lone Ranch--By Mayne Reid 1 50

The Train Boy--Horatio Alger 1 25

Dan, The Detective. Do. 1 25

Gospels in Poetry--E. H. Kimball 1 50

Me--By Mrs. Spencer W. Coe 50

Don Quixote. Illustrated 1 00

Arabian Nights. Do. 1 00

Robinson Crusoe. Do. 1 00

Swiss Family Robinson--Illus 1 00

Debatable Land--R. Dale Owen 2 00

Threading My Way. Do. 1 50

Spiritualism--By D. D. Home 2 00

Fanny Fern Memorials--Parton 2 00

Northern Ballads--E. L. Anderson 1 00

Offenbach's Tour in America 1 50

Stories about Doctors--Jeffreson 1 50

Stories about Lawyers. Do. 1 50

Miscellaneous Novels.

Doctor Antonio--By Ruffini $1 50

Beatrice Cenci--From the Italian 1 50

Madame--By Frank Lee Benedict 1 50

A Late Remorse. Do. 1 50

Hammer and Anvil. Do. 1 50

Her Friend Laurence. Do. 1 50

Prairie Flower--Emerson Bennett 1 50

Jessica--By Mrs. W. H. White 1 50

Women of To-Day. Do. 1 50

The Baroness--Joaquin Miller 1 50

One Fair Woman. Do. 1 50

The Burnhams--Mrs. G. E. Stewart 2 00

Eugene Ridgewood--Paul James 1 50

Braxton's Bar--R. M. Daggett 1 50

Miss Beck--By Tilbury Holt 1 50

Sub Rosa--By Chas. T. Murray 50

Hilda and I--Mrs. Bedell Benjamin 1 50

A College Widow--C. H. Seymour 1 50

Shiftless Folks--Fannie Smith 1 50

Peace Pelican. Do. 1 50

Price of a Life--R. Forbes Sturgis 1 50

Hidden Power--T. H. Tibbles 1 50

Two of Us--Calista Halsey 75

Cupid on Crutches--A. B. Wood 75

Parson Thorne--E. M. Buckingham 1 50

Marston Hall--L. Ella Byrd 1 50

Errors--By Ruth Carter 1 50

Unmistakable Flirtation--Garner 75

Wild Oats--Florence Marryatt 1 50

Widow Cherry--B. L. Farjeon 25

Solomon Isaacs. Do. 50

Doctor Mortimer--Fannie Bean 1 50

Two Brides--Bernard O'Reilly 1 50

Vesta Vane--L. King, R. 1 50

Louise and I--By Chas. Dodge 1 50

My Queen--By Sandette 1 50

Fallen among Thieves--Rayne 1 50

Saint Leger--Richard K. Kimball 1 75

Was He Successful? Do. 1 75

Undercurrents of Wall St. Do. 1 75

Romance of Student Life. Do. 1 75

To-day. Do. 1 75

Life in San Domingo. Do. 1 75

Henry Powers. Banker. Do. 1 75

Led Astray--By Octave Feuillet 1 50

She Loved Him Madly--Borys 1 50

Thick and Thin--Mery 1 50

So Fair yet False--Chavette 1 50

A Fatal Passion--C. Bernard 1 50

Marguerite's Journal--For Girls 1 50

Rose of Memphis--W. C. Falkner 1 50

Spell-Bound--Alexandre Dumas 75

Purple and Fine Linen--Fawcett 1 50

Pauline's Trial--L. D. Courtney 1 50

The Forgiving Kiss--M. Loth 1 75

Loyal unto Death 1 50

Charette--An American novel 1 50

Fairfax--By John Esten Cooke 1 50

Hilt to Hilt. Do. 1 50

Out of the Foam. Do. 1 50

Hammer and Rapier. Do. 1 50

Kenneth--By Miss Sallie A. Brock 1 75

Heart Hungry. Mrs. Westmoreland 1 50

Clifford Troupe. Do. 1 50

Silcott Mill--Maria D. Deslonde 1 50

John Maribel. Do. 1 50

Conquered--By a New Author 1 50

Tales from the Popular Operas 1 50

Edith Murray--Joanna Mathews 1 50

San Miniato--Mrs. C. V. Hamilton 1 00

All for Her--A Tale of New York 1 50

All for Him--Author "All for Her." 1 50

For Each Other. Do. 1 50

Walworth's Novels--Six vols. 1 75

MRS. MARY J. HOLMES' WORKS.

TEMPEST AND SUNSHINE.

ENGLISH ORPHANS.

HOMESTEAD ON HILLSIDE.

'LENA RIVERS.

MEADOW BROOK.

DORA DEANE.

COUSIN MAUDE.

MARIAN GREY.

EDITH LYLE.

DAISY THORNTON. (_New_).

DARKNESS AND DAYLIGHT.

HUGH WORTHINGTON.

CAMERON PRIDE.

ROSE MATHER.

ETHELYN'S MISTAKE.

MILLBANK.

EDNA BROWNING.

WEST LAWN.

MILDRED.

FORREST HOUSE. (_New_).

OPINIONS OF THE PRESS.

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are universally read. Her admirers are numberless.

She is in many respects without a rival in the world of fiction. Her

characters are always life-like, and she makes them talk and act like

human beings, subject to the same emotions, swayed by the same passions,

and actuated by the same motives which are common among men and women of

every day existence. Mrs. Holmes is very happy in portraying domestic

life. Old and young peruse her stories with great delight, for she

writes in a style that all can comprehend."--_New York Weekly._

The North American Review, vol. 81, page 557, says of Mrs. Mary J.

Holmes' novel, "English Orphans":--"With this novel of Mrs. Holmes' we

have been charmed, and so have a pretty numerous circle of

discriminating readers to whom we have lent it. The characterization is

exquisite, especially so far as concerns rural and village life, of

which there are some pictures that deserve to be hung up in perpetual

memory of types of humanity fast becoming extinct. The dialogues are

generally brief, pointed, and appropriate. The plot seems simple, so

easily and naturally is it developed and consummated. Moreover, the

story thus gracefully constructed and written, inculcates without

obtruding, not only pure Christian morality in general, but, with

especial point and power, the dependence of true success on character,

and of true respectability on merit."

"Mrs. Holmes' stories are all of a domestic character, and their

interest, therefore, is not so intense as if they were more highly

seasoned with sensationalism, but it is of a healthy and abiding

character. Almost any new book which her publisher might choose to

announce from her pen would get an immediate and general reading. The

interest in her tales begins at once, and is maintained to the close.

Her sentiments are so sound, her sympathies so warm and ready, and her

knowledge of manners, character, and the varied incidents of ordinary

life is so thorough, that she would find it difficult to write any other

than an excellent tale if she were to try it."--_Boston Banner._

[Illustration: hand] The volumes are all handsomely printed and bound in

cloth, sold everywhere, and sent by mail, _postage free_, on receipt of

price [$1.50 each], by

G. W. CARLETON & CO., Publishers,

_Madison Square_, _New York_.

The young man nodded, went back a moment to speak to Legard, and then