He did not note this look, for his eyes were on the quaint old furniture

and shadowy recesses of the staid best room, in which he stood an uneasy

guest. For somehow he had imagined he would see the woman of his dreams

in a place of cheer and sunshine; at a window, perhaps, where the roses

looked in, or at least in a spot enlivened by some evidences of womanly

handiwork and taste. But here all was stiff as at a funeral. The high

black mantel-shelf was without clock or vase, and the only attempt at

ornament to be seen within the four grim walls was an uncouth wreath,

made of shells, on a background of dismal black, which hung between the

windows. It was enough to rob any moment of its romance. And yet, if she

should look fair here, what might he not expect of her beauty in more

harmonious surroundings.

As he was adjusting his ideas to this thought, there came the sound of

a step on the stair, and the next moment Hermione Cavanagh entered his

presence.

VIII.

A SEARCH AND ITS RESULTS.

Hermione Cavanagh, without the scar, would have been one of the

handsomest of women. She was of the grand type, with height and a

nobility of presence to which the extreme loveliness of her perfect

features lent a harmonizing grace. Of a dazzling complexion, the hair

which lay above her straight fine brows shone ebon-like in its lustre,

while her eyes, strangely and softly blue, filled the gazer at first

with surprise and then with delight as the varying emotions of her quick

mind deepened them into a more perfect consonance with her hair, or

softened them into something like the dewy freshness of heaven-born

flowers. Her mouth was mobile, but the passions it expressed were not of

the gentlest, whatever might be the language of her eyes, and so it was

that her face was in a way a contradiction of itself, which made it a

fascinating study to one who cared to watch it, or possessed sufficient

understanding to read its subtle language. She was oddly dressed in a

black, straight garment, eminently in keeping with the room; but there

was taste displayed in the arrangement of her hair, and nothing could

make her face anything but a revelation of beauty, unless it was the

scar, and that Frank Etheridge did not see.

"Are you--" she began and paused, looking at him with such surprise that

he felt his cheeks flush--"the lawyer who was in town a few days ago on

some pressing inquiry?"

"I am," returned Frank, making her the low bow her embarrassment seemed

to demand.

"Then you must excuse me," said she; "I thought you were an elderly man,

like our own Mr. Hamilton. I should not have sent for you if----"

"If you had known I had no more experience," he suggested, with a smile,

seeing her pause in some embarrassment.

She bowed; yet he knew that was not the way she would have ended the

sentence if she had spoken her thought.

"Then I am to understand," said he, with a gentleness born of his great

wish to be of service to her, "that you would prefer that I should send

you an older adviser. I can do it, Miss Cavanagh."

"Thank you," she said, and stood hesitating, the slight flush on her

cheek showing that she was engaged in some secret struggle. "I will tell

you my difficulty," she pursued at last, raising her eyes with a frank

look to his face. "Will you be seated?"

Charmed with the graciousness of her manner when once relieved from

embarrassment, he waited for her to sit and then took a chair himself.

"It is a wearisome affair," she declared, "but one which a New York

lawyer can solve without much trouble." And with the clearness of a

highly cultivated mind, she gave him the facts of a case in which she

and her sister had become involved through the negligence of her man of

business.

"Can you help me?" she asked.

"Very easily," he replied. "You have but to go to New York and swear to

these facts before a magistrate, and the matter will be settled without

difficulty."

"But I cannot go to New York."

"No? Not on a matter of this importance?"

"On no matter. I do not travel, Mr. Etheridge."

The pride and finality with which this was uttered, gave him his first

glimpse of the hard streak which there was undoubtedly in her character.

Though he longed to press the question he judged that he had better not,

so suggested carelessly:

"Your sister, then?"

But she met this suggestion, as he had expected her to, with equal

calmness and pride.

"My sister does not travel either."

He looked the astonishment he did not feel and remarked gravely:

"I fear, then, that the matter cannot be so easily adjusted." And he

began to point out the difficulties in the way, to all of which she

listened with a slightly absent air, as if the affair was in reality of

no great importance to her.

Suddenly she waved her hand with a quick gesture.

"You can do as you please," said she. "If you can save us from loss, do

so; if not, let the matter go; I shall not allow it to worry me

further." Then she looked up at him with a total change of expression,

and for the first time the hint of a smile softened the almost severe

outline of her mouth. "You are searching, I hear, for a woman named

Harriet Smith; have you found her, sir?"

Delighted at this evidence on her part of a wish to indulge in general

conversation, he answered with alacrity:

"Not yet. She was not, as it seems, a well-known inhabitant of this town

as I had been led to believe. I even begin to fear she never has lived

here at all. The name is a new one to you, I presume."

"Smith. Can the name of Smith ever be said to be new?" she laughed with

something like an appearance of gayety.

"But Harriet," he explained, "Harriet Smith, once Harriet Huckins."

"I never knew any Harriet Smith," she averred. "Would it have obliged

you very much if I had?"

He smiled, somewhat baffled by her manner, but charmed by her voice,

which was very rich and sweet in its tones.

"It certainly would have saved me much labor and suspense," he replied.

"Then the matter is serious?"

"Is not all law-business serious?"

"You have just proved it so," she remarked.

He could not understand her; she seemed to wish to talk and yet

hesitated with the words on her lips. After waiting for her to speak

further and waiting in vain, he changed the subject back to the one

which had at first occupied them.

"I shall be in Marston again," said he; "if you will allow me I will

then call again and tell you exactly what I can do for your interest."

"If you will be so kind," she replied, and seemed to breathe easier.

"I have one intimate friend in town," pursued Frank, as he rose to take

his departure, "Dr. Sellick. If you know him----"

Why did he pause? She had not moved and yet something, he could not say

what, had made an entire change in her attitude and expression. It was

as if a chill had passed over her, stiffening her limbs and paling her

face, yet her eyes did not fall from his face, and she tried to speak as

usual.

"Dr. Sellick?"

"Yes, he has returned to Marston after a year of absence. Have not the

gossips told you that?"

"No; that is, I have seen no one--I used to know Dr. Sellick," she

added with a vain attempt to be natural. "Is that my sister I hear?" And

she turned sharply about.

Up to this moment she had uniformly kept the uninjured side of her face

towards him, and he had noticed the fact and been profoundly touched by

her seeming sensitiveness. But he was more touched now by the emotion

which made her forget herself, for it argued badly for his hopes, and

assured him that for all Sellick's assumed indifference, there had been

some link of feeling between these two which he found himself illy

prepared to accept.

"May I not have the honor," he requested, "of an introduction to your

sister?"

"She is not coming; I was mistaken," was her sole reply, and her

beautiful face turned once more towards him, with a deepening of its

usual tragic expression which lent to it a severity which would have

appalled most men. But he loved every change in that enigmatical

countenance, there was so much character in its grave lines. So with the

consideration that was a part of his nature he made a great effort to

subdue his jealous curiosity, and saying, "Then we will reserve that

pleasure till another time," bowed like a man at his ease, and passed

quickly out of the door.

Yet his heart was heavy and his thoughts in wildest turmoil; for he

loved this woman and she had paled and showed the intensest emotion at

the mention of a man whom he had heard decry her. He might have felt

worse could he have seen the look of misery which settled upon her face

as the door closed upon him, or noted how long she sat with fixed eyes

and paling lips in that dreary old parlor where he had left her. As it

was, he felt sufficiently disturbed and for a long time hesitated

whether or not he should confront Edgar with an accusation of knowing

Miss Cavanagh better than he acknowledged. But Sellick's reserve was one

that imposed silence, and Frank dared not break through it lest he

should lose the one opportunity he now had of visiting Marston freely.

So he composed himself with the thought that he had at least gained a

footing in the house, and if the rest did not follow he had only himself

to blame. And in this spirit he again left Marston.

He found plenty of work awaiting him in his office. Foremost in

interest was an invitation to be present at the search which was to be

instituted that afternoon in the premises of the Widow Wakeham. The will

of which he had been made Executor, having been admitted to probate, it

had been considered advisable to have an inventory made of the personal

effects of the deceased, and this day had been set apart for the

purpose. To meet this appointment he hurried all the rest, and at the

hour set, he found himself before the broken gate and gardens of the

ruinous old house in Flatbush. There was a crowd already gathered there,

and as he made his appearance he was greeted by a loud murmur which

amply proved that his errand was known. At the door he was met by the

two Appraisers appointed by the Surrogate, and within he found one or

two workmen hob-nobbing with a detective from police headquarters.

The house looked barer and more desolate than ever. It was a sunshiny

day, and the windows having been opened, the pitiless rays streamed in

showing all the defects which time and misuse had created in the once

stately mansion. Not a crack in plastering or woodwork but stood forth

in bold relief that day, nor were the gaping holes in the flooring of

hall and parlor able to hide themselves any longer under the strips of

carpet with which Huckins had endeavored to conceal them.

"Shall we begin with the lower floor?" asked one of the workmen, poising

the axe he had brought with him.

The Appraisers bowed, and the work of demolition began. As the first

sound of splitting boards rang through the empty house, a quick cry as

of a creature in pain burst from the staircase without, and they saw,

crouching there with trembling hands held out in protest, the meagre

form of Huckins.

"Oh, don't! don't!" he began; but before they could answer, he had

bounded down the stairs to where they stood and was looking with eager,

staring eyes into the hole which the workmen had made.

"Have you found anything?" he asked. "It is to be all mine, you know,

and the more you find the richer I'll be. Let's see--let's see, she may

have hidden something here, there is no knowing." And falling on his

knees he thrust his long arm into the aperture before him, just as Mr.

Dickey had seen him do in a similar case on the night of the old woman's

death.

But as his interference was not desired, he was drawn quietly back, and

was simply allowed to stand there and watch while the others proceeded

in their work. This he did with an excitement which showed itself in

alternate starts and sudden breathless gasps, which, taken with the

sickly smiles with which he endeavored to hide the frowns caused by his

natural indignation, made a great impression upon Frank, who had come to

regard him as a unique specimen in nature, something between a hyena and

a fox.

As the men held up a little packet which had at last come to light very

near the fireplace, he gave a shriek and stretched out two clutching

hands.

"Let me have it!" he cried. "I know what that is; it disappeared from my

sister's desk five years ago, and I could never get her to tell where

she had put it. Let me have it, and I will open it here before you all.

Indeed I will, sirs--though it is all mine, as I have said before."

But Etheridge, quietly taking it, placed it in his pocket, and Huckins

sank back with a groan.

The next place to be examined was the room upstairs. Here the poor

woman had spent most of her time till she was seized with her last

sickness, and here the box had been found by Huckins, and here they

expected to find the rest of her treasures. But beyond a small casket of

almost worthless jewelry, nothing new was discovered, and they proceeded

at Frank's suggestion to inspect the room where she had died, and where

the clock still stood towards which she had lifted her dying hand, while

saying, "There! there!"

As they approached this place, Huckins was seen to tremble. Catching

Frank by the arm, he whispered:

"Can they be trusted? Are they honest men? She had greenbacks, piles of

greenbacks; I have caught her counting them. If they find them, will

they save them all for me?"

"They will save them all for the heir," retorted Frank, severely. "Why

do you say they are for you, when you know you will only get them in

default of other heirs being found."

"Why? why? Because I feel that they are mine. Heirs or no heirs, they

will come into my grasp yet, and you of the law cannot help it. Do I

look like a man who will die poor? No, no; but I don't want to be

cheated. I don't want these men to rob me of anything which will

rightfully be mine some day."

"You need not fret about that," said Frank. "No one will rob _you_," and

he drew disdainfully aside.

The Appraisers had now surveyed the room awful with hideous memories to

the young lawyer. Pointing to the bed, they said:

"Search that," and the search was made.

A bundle of letters came to light and were handed over to Frank.

"Why did she hide those away?" screamed Huckins. "They ain't money."

Nobody answered him.

The lintels of the windows and doors were now looked into, and the

fireplace dismantled and searched. But nothing was found in these

places, nor in the staring cupboards or beneath the loosened boards.

Finally they came to the clock.

"Oh, let me," cried Huckins, "let me be the first to stop that clock. It

has been running ever since I was a little boy. My mother used to wind

it with her own hands. I cannot bear a stranger's hand to touch it.

My--my sister would not have liked it."

But they disregarded even this appeal; and he was forced to stand in the

background and see the old piece taken down and laid at length upon the

floor with its face to the boards. There was nothing in its interior but

the works which belonged there, but the frame at its back seemed

unusually heavy, and Etheridge consequently had this taken off, when, to

the astonishment of all and to the frantic delight of Huckins, there

appeared at the very first view, snugly laid between the true and false

backing, layers of bills and piles of sealed and unsealed papers.

"A fortune! A fortune!" cried this would-be possessor of his sister's

hoarded savings. "I knew we should find it at last. I knew it wasn't all

in that box. She tried to make me think it was, and made a great secret

of where she had put it, and how it was all to be for me if I only let

it alone. But the fortune was here in this old clock I have stared at a

thousand times. Here, here, and I never knew it, never suspected it

till----"

He felt the lawyer's eyes fall on him, and became suddenly silent.

"Let's count it!" he greedily cried, at last.

But the Appraisers, maintaining their composure, motioned the almost

frenzied man aside, and summoning Frank to assist them, made out a list

of the papers, which were most of them valuable, and then proceeded to

count the loose bills. The result was to make Huckins' eyes gleam with

joy and satisfaction. As the last number left their lips, he threw up

his arms in unrestrained glee, and cried:

"I will make you all rich some day. Yes, sirs; I have not the greed of

my poor dead sister; I intend to spend what is mine, and have a good

time while I live. I don't intend any one to dance over my grave when I

am dead."

His attitude was one so suggestive of this very same expression of

delight, that more than one who saw him and heard these words shuddered

as they turned from him; but he did not care for cold shoulders now, or

for any expression of disdain or disapproval. He had seen the fortune of

his sister with his own eyes, and for that moment it was enough.

IX.

THE TWO SISTERS.

When Frank returned again to Marston he did not hesitate to tell Edgar

that "he had business relations with Miss Cavanagh." This astonished the

doctor, who was of a more conservative nature, but he did not mingle his

astonishment with any appearance of chagrin, so Frank took heart, and

began to dream that he had been mistaken in the tokens which Miss

Cavanagh had given of being moved by the news of Dr. Sellick's return.

He went to see her as soon as he had supped with his friend, and this

time he was introduced into a less formal apartment. Both sisters were

present, and in the moment which followed the younger's introduction, he

had leisure to note the similarity and dissimilarity between them, which

made them such a delightful study to an interested observer.

Emma was the name of the younger, and as she had the more ordinary and

less poetic name, so at first view she had the more ordinary and less

poetic nature. Yet as the eye lingered on her touching face, with its

unmistakable lines of sadness, the slow assurance gained upon the mind

that beneath her quiet smile and gentle self-contained air lay the same

force of will which spoke at once in the firm lip and steady gaze of the

older woman. But her will was beneficent, and her character noble, while

Hermione bore the evidences of being under a cloud, whose shadow was

darkened by something less easily understood than sorrow.

Yet Hermione, and not Emma, moved his heart, and if he acknowledged to

himself that a two-edged sword lay beneath the forced composure of her

manner, it was with the same feelings with which he acknowledged the

scar which offended all eyes but his own. They were both dressed in

white, and Emma wore a cluster of snowy pinks in her belt, but Hermione

was without ornament. The beauty of the latter was but faintly shadowed

in her younger sister's face, yet had Emma been alone she would have

stood in his mind as a sweet picture of melancholy young womanhood.

Hermione was evidently glad to see him. Fresh and dainty as this, their

living room, looked, with its delicate white curtains blowing in the

twilight breeze, there were hours, no doubt, when it seemed no more than

a prison-house to these two passionate young hearts. To-night cheer and

an emanation from the large outside world had come into it with their

young visitor, and both girls seemed sensible of it, and brightened

visibly. The talk was, of course, upon business, and while he noticed

that Hermione led the conversation, he also noticed that when Emma did

speak it was with the same clear grasp of the subject which he had

admired in the other. "Two keen minds," thought he, and became more

deeply interested than ever in the mystery of their retirement, and

evident renouncement of the world.

He had to tell them he could do nothing for them unless one or both of

them would consent to go to New York.

"The magistrate whom I saw," said he, "asked if you were well, and when

I was forced to say yes, answered that for no other reason than illness

could he excuse you from appearing before him. So if you will not comply

with his rules, I fear your cause must go, and with it whatever it

involves."

Emma, whose face showed the greater anxiety of the two, started as he

said this, and glanced eagerly at her sister. But Hermione did not

answer that glance. She was, perhaps, too much engaged in maintaining

her own self-control, for the lines deepened in her face, and she all at

once assumed that air of wild yet subdued suffering which had made him

feel at the time of his first stolen glimpse of her face that it was the

most tragic countenance he had ever beheld.

"We cannot go," came forth sharply from her lips, after a short but

painful pause. "The case must be dropped." And she rose, as if she could

not bear the weight of her thoughts, and moved slowly to the window,

where she leaned for a moment, her face turned blankly on the street

without.

Emma sighed, and her eyes fell with a strange pathos upon Frank's almost

equally troubled face.

"There is no use," her gentle looks seemed to say. "Do not urge her; it

will be only one grief the more."

But Frank was not one to heed such an appeal in sight of the noble

drooping figure and set white face of the woman upon whose happiness he

had fixed his own, though neither of these two knew it as yet. So, with

a deprecating look at Emma, he crossed to Hermione's side, and with a

slow, respectful voice exclaimed:

"Do not make me feel as if I had been the cause of loss to you. An older

man might have done better. Let me send an older man to you, then, or

pray that you reconsider a decision which will always fill me with

regret."

But Hermione, turning slowly, fixed him with her eyes, whose meaning he

was farther than ever from understanding, and saying gently, "The matter

is at end, Mr. Etheridge," came back to the seat she had vacated, and

motioned to him to return to the one he had just left. "Let as talk of

other things," said she, and forced her lips to smile.

He obeyed, and at once opened a general conversation. Both sisters

joined in it, and such was his influence and the impulse of their own

youth that gradually the depth of shadow departed from their faces and a

certain grave sort of pleasure appeared there, giving him many a thrill

of joy, and making the otherwise dismal hour one to be happily

remembered by him through many a weary day and night.

When he came to leave he asked Emma, who strangely enough had now become

the most talkative of the two, whether there was not something he could

do for her in New York or elsewhere before he came again.

She shook her head, but in another moment, Hermione having stepped

aside, she whispered:

"Make my sister smile again as she did a minute ago, and you will give

me all the happiness I seek."

The words made him joyous, and the look he bestowed upon her in return

had a promise in it which made the young girl's dreams lighter that

night, for all the new cause of anxiety which had come into her secluded

life.

X.

DORIS.

Frank Etheridge walked musingly towards town. When half-way there he

heard his name pronounced behind him in tremulous accents, and turning,

saw hastening in his wake the woman who had brought him the message

which first took him to Miss Cavanagh's house. She was panting with the

haste she had made, and evidently wished to speak to him. He of course

stopped, being only too anxious to know what the good woman had to say.

She flushed as she came near to him.

"Oh, sir," she cried with an odd mixture of eagerness and restraint, "I

have been wanting to talk to you, and if you would be so good as to let

me say what is on my mind, it would be a great satisfaction to me,

please, and make me feel a deal easier."

"I should be very glad to hear whatever you may have to tell me," was

his natural response. "Are you in trouble? Can I help you?"

"Oh, it is not that," she answered, looking about to see if any curious

persons were peering at them through the neighboring window-blinds,

"though I have my troubles, of course, as who hasn't in this hard, rough

world; it is not of myself I want to speak, but of the young ladies. You

take an interest in them, sir?"

It was naturally put, yet it made his cheek glow.

"I am their lawyer," he murmured.

"I thought so," she went on as if she had not seen the evidences of

emotion on his part, or if she had seen them had failed to interpret

them. "Mr. Hamilton is a very good man but he is not of much use, sir;

but you look different, as if you could influence them, and make them do

as other people do, and enjoy the world, and go out to church, and see

the neighbors, and be natural in short."

"And they do not?"

"Never, sir; haven't you heard? They never either of them set foot

beyond the garden gate. Miss Emma enjoys the flower-beds and spends most

of her time working at them or walking up and down between the poplars,

but Miss Hermione keeps to the house and grows white and thin, studying

and reading, and making herself wise--for what? No one comes to see

them--that is, not often, sir, and when they do, they are stiff and

formal, as if the air of the house was chilly with something nobody

understood. It isn't right, and it's going against God's laws, for they

are both well and able to go about the world as others do. Why, then,

don't they do it? That is what I want to know."

"And that is what everybody wants to know," returned Frank, smiling;

"but as long as the young ladies do not care to explain themselves I do

not see how you or any one else can criticise their conduct. They must

have good reasons for their seclusion or they would never deny

themselves all the pleasures natural to youth."

"Reasons? What reasons can they have for actions so extraordinary? I

don't know of any reason on God's earth which would keep me tied to the

house, if my feet were able to travel and my eyes to see."

"Do you live with them?"

"Yes; or how could they get the necessaries of life? I do their

marketing, go for the doctor when they are sick, pay their bills, and

buy their dresses. That's why their frocks are no prettier," she

explained.

Frank felt his wonder increase.

"It is certainly a great mystery," he acknowledged. "I have heard of

elderly women showing their eccentricity in this way, but young girls!"

"And such beautiful girls! Do you not think them beautiful?" she asked.

He started and looked at the woman more closely. There was a tone in her

voice when she put this question that for the first time made him think

that she was less simple than her manner would seem to indicate.

"What is your name?" he asked her abruptly.

"Doris, sir."

"And what is it you want of me?"

"Oh, sir, I thought I told you; to talk to the young ladies and show

them how wicked it is to slight the good gifts which the Lord has

bestowed upon them. They may listen to you, sir; seeing that you are

from out of town and have the ways of the big city about you."

She was very humble now and had dropped her eyes in some confusion at

his altered manner, so that she did not see how keenly his glance rested

upon her nervous nostril, weak mouth, and obstinate chin. But she

evidently felt his sudden distrust, for her hands clutched each other in

embarrassment and she no longer spoke with the assurance with which she

had commenced the conversation.

"I like the young ladies," she now explained, "and it is for their own

good I want them to do differently."

"Have they never been talked to on the subject? Have not their friends

or relatives tried to make them break their seclusion?"

"Oh, sir, the times the minister has been to that house! And the doctor

telling them they would lose their health if they kept on in the way

they were going! But it was all waste breath; they only said they had

their reasons, and left people to draw what conclusions they would."

Frank Etheridge, who had a gentleman's instincts, and yet who was too

much of a lawyer not to avail himself of the garrulity of another on a

question he had so much at heart, stopped, and weighed the matter a

moment with himself before he put the one or two questions which her

revelations suggested. Should he dismiss the woman with a rebuke for her

forwardness, or should he humor her love for talk and learn the few

things further which he was in reality burning to hear. His love and

interest naturally gained the victory over his pride, and he allowed

himself to ask:

"How long have they kept themselves shut up? Is it a year, do you

think?"

"Oh, a full year, sir; six months at least before their father died. We

did not notice it at first, because they never said anything about it,

but at last it became very evident, and then we calculated and found

they had not stepped out of the house since the day of the great ball at

Hartford."

"The great ball!"

"Yes, sir, a grand party that every one went to. But they did not go,

though they had talked about it, and Miss Hermione had her dress ready.

And they never went out again, not even to their father's funeral. Think

of that, sir, not even to their father's funeral."

"It is very strange," said he, determined at whatever cost to ask Edgar

about that ball, and if he went to it.

"And that is not all," continued his now thoroughly reassured

companion. "They were never the same girls again after that time. Before

then Miss Hermione was the admiration and pride of the whole town,

notwithstanding that dreadful scar, while Miss Emma was the life of the

house and of every gathering she went into. But afterwards--well, you

can see for yourself what they are now; and it was just so before their

father died."

Frank longed to ask some questions about this father, but reason bade

him desist. He was already humiliating himself enough in thus discussing

the daughters with the servant who waited upon them; others must tell

him about the old gentleman.

"The house is just like a haunted house," Doris now remarked. Then as

she saw him cast her a quick look of renewed interest, she glanced

nervously down the street and asked eagerly: "Would you mind turning off

into this lane, sir, where there are not so many persons to pry and peer

at us? It is still early enough for people to see, and as everybody

knows me and everybody by this time must know you, they may wonder to

see us talking together, and I do so long to ease my whole conscience

now I am about it."

For reply, he took the road she had pointed out. When they were

comfortably out of sight from the main street, he stopped again and

said:

"What do you mean by haunted?"

"Oh, sir," she began, "not by ghosts; I don't believe in any such

nonsense as ghosts; but by memories sir, memories of something which has

happened within those four walls and which are now locked up in the

hearts of those two girls, making them live like spectres. I am not a

fanciful person myself, nor given to imaginings, but that house,

especially on nights when the wind blows, seems to be full of something

not in nature; and though I do not hear anything or see anything, I feel

strange terrors and almost expect the walls to speak or the floors to

give up their secrets, but they never do; and that is why I quake in my

bed and lie awake so many nights."

"Yet you are not fanciful, nor given to imaginings," smiled Frank.

"No, for there is ground for my secret fears. I see it in the girls'

pale looks, I hear it in the girls' restless tread as they pace hour

after hour through those lonesome rooms."

"They walk for exercise; they do not use the streets, so they make a

promenade of their own floors."

"Do people walk for exercise at night?"

"At _night_?"

"Late at night; at one, two, sometimes three, in the morning? Oh, sir,

it is uncanny, I tell you."

"They are not well; lack of change affects their nerves and they cannot

sleep, so they walk."

"Very likely, _but they do not walk together_. Sometimes it's one, and

sometimes it's the other. I know their different steps, and I never hear

them both at the same time."

Frank felt a cold shiver thrill his blood.

"I have been in the house," she resumed, after a minute's pause, "for

five years; ever since Mrs. Cavanagh died, and I cannot tell you what

its secret is. But it has one, I am certain, and I often go about the

halls and into the different rooms and ask low to myself, 'Was it here

that it happened, or was it there?' There is a little staircase on the

second floor which takes a quick turn towards a big empty room where

nobody ever sleeps, and though I have no reason for shuddering at that

place, I always do, perhaps because it is in that big room the young

ladies walk so much. Can you understand my feeling this way, and I no

more than a servant to them?"

A month ago he would have uttered a loud disclaimer, but he had changed

much in some regards, so he answered: "Yes, if you really care for

them."

The look she gave him proved that she did, beyond all doubt.

"If I did not care for them do you think I would stay in such a gloomy

house? I love them both better than anything else in the whole world,

and I would not leave them, not for all the money any one could offer

me."

She was evidently sincere, and Frank felt a vague relief.

"I am glad," said he, "that they have so good a friend in their own

house; as for your fears you will have to bear them, for I doubt if the

young ladies will ever take any one into their confidence."

"Not--not their lawyer?"

"No," said he, "not even their lawyer."

She looked disappointed and suddenly very ill at ease.

"I thought you might be masterful," she murmured, "and find out.

Perhaps you will some day, and then everything will be different. Miss

Emma is the most amiable," said she, "and would not long remain a

prisoner if Miss Hermione would consent to leave the house."

"Miss Emma is the younger?"

"Yes, yes, in everything."

"And the sadder!"

"I am not so sure about that, but she shows her feelings plainer,

perhaps because her spirits used to be so high."

Frank now felt they had talked long enough, interesting as was the topic

on which they were engaged. So turning his face towards the town, he

remarked:

"I am going back to New York to-night, but I shall probably be in

Marston again soon. Watch well over the young ladies, but do not think

of repeating this interview unless something of great importance should

occur. It would not please them if they knew you were in the habit of

talking them over to me, and it is your duty to act just as they would

wish you to."

"I know it, sir, but when it is for their good----"

"I understand; but let us not repeat it, Doris." And he bade her a kind

but significant good-by.

It was now quite dusk, and as he walked towards Dr. Sellick's office,

he remembered with some satisfaction that Edgar was usually at home

during the early evening. He wanted to talk to him about Hermione's

father, and his mood was too impatient for a long delay. He found him as

he expected, seated before his desk, and with his wonted precipitancy

dashed at once into his subject.

"Edgar, you told me once that you were acquainted with Miss Cavanagh's

father; that you were accustomed to visit him. What kind of a man was

he? A hard one?"

Edgar, taken somewhat by surprise, faltered for a moment, but only for a

moment.

"I never have attempted to criticise him," said he; "but let me see; he

was a straightforward man and a persistent one, never let go when he

once entered upon a thing. He could be severe, but I should never have

called him hard. He was like--well he was like Raynor, that professor of

ours, who understood everything about beetles and butterflies and such

small fry, and knew very little about men or their ways and tastes when

they did not coincide with his own. Mr. Cavanagh's hobby was not in the

line of natural history, but of chemistry, and that is why I visited him

so much; we used to experiment together."

"Was it his pastime or his profession? The house does not look as if it

had been the abode of a rich man."

"He was not rich, but he was well enough off to indulge his whims. I

think he inherited the few thousands, upon the income of which he

supported himself and family."

"And he could be severe?"

"Very, if he were interrupted in his work; at other times he was simply

amiable and absent-minded. He only seemed to live when he had a retort

before him."

"Of what did he die?"

"Apoplexy, I think; I was not here, so do not know the particulars."

"Was he--" Frank turned and looked squarely at his friend, as he always

did when he had a venturesome question to put--"was he fond of his

daughters?"

Edgar had probably been expecting some such turn in the conversation as

this, yet he frowned and answered quite hastily, though with evident

conscientiousness:

"I could not make out; I do not know as I ever tried to; the matter did

not interest me."

But Frank was bound to have a definite reply.

"I think you will be able to tell me if you will only give your mind to

it for a few moments. A father cannot help but show some gleam of

affection for two motherless girls."

"Oh, he was proud of them," Edgar hurriedly asserted, "and liked to have

them ready to hand him his coffee when his experiments were over; but

fond of them in the way you mean, I think not. I imagine they often

missed their mother."

"Did you know _her_?"

"No, only as a child. She died when I was a youngster."

"You do not help me much," sighed Frank.

"Help you?"

"To solve the mystery of those girls' lives."

"Oh!" was Edgar's short exclamation.

"I thought I might get at it by learning about the father, but nothing

seems to give me any clue."

Edgar rose with a restless air.

"Why not do as I do--let the matter alone?"

"Because," cried Frank, hotly, "my affections are engaged. I love

Hermione Cavanagh, and I cannot leave a matter alone that concerns her

so nearly."

"I see," quoth Edgar, and became very silent.

When Frank returned to New York it was with the resolution to win the

heart of Hermione and then ask her to tell him her secret. He was so

sure that whatever it was, it was not one which would stand in the way

of his happiness.

XI.

LOVE.

Frank's next business was to read the packet of letters which had been

found in old Mrs. Wakeham's bed. The box abstracted by Huckins had been

examined during his absence and found to contain securities, which,

together with the ready money and papers taken from the clock, amounted

to so many thousands that it had become quite a serious matter to find

the heir. Huckins still clung to the house, but he gave no trouble. He

was satisfied, he said, to abide by the second will, being convinced

that if he were patient he would yet inherit through it. His sister

Harriet was without doubt dead, and he professed great willingness to

give any aid possible in verifying the fact. But as he could adduce no

proofs nor suggest any clue to the discovery of this sister's

whereabouts if living, or of her grave if dead, his offers were

disregarded, and he was allowed to hermitize in the old house

undisturbed.

Meantime, false clues came in and false claims were raised by various

needy adventurers. To follow up these clues and sift these claims took

much of Frank Etheridge's time, and when he was not engaged upon this

active work he employed himself in reading those letters to which I have

already alluded.

They were of old date and were from various sources. But they conveyed

little that was likely to be of assistance to him. Of the twenty he

finally read, only one was signed Harriet, and while that was very

interesting to him, as giving some glimpses into the early history of

this woman, it did not give him any facts upon which either he or the

police could work. I will transcribe the letter here:

"MY DEAR CYNTHIA:

"You are the only one of the family to whom I dare write. I

have displeased father too much to ever hope for his

forgiveness, while mother will never go against his wishes, even

if the grief of it should make me die. I am very unhappy, I can

tell you that, more unhappy than even they could wish, but they

must never know it, never. I have still enough pride to wish to

keep my misery to myself, and it would be just the one thing

that would make my burden unbearable, to have them know I

regretted the marriage on account of which I have been turned

away from their hearts and home forever. But I do regret it,

Cynthia, from the bottom of my heart. He is not kind, and he is

not a gentleman, and I made a terrible mistake, as you can see.

But I do not think I was to blame. He seemed so devoted, and

used to make me such beautiful speeches that I never thought to

ask if he were a good man; and when father and mother opposed

him so bitterly that we had to meet by stealth, he was always so

considerate, and yet so determined, that he seemed to me like an

angel till we were married, and then it was too late to do

anything but accept my fate. I think he expected father to

forgive us and take us home, and when he found these

expectations false he became both ugly and sullen, and so my

life is nothing but a burden to me, and I almost wish I was

dead. But I am very strong, and so is he, and so we are likely

to live on, pulling away at the chain that binds us, till both

are old and gray.

"Pretty talk for a young girl's reading, is it not? But it

relieves me to pour out my heart to some one that loves me, and

I know that you do. But I shall never talk like this to you

again or ever write you another letter. You are my father's

darling, and I want you to remain so, and if you think too much

of me, or spend your time in writing to me, he will find it out,

and that will help neither of us. So good-by, little Cynthia,

and do not be angry that I put a false address at the top of the

page, or refuse to tell you where I live, or where I am going.

From this hour Harriet is dead to you, and nothing shall ever

induce me to break the silence which should remain between us

but my meeting you in another world, where all the follies of

this will be forgotten in the love that has survived both life

and death.

"Your sorrowing but true sister,

"HARRIET."

The date was forty years back, and the address was New York City--an

address which she acknowledged to be false. The letter was without

envelope.

The only other allusion to this sister found in the letters was in a

short note written by a person called Mary, and it ran thus:

"Do you know whom I have seen? Your sister Harriet. It was in

the depot at New Haven. She was getting off the train and I was

getting on, but I knew her at once for all the change which ten

years make in the most of us, and catching her by the arm, I

cried, 'Harriet, Harriet, where are you living?' How she blushed

and what a start she gave! but as soon as she saw who it was she

answered readily enough, 'In Marston,' and disappeared in the

crowd before I could say another word. Wasn't it a happy chance,

and isn't it a relief to know she is alive and well. As for her

looks, they were quite lively, and she wore nice clothing like

one in very good circumstances. So you see her marriage did not

turn out as badly as some thought."

This was of old date also, and gave no clue to the sender, save such as

was conveyed by the signature Mary. Mary what? Mr. Huckins was the only

person who was likely to know.

Frank, who had but little confidence in this man and none in his desire

to be of use in finding the legal heir, still thought it best to ask him

if there was any old friend of the family whose first name was Mary. So

he went to Flatbush one afternoon, and finding the old miser in his

house, put to him this question and waited for his reply.

It came just as he expected, with a great show of willingness that yet

was without any positive result.

"Mary? Mary?" he repeated, "we have known a dozen Marys. Do you mean any

one belonging to this town?"

"I mean some one with whom your sister was intimate thirty years ago.

Some one who knew your other sister, the one who married Smith; some one

who would simply sign her first name in writing to Mrs. Wakeham, and who

in speaking of Mrs. Smith would call her Harriet."

"Ah!" ejaculated the cautious Huckins, dropping his eyes for fear they

would convey more than his tongue might deem fit. "I'm afraid I was too

young in those days to know much about my sister's friends. Can you tell

me where she lived, or give me any information beyond her first name by

which I could identify her?"

"No," was the lawyer's quick retort; "if I could I should not need to

consult you; I could find the woman myself."

"Ah, I see, I see, and I wish I could help you, but I really don't know

whom you mean, I don't indeed, sir. May I ask where you got the name,

and why you want to find the woman?"

"Yes, for it involves your prospects. This Mary, whoever she may have

been, was the one to tell Mrs. Wakeham that Harriet Smith lived in

Marston. Doesn't that jog your memory, Huckins? You know you cannot

inherit the property till it is proved that Harriet is dead and left no

heirs."

"I know," he whined, and looked quite disconsolate, but he gave the

lawyer no information, and Frank left at last with the feeling that he

had reached the end of his rope.

As a natural result, his thoughts turned to Marston--were they ever far

away from there? "I will go and ease my heart of some of its burden,"

thought he; "perhaps my head may be clearer then, and my mind freer for

work." Accordingly he took the train that day, and just as the dew of

evening began to fall, he rode into Marston and stopped at Miss

Cavanagh's door.

He found Hermione sitting at an old harp. She did not seem to have been

playing but musing, and her hands hung somewhat listlessly upon the

strings. As she rose the instrument gave out a thrilling wail that woke

an echo in his sensibilities for which he was not prepared. He had

considered himself in a hopeful frame of mind, and behold, he was

laboring instead under a morbid fear that his errand would be in vain.

Emma was not present, but another lady was, whose aspect of gentle old

age was so sweet and winning that he involuntarily bent his head in

reverence to her, before Hermione could utter the introduction which was

trembling on her tongue.

"My father's sister," said she, "and our very dear aunt. She is quite

deaf, so she would not hear you speak if you attempted it, but she reads

faces wonderfully, and you see she is smiling at you as she does not

smile at every one. You may consider yourself introduced."

Frank, who had a tender heart for all misfortune, surveyed the old lady

wistfully. How placid she looked, how at home with her thoughts! It was

peacefulness to the spirit to meet her eye. Bowing again, he turned

towards Hermione and remarked:

"What a very lovely face! She looks as if she had never known anything

but the pleasures of life."

"On the contrary," returned Hermione, "she has never known much but its

disappointments. But they have left no trace on her face, or in her

nature, I think. She is an embodiment of trust, and in the great silence

there is about her, she hears sounds and sees visions which are denied

to others. But when did you come to Marston?"

He told her he had just arrived, and, satisfied with the slight look of

confusion which mantled her face at this acknowledgment, launched into

talk all tending to one end, his love for her. But he did not reach that

end immediately; for if the old lady could not hear, she could see, and

Frank, for all his impetuosity, possessed sufficient restraint upon

himself not to subject himself or Hermione to the criticism of even this

most benignant relative. Not till Mrs. Lovell left the room, as she did

after a while,--being a very wise old lady as well as mild,--did he

allow himself to say:

"There can be but one reason now for my coming to Marston--to see you,

Miss Cavanagh; I have no other business here."

"I thought," she began, with some confusion,--evidently she had been

taken by surprise,--"that you were looking for some one, a Harriet

Smith, I think, whom you had reason to believe once lived here."

"I did come to Marston originally on that errand, but I have so far

failed in finding any trace of her in this place that I begin to think

we were mistaken in our inferences that she had ever lived here."

"Yet you had reason for thinking that she did," Hermione went on, with

the anxiety of one desirous to put off the declaration she probably saw

coming.

"Yes; we had reasons, but they prove to have been unfounded."

"Was--was your motive for finding her an important one?" she asked, with

some hesitation, and a look of curiosity in her fine eyes.

"Quite; a fortune of some thousands is involved in her discovery. She is

heiress to at least a hundred thousand dollars from a sister she has not

seen since they were girls together."

"Indeed!" and Hermione's eyes opened in some surprise, then fell before

the burning light in his.

"But do not let us talk of a matter that for me is now of secondary

interest," cried he, letting the full stream of his ardor find its way.

"You are all I can think of now; you, you, whom I have loved since I

caught the first glimpse of your face one night through the window

yonder. Though I have known you but a little while, and though I cannot

hope to have awakened a kindred feeling in you, you have so filled my

mind and heart during the few short weeks since I learned your name,

that I find it impossible to keep back the words which the sight of your

face calls forth. I love you, and I want to guard you from loneliness

forever. Will you give me that sweet right?"

"But," she cried, starting to her feet in an excitement that made her

face radiantly beautiful, "you do not seem to think of my misfortune,

my----"

"Do you mean this scar?" he whispered softly, gliding swiftly to her

side. "It is no misfortune in my eyes; on the contrary, I think it

endears you to me all the more. I love it, Hermione, because it is a

part of you. See how I feel towards it!" and he bent his head with a

quick movement, and imprinted a kiss upon the mark she had probably

never touched herself but with shrinking.

"Oh!" went up from her lips in a low cry, and she covered her face with

her hands in a rush of feeling that was not entirely connected with that

moment.

"Did you think I would let that stand in my way?" he asked, with a

proud tenderness with which no sensitive woman could fail to be

impressed. "It is one reason more for a man to love your beautiful face,

your noble manners, your soft white hand. I think half the pleasure

would be gone from the prospect of loving you if I did not hope to make

you forget what you have perhaps too often remembered."

She dropped her hands, and he saw her eyes fixed upon him with a strange

look.

"O how wicked I have been!" she murmured. "And what good men there are

in the world!"

He shook his head.

"It is not goodness," he began, but she stopped him with a wave of her

hand.

A strange elation seemed to have taken hold of her, and she walked the

floor with lifted head and sparkling eye.

"It restores my belief in love," she exclaimed, "and in mankind." And

she seemed content just to brood upon that thought.

But he was not; naturally he wished for some assurance from her; so he

stepped in her path as she was crossing the room, and, taking her by the

hands, said, smilingly:

"Do you know how you can testify your appreciation in a way to make me

perfectly happy?"

She shook her head, and tried to draw her hands away.

"By taking a walk, the least walk in the world, beyond that wooden

gate."

She shuddered and her hands fell from his.

"You do not know what you ask," said she; then after a moment, "it was

that I meant and not the scar, when I spoke of my misfortune. I cannot

go outside the garden wall, and I was wrong to listen to your words for

a moment, knowing what a barrier this fact raises up between us."

"Hermione,--" he was very serious now, and she gathered up all her

strength to meet the questions she knew were coming,--"why cannot you go

beyond the garden gate? Cannot you tell me? Or do you hesitate because

you are afraid I shall smile at your reasons for this determined

seclusion?"

"I am not afraid of your smiling, but I cannot give my reasons. That I

consider them good must answer for us both."

"Very well, then, we will let them answer. You need not take the walk I

ask, but give me instead another pleasure--your promise to be my wife."

"Your wife?"

"Yes, Hermione."

"With such a secret between us?"

"It will not be a secret long."

"Mr. Etheridge," she cried with emotion, "you do not know the woman you

thus honor. If it had been Emma----"

"It is you I love."

"It would have been safe," she went on as if she had not heard him. "She

is lovely, and amiable, and constant, and in her memory there is no dark

scar as there is in mine, a scar deeper than this," she said, laying her

finger on her cheek, "and fully as ineffaceable."

"Some day you will take me into your confidence," he averred, "and then

that scar will gradually disappear."

"What confidence you have in me?" she cried. "What have you seen, what

can you see in me to make you trust me so in face of my own words?"

"I think it is the look in your eyes. There is purity there, Hermione,

and a deep sadness which is too near like sorrow to be the result of an

evil action."

"What do you call evil?" she cried. Then suddenly, "I once did a great

wrong--in a fit of temper--and I can never undo it, never, yet its

consequences are lasting. Would you give your heart to a woman who could

so forget herself, and who is capable of forgetting herself again if her

passions are roused as they were then?"

"Perhaps not," he acknowledged, "but my heart is already given and I do

not know how to take it back."

"Yet you must," said she. "No man with a career before him should marry

a recluse, and I am that, whatever else I may or may not be. I would be

doing a second ineffaceable wrong if I took advantage of your generous

impulse and bound you to a fate that in less than two months would be

intolerably irksome to one of your temperament."

"Now you do not know me," he protested.

But she heeded neither his words nor his pleading look.

"I know human nature," she avowed, "and if I do not mingle much with

the world I know the passions that sway it. I can never be the wife of

any man, Mr. Etheridge, much less of one so generous and so

self-forgetting as yourself."

"Do you--are you certain?" he asked.

"Certain."

"Then I have not succeeded in raising one throb of interest in your

breast?"

She opened her lips and his heart stood still for her answer, but she

closed them again and remained standing so long with her hands locked

together and her face downcast, that his hopes revived again, and he was

about to put in another plea for her hand when she looked up and said

firmly:

"I think you ought to know that my heart does not respond to your suit.

It may make any disappointment which you feel less lasting."

He uttered a low exclamation and stepped back.

"I beg your pardon," said he, "I ought not to have annoyed you. You will

forget my folly, I hope."

"Do you forget it!" cried she; but her lips trembled and he saw it.

"Hermione! Hermione!" he murmured, and was down at her feet before she

could prevent it. "Oh, how I love you!" he breathed, and kissed her hand

wildly, passionately.

XII.

HOW MUCH DID IT MEAN?

Frank Etheridge left the presence of Hermione Cavanagh, carrying with

him an indelible impression of her slender, white-robed figure and

pallid, passion-drawn face. There was such tragedy in the latter, that

he shuddered at its memory, and stopped before he reached the gate to

ask himself if the feeling she displayed was for him or another. If for

another, then was that other Dr. Sellick, and as the name formed itself

in his thoughts, he felt the dark cloud of jealousy creep over his mind,

obscuring the past and making dangerous the future.

"How can I know," thought he, "how can I know?" and just as the second

repetition passed his lips, he heard a soft step near him, and, looking

up, saw the gentle Emma watering her flowers.

To gain her side was his first impulse. To obtain her confidence the

second. Taking the heavy watering-pot from her hand, he poured its

contents on the rose-bush she was tending, and then setting it down,

said quietly:

"I have just made your sister very unhappy, Miss Cavanagh."

She started and her soft eyes showed the shadow of an alarm.

"I thought you were her friend," she said.

He drew her around the corner of the house towards the poplar trees.

"Had I been only that," he avowed, "I might have spared her pain, but I

am more than that, Miss Cavanagh, I am her lover."

The hesitating step at his side paused, and though no great change came

into her face, she seemed to have received a shock.

"I can understand," said she, "that you hurt her."

"Is she so wedded to the past, then?" he cried. "Was there some one, is

there some one whom she--she----"

He could not finish, but the candid-eyed girl beside him did not profess

to misunderstand him. A pitiful smile crossed her lips, and she looked

for a minute whiter than her sister had done, but she answered firmly:

"You could easily overcome any mere memory, but the decision she has

made never to leave the house, I fear you cannot overcome."

"Does it spring--forgive me if I go beyond the bounds of discretion, but

this mystery is driving me mad--does it spring from that past attachment

you have almost acknowledged?"

She drooped her head and his heart misgave him. Why should he hurt both

these women when his whole feeling towards them was one of kindness and

love?

"Pardon me," he pleaded. "I withdraw the question; I had no right to put

it."

"Thank you," said she, and looked away from him towards the distant

prospect of hill and valley lying before them.

He stood revolving the matter in his disturbed mind.

"I should have been glad to have been the means of happiness to your

sister and yourself. Such seclusion as you have imposed upon yourselves

seems unnecessary, but if it must be, and this garden wall is destined

to be the boundary of your world, it would have been a great pleasure to

me to have brought into it some freshness from the life which lies

beyond it. But it is destined not to be."

The sad expression in her face changed into one of wistfulness.

"Then you are not coming any more?" said she.

He caught his breath. There was disappointment in her tones and this

could mean nothing but regret, and regret meant the loss of something

which might have been hope. She felt, then, that he might have won her

sister if he had been more patient.

"Do you think it will do for me to come here after your sister has told

me that it was useless for me to aspire to her hand?"

She gave him for the first time a glance that had the element of

mirthfulness in it.

"Come as my friend," she suggested; then in a more serious mood added:

"It is her only chance of happiness, but I do not know that I would be

doing right in influencing you to pursue a suit which may not be for

yours. _You_ know, or will know after reflection (and I advise you to

reflect well), whether an alliance with women situated as we are would

be conducive to your welfare. If you decide yes, think that a woman

taken by surprise, as my sister undoubtedly was, may not in the first

hurried moment of decision know her own mind, but also remember that no

woman who has taken such a decision as she has, is cast in the common

mould, and that you may but add to your regrets by a persistency she may

never fully reward."

Astonished at her manner and still more astonished at the intimation

conveyed in her last words, he looked at her as one who would say:

"But you also share her fate and the resolve that made it."

She seemed to understand him.

"Free Hermione," she whispered, "from the shackles she has wound about

herself and you will free me."

"Miss Emma," he began, but she put her finger on her lips.

"Hush!" she entreated; "let us not talk any more about it. I have

already said what I never meant should pass my lips; but the affection I

bear my sister made me forget myself; she does so need to love and be

loved."

"And you think I----"

"Ah, sir, you must be the judge of your own chances. You have heard her

refusal and must best know just how much it means."

"How much it means!" Long did Frank muse over that phrase, after he had

left the sweet girl who had uttered it. As he sat with Edgar at supper,

his abstracted countenance showed that he was still revolving the

question, though he endeavored to seem at home with his friend and

interested in the last serious case which had occupied the attention of

the newly settled doctor. How much it means! Not much, he was beginning

to say to himself, and insensibly his face began to brighten and his

manner to grow less restrained, when Edgar, who had been watching him

furtively, broke out:

"Now you are more like yourself. Business responsibilities are as hard

to shake off as a critical case in medicine."

"Yes," was the muttered reply, as Frank rose from the table, and took

the cigar his friend offered him. "And business with me just now is

particularly perplexing. I cannot get any clue to Harriet Smith or her

heirs, nor can the police or the presumably sharp detective I have put

upon the search."

"That must please Huckins."

"Yes, confound him! such a villain as he is! I sometimes wonder if he

killed his sister."

"That you can certainly find out."

"No, for she had a mortal complaint, and that satisfies the physicians.

But there are ways of hastening a death, and those I dare avow he would

not be above using. The greed in his eyes would do anything; it even

suffices to make him my very good friend, now that he sees that he might

lose everything by opposing me."

"I am glad you see through his friendship."

"See through a sieve?"

"He plays his part badly, then?"

"He cannot help it, with that face of his; and then he gave himself away

in the beginning. No attitude he could take now would make me forget the

sneak I saw in him then."

This topic was interesting, but Edgar knew it was no matter of business

which had caused the fitful changes he had been observing in Frank's

tell-tale countenance. Yet he did not broach any other theme, and it was

Frank who finally remarked:

"I suppose you think me a fool to fix my heart on a woman with a

secret."

"Fool is a strong word," answered Edgar, somewhat bitterly, "but that

you were unfortunate to have been attracted by Hermione Cavanagh, I

think any man would acknowledge. You would acknowledge it yourself, if

you stopped to weigh the consequences of indulging a passion for a woman

so eccentric."

"Perhaps I should, if my interest would allow me to stop. But it won't,

Edgar; it has got too strong a hold upon me; everything else sinks in

importance before it. I love her, and am willing to sacrifice something

for her sake."

"Something, perhaps; but in this case it would be everything."

"I do not think so."

"You do not think so now; but you would soon."

"Perhaps I should, but it is hard to realize it. Besides, she would drop

her eccentricities if her affections once became engaged."

"Oh, if you have assurance of that."

"Do I need assurance? Doesn't it stand to reason? A woman loved is so

different from a woman----" scorned, he was going to say, but,

remembering himself, added softly, "from a woman who has no one to think

of but herself."

"This woman has a sister," observed Edgar.

Frank faltered. "Yes, and that sister is involved in her fate," thought

he, but he said, quietly: "Emma Cavanagh does not complain of Hermione;

on the contrary, she expresses the greatest affection for her."

"They are both mysteries," exclaimed Edgar, and dropped the subject,

though it was not half talked out.

Frank was quite willing to accept his silence, for he was out of sorts

with his friend and with himself. He knew his passion was a mad one, and

yet he felt that it had made giant strides that day, and had really been

augmented instead of diminished by the refusal he had received from

Hermione, and the encouragement to persistence which he had received

from her usually shy sister. As the evening wore on and the night

approached, his thoughts not only grew in intensity, but deepened into

tenderness. It was undoubtedly a passion that had smitten him, but that

passion was hallowed by the unselfish feelings of a profound affection.

He did not want her to engage herself to him if it would not be for her

happiness. That it would be, every throb of his heart assured him, but

he might be mistaken, and if so, better her dreams of the past than a

future he could not make bright. He was so moved at the turmoil which

his thoughts made in his usually quiet breast, that he could not think

of sleep, but sat in his room for hours indulging in dreams which his

practical nature would have greatly scorned a few short weeks before. He

saw her again in fancy in every attitude in which his eyes had ever

beheld her, and sanctified thus by distance, her beauty seemed both

wonderful and touching. And that was not all. Some chord between them

seemed to have been struck, and he felt himself drawn towards her as if

(it was a strange fancy) she stood by that garden gate, and was looking

in his direction with rapt, appealing eyes. So strong became that fancy

at last, that he actually rose to his feet and went to the window which

opened towards the south.

"Hermione! Hermione!" broke in longing from his lips, and then annoyed

at what he could not but consider a display of weakness on his part, he

withdrew himself from the window, determined to forget for the moment

that there lived for him such a cause for love and sorrow. But what man

can forget by a mere effort of will, or what lover shut his eyes to the

haunting vision which projects itself upon the inner consciousness. In

fancy he saw her still, and this time she seemed to be pacing up and

down the poplar walk, wringing her hands and wildly calling his name. It

was more than he could bear. He must know if this was only an

hallucination, and in a feverish impulse he rushed from his room with

the intention of going to her at once.

But he no sooner stood in the hall than he realized he was not alone in

the house, and that he should have to pass Edgar's door. He naturally

felt some hesitation at this and was inclined to give up his purpose.

But the fever urging him on said no; so stealing warily down the hall he

stepped softly by the threshold of his friend's room, when to his

surprise he perceived that the door was ajar.

Pushing it gently open he found the room brilliant with moonlight but

empty. Greatly relieved and considering that the doctor had been sent

for by some suffering patient, he passed at once out of the house.

He went directly to that of Hermione, walking where the shadows were

thickest as if he were afraid of being recognized. But no one was in the

streets, and when he reached the point where the tall poplar-trees made

a wall against the moonbeams, he slid into the deep obscurity he found

there with a feeling of relief such as the heart experiences when it is

suddenly released from some great strain.

Was she in the poplar walk? He did not mean to accost her if she were,

nor to show himself or pass beyond the boundary of the wall, but he must

know if her restless spirit drove her to pace these moonlit walks, and

if it were true or not that she was murmuring his name.

The gate which opened in the wall at the side of the house was in a

direct line with the window he had long ago fixed upon as hers. He

accordingly took up his station at that spot and as he did so he was

sure that he saw the flitting of some dark form amid the alternate bands

of moonlight and shadow that lay across the weird pathway before him.

Holding his breath he listened. Oh, the stillness of the night! How

awesome and yet how sweet it was! But is there no break in the universal

silence? Above his head the ever restless leaves make a low murmuring,

and far away in the dim distances rises a faint sound that he cannot

mistake; it is the light footfall of a dainty woman.

He can see her now. She is coming towards him, her shadow gliding before

her. Seeing it he quails. From the rush of emotion seizing him, he knows

that he should not be upon this spot, and panting with the effort, he

turns and flees just as the sudden sound of a lifted window comes from

the house.

That arrests him. Pausing, he looks up. It is her window that is open,

and in the dark square thus made he sees her face bright with the

moonlight streaming over it. Instantly he recovers himself. It is Emma's

step, not Hermione's, he hears upon the walk. Hermione is above and in

an anxious mood, for she is looking eagerly out and calling her sister

by name.

"I am coming," answers back the clear, low voice of Emma from below.

"It is late," cries Hermione, "and very cold. Come in, Emma."

"I am coming," repeated the young girl. And in another moment he heard

her step draw nearer, saw her flitting figure halt for a moment on the

door-step before him and then disappear just as the window closed above.

He had not been observed.

Relieved, he drew a long breath and leaned his head against the garden

wall. Ah, how fair had been the vision of his beloved one's face in the

moonlight. It filled him with indescribable thoughts; it made his spirit

reel and his heart burn; it made him ten times her lover. Yet because he

was her lover he felt that he ought not to linger there any longer; that

the place was hallowed even from his presence, and that he should return

at once to the doctor's house. But when he lifted his head he heard

steps, this time not within the wall but on the roadside behind him, and

alert at once to the mischievous surmises which might be aroused by the

discovery of his presence there, he remained perfectly still in the hope

that his form would be so lost in the deep shadows where he had

withdrawn himself, that he would not be seen.

But the person, whoever it was, had evidently already detected him, for

the footsteps turned the corner and advanced rapidly to where he stood.

Should he step forward and meet the intruder, or remain still and await

the words of surprise he had every reason to expect? He decided to

remain where he was, and in another moment realized his wisdom in doing

so, for the footsteps passed on and did not halt till they had reached

the gate. But they paused there and at once he felt himself seized by a

sudden jealousy and took a step forward, eager to see what this man

would do.

He did not do much; he cast a look up at the house, and a heavy sigh

broke from his lips; then he leaned forward and plucked a rose that grew

inside the wall and kissed it there in the moonlight, and put it inside

his breast-pocket; then he turned again towards the highway, and started

back in surprise to see Frank Etheridge standing before him.

"Edgar!" cried the one.

"Frank!" exclaimed the other.

"You have misled me," accused Frank; "you do love her, or you would not

be here."

"Love whom?" asked Edgar, bitterly.

"Hermione."

"Does Hermione tend the flowers?"

"Ah!" ejaculated Frank, understanding his friend for the first time;

"it is Emma you are attached to. I see! I see! Forgive me, Edgar;

passion is so blind to everything but its own object. Of course it is

Emma; why shouldn't it be!"

Yet for all its assurance his voice had strange tones in it, and Edgar,

already annoyed at his own self-betrayal, looked at him suspiciously as

they drew away together towards the main street.

"I am glad to find this out," said Frank, with a hilarity slightly

forced, or so thought his friend, who could not know what thoughts and

hopes this discovery had awakened in the other's breast. "You have kept

your secret well, but now that I know it you cannot refuse to make me

your confidant, when there is so much to tell involving my happiness as

well as your own."

"I have no happiness, Frank."

"Nor I; but I mean to have."

"Mean to marry Miss Cavanagh?"

"Of course, if I can induce her to marry me."

"I do not mean to marry Emma."

"You do not? Because she has a secret? because she is involved in a

mystery?"

"Partly; that would be enough, Frank; but I have another good reason.

Miss Emma Cavanagh does not care for me."

"You know that? You have asked her?"

"A year ago; this is no sudden passion with me; I have loved her all my

life."

"Edgar! And you mean to give her up?"

"Give her up?"

"If I were you, nothing would induce me to resign my hopes, not even her

own coldness. I _would_ win her. Have you tried again since your

return?"

"Frank, she is a recluse now; I could not marry a recluse; my wife must

play her part in the world, and be my helpmate abroad as well as at

home."

"Yes, yes; but as I said in my own case, win her love and that will all

right itself. No woman's resolve will hold out against a true passion."

"But you forget, she has no true passion for me."

Frank did not answer; he was musing over the subject. He had had an

opportunity for seeing into the hearts of these girls which had been

denied to Edgar. Had he seen love there? Yes, but in Hermione's breast,

not Emma's. And yet Emma was deeply sad, and it was Emma whom he had

just seen walking her restlessness off under the trees at midnight.

"Edgar," he suddenly exclaimed, "you may not understand this girl. Their

whole existence is a mystery, and so may their hearts be. Won't you tell

me how it was she refused you? It may serve to throw some light upon the

facts."

"What light? She refused me as all coquettish women refuse the men whom

they have led to believe in their affection."

"Ah! you once believed, then, in her affection."

"Should I have offered myself if I had not?"

"I don't know; I only know I didn't wait for any such belief on the part

of Hermione."

"You are impulsive, Frank, I am not; I weigh well what I do, fortunately

for myself."

"Yet you did not prosper in this affair."

"No, because I did not take a woman's waywardness into consideration. I

thought I had a right to count upon her regard, and I found myself

mistaken."

"Explain yourself," entreated Frank.

"Will not to-morrow do? Here we are at home, and it must be one o'clock

at least."

"I should sleep better if I knew it all now," Frank intimated.

"Well, then, come to my room; but there is nothing in the story to

specially interest you. I loved her----"

"Edgar, you must be explicit. I am half lawyer in listening to this

tale; I want to understand these girls."

"Girls? It is of Emma only that I have to speak."

"I know, but tell the story with some details; tell me where you first

met her."

"Oh, if I must," sighed Edgar, who hated all talk about himself, "let's

be comfortable." And throwing himself into a chair, he pointed out

another to Frank.

"This is more like it," acknowledged the latter.

Edgar lit a cigar; perhaps he felt that he could hide all emotion behind

its fumes. Frank did not take one.

"I have known Emma Cavanagh ever since we were children," began Edgar.

"As a school-boy I thought her the merriest-eyed witch in town.---- Is

she merry now?"

Frank shook his head.

"Well, I suppose she has grown older, but then she was as full of

laughter and fun as any blue-eyed Mischief could well be, and I, who

have a cynical turn of mind, liked the brightness of hers as I shall

never like her sadness--if she is sad. But that was in my adolescence,

and being as shy as I was inclined to be cynical, I never showed her my

preference, or even joined the mirthful company of which she was the

head. I preferred to stand back and hear her laughter, or talk to

Hermione while watching her sister."

"Ah!" thought Frank.

"When I went to college she went to school, and when I graduated as a

doctor she was about graduating also. But she did not come home at that

time for more than a fleeting visit. Friends wished her company on a

trip abroad, and she went away from Marston just as I settled here for

my first year of practice. I was disappointed at this, but I made what

amends to myself I could by cultivating the acquaintance of her father,

and making myself necessary to him by my interest in his studies. I

spent much of my spare time at the house, and though I never asked after

Emma, I used to get continual news of her from her sister."

"Ah!" again ejaculated Frank to himself.

"At last she returned, and--I do not know how she looks now, but she

was pretty then, wonderfully pretty, and more animated in her manner

than any other woman I have ever seen. I saw her first at a picnic, and

though I lacked courage to betray the full force of my feeling, I

imagined she understood me, for her smiles became dazzling, and she

joked with everybody but me. At last I had her for a few minutes to

myself, and then the pent up passion of months had its way, and I asked

her to be my wife. Frank, you may find it easy to talk about these

things, but I do not. I can only say she seemed to listen to me with

modest delight, and when I asked her for her answer she gave me a look I

shall never forget, and would have spoken but that her father called her

just then, and we were obliged to separate. I saw her for just another

moment that day, but there were others about, and I could only whisper,

'If you love me, come to the ball next week'; to which she gave me no

other reply than an arch look and a smile which, as I have said before,

appeared to promise me all I could desire. Appeared, but did not; for

when I called at the house the next day I was told that Mr. Cavanagh was

engaged in an experiment that could not be interrupted, and when I asked

to see the ladies received word that they were very busy preparing for

the ball and could see no one. Relieved at this, for the ball was near

at hand, I went home, and being anxious to do the honorable thing, I

wrote to Mr. Cavanagh, and, telling him that I loved his daughter,

formally asked for the honor of her hand. This note I sent by a

messenger.

"I did not receive an immediate reply (why do you want all these

particulars, Frank?); but I did not worry, for her look was still warm

in my memory. But when two days passed and no message arrived I became

uneasy, and had it not been for the well-known indifference of Mr.

Cavanagh to all affairs of life outside of his laboratory, I should have

given up in despair. But as it was, I kept my courage up till the night

of the ball, when it suddenly fell, never to rise again. For will you

believe it, Frank, she was not there, nor any of her family, though all

had engaged to go, and had made many preparations for the affair, as I

knew."

"And did no letter come? Did you never see Miss Cavanagh again, or any

of her family?"

"I received a note, but it was very short, though it was in Emma's

handwriting. She had not been well, was her excuse, and so could not be

present at the ball. As for the offer I had been kind enough to make

her, it was far above her deserts, and so must be gratefully declined.

Then came a burst of something like contrition, and the prayer that I

would not seek to make her alter her mind, as her decision was

irrevocable. Added to this was one line from her father, to the effect

that interesting as our studies were, he felt compelled to tell me he

should have no further time to give to them at present, and so bade me a

kindly adieu. Was there ever a more complete dismissal? I felt as if I

had been thrust out of the house."

Frank, who was nothing if not sympathetic, nodded quickly, but did not

break into those open expressions of indignation which his friend had

evidently anticipated. The truth was, he was too busy considering the

affair, and asking himself what part Hermione had taken in it, and

whether all its incongruities were not in some way due to her. He was so

anxious to assure himself that this was not so, that he finally asked:

"And was that the end? Did you never see any of them again?"

"I did not wish to," was the answer. "I had already thought of trying my

fortunes in the West, and when this letter came, it determined me. In

three weeks I had left Marston as I thought forever, but I was not

successful in the West."

"And you will be here," observed Frank.

"I think so," said Edgar, and became suddenly silent.

Frank looked at him a long time and then said quietly:

"I am glad you love her still."

Edgar, flushing, opened his lips, but the other would not listen to any

denial.

"If you had not loved her, you would not have come back to Marston, and

if you did not love her still, you would not pluck roses from her wall

at midnight."

"I was returning from a patient," objected Edgar, shortly.

"I know, but you _stopped_. You need not blush to own it, for, as I say,

I think it a good thing that you have not forgotten Miss Cavanagh." And

not being willing to explain himself further, Frank rose and sauntered

towards the door. "We have talked well into the night," he remarked;

"supposing we let up now, and continue our conversation to-morrow."

"I am willing to let up," acquiesced Edgar, "but why continue to-morrow?

Nothing can be gained by fruitless conjectures on this subject, while

much peace of mind may be lost by them."

"Well, perhaps you are right," quoth Frank.

XIII.

FRESH DOUBTS.

Frank was recalled to business the next day by the following letter from

Flatbush:

DEAR MR. ETHERIDGE:

It has been discovered this afternoon that Mr. Huckins has left

town. When he went or where he has gone, no one seems to know.

Indeed, it was supposed that he was still in the house, where he

has been hiding ever since the investigations were over, but a

neighbor, having occasion to go in there to-day, found the

building empty, and all of Mr. Huckins' belongings missing. I

thought you would like to know of this disappearance.

Yours truly,

A. W. SENEY.

As this was an affair for the police, Frank immediately returned to New

York; but it was not many days before he was back again in Marston,

determined to see Miss Cavanagh once more, and learn if his suit was as

really hopeless as it appeared. He brought a box of some beautiful

orchids with him, and these he presented to Miss Emma as being the one

most devoted to flowers.

Hermione looked a little startled at his presence, but Mrs. Lovell, the

dear old lady who was paying them a visit, smiled gently upon him, and

he argued well from that smile, knowing that it was not without its

meaning from one whose eyes were so bright with intelligence as her's.

The evening was cool for summer, and a fire had been lighted in the

grate. By this fire they all sat and Frank, who was strangely happy,

entertained the three recluses with merry talk which was not without a

hidden meaning for one of the quiet listeners. When the old aunt rose

and slipped away, the three drew nearer, and the conversation became

more personal. At last--how was it done--Emma vanished also, and Frank,

turning to utter some witty speech, found only Hermione's eyes

confronting him in the fire-glow. At once the words faltered on his

tongue, and leaning forward he reached out his hand, for she was about

to rise also.

"Do not rob me of this one moment," he prayed. "I have come back, you

see, because I could not stay away. Say that it does not anger you; say

that I may come now and then and see your face, even if I may not hope

for all that my heart craves."

"Do I look angry?" she asked, with a sad smile.

"No," he whispered; "nor do you look glad."

"Glad," she murmured, "glad"; and the bitterness in her tone revealed

to him how strong were the passions that animated her. "I have no

business with gladness, not even if my own fate changed. I have

forfeited all joy, Mr. Etheridge; and that I thought you understood."

"You speak like one who has committed a crime," he smiled; "nothing else

should make you feel as you do."

She started and her eyes fell. Then they rose suddenly and looked

squarely into his. "There are other crimes than those which are marked

by blood," said she. "Perhaps I am not altogether guiltless."

Frank shuddered; he had expected her to repel the charge which he had

only made in the hopes of showing her into what a morbid condition she

had fallen.

"My hands are clean," she went on, "but my soul is in shadow. Why did

you make me speak of it? You are my friend and I want to keep your

friendship, but you see why it must not grow into love; _must not_ I

say, for both our sakes. It would be fatal."

"I do not see that," he cried impetuously. "You do not make me see it.

You hint and assert, but you tell me nothing. You should give me facts,

Hermione, and then I could judge whether I should go or stay."

She flushed, and her face, which had been lifted to his, slowly sank.

"You do not know what you ask of me," she murmured.

"I know that I have asked you to be my wife."

"And it was generous of you, very generous. Such generosity merits

confidence, but--Let us talk of something else," she cried. "I am not

fit--not well enough, I mean, to speak of serious matters to-night. Tell

me about your affairs. Tell me if you have found Harriet Smith."

"No," he returned, greatly disappointed, for there had been something

like yielding in her manner a moment before. "There is no Harriet Smith,

and I do not even know that there is a Hiram Huckins, for he too has

disappeared and cannot be found."

"Hiram Huckins?"

"Yes, her brother and the brother of Mrs. Wakeham, whose will has made

all this trouble. He is the heir who will inherit her property if

Harriet Smith or her children cannot be found, and as the latter

contingency is not likely to happen, it is odd that he should have run

away without letting us know where he can be found."

"Is he a good man?"

"Hardly. Indeed I consider him a rascal; but he has a good claim on the

property, as I have already said, and that is what angers me. A hundred

thousand dollars should not fall into the hands of one so mean and

selfish as he is."

"Poetic justice is not always shown in this world. Perhaps if you found

the true heirs, you would find them also lacking in much that was

admirable."

"Possibly; but they would not be apt to be as bad as he is."

"Is he dishonest?"

"I do not like to accuse him, but neither would I like to trust him

with another man's money."

"That is unfortunate," said she. "And he will really have this money if

you do not find any nearer heirs?"

"Certainly; his name follows theirs in the will."

"It is a pity," she observed, rising and moving towards the harp. "Do

you want to hear a song that Emma composed when we were happier than we

are now?"

"Indeed I do," was his eager reply. "Sing, I entreat you, sing; it will

make me feel as if the gloom was lifting from between us."

But at this word, she came quickly back and sat down in her former place

by the fire.

"I do not know what came over me," said she; "I never sing." And she

looked with a severe and sombre gaze into the flames before her.

"Hermione, have you no right to joy, or even to give joy to others?"

"Tell me more about the case that is interesting you. Supposing you

found Harriet Smith or her children?"

"I would show them the will and put them in the way of securing their

fortune."

"_I_ should like to see that will."

"Would you?"

"Yes, it would interest me."

"You do not look very interested."

"Do I not? Yet I am, I assure you."

"Then you shall see it, or rather this newspaper copy of it which I

happen to have in my pocket-book."

"What, that little slip?"

"It is not very large."

"I thought a will was something ponderous."

"Sometimes it is, but this is short and very much to the point; it was

drawn up in haste."

"Let me take it," said she.

She took it and carried it over to the lamp. Suddenly she turned about

and her face was very white.

"What odd provision is this," she cried, "about the heir being required

to live a year in the house where this woman died?"

"Oh," said he, "that is nothing; any one who inherits this money would

not mind such a condition as that. Mrs. Wakeham wanted the house fitted

up, you see. It had been her birthplace."

Hermione silently handed him back the slip. She looked so agitated that

he was instantly struck by it.

"Why are you affected by this?" he cried. "Hermione, Hermione, this is

something to _you_!"

She roused herself and looked calmly at him, shaking her head.

"You are mistaken," she declared. "It is nothing to me."

"To some one you know, then,--to your sister?"

"How could it be anything to her, if not to me?"

"True; I beg your pardon; but you seem to feel a personal

disappointment."

"You do not understand me very well," said she, and turned towards the

door in welcome of her sister, who just then came in. She was followed

by Doris with a tray on which were heaped masses of black and white

cherries in bountiful profusion.

"From our own trees," said Emma, as she handed him a plate.

He made his acknowledgments, and leaned forward to take the cherries

which Doris offered him.

"Sir," whispered that woman, as she pushed into view a little note which

she held in her hand under the tray, "just read this, and I won't

disobey you again. It's something you ought to know. For the young

ladies' sakes do read it, sir."

He was very angry, and cast her a displeased look, but he took the note.

Hermione was at the other end of the room, and Emma was leaning over her

aunt, so the action was not seen; but he felt guilty of a discourtesy

for all that, and ate his cherries with a disturbed mind. Doris, on the

contrary, looked triumphant, and passed from one to the other with a

very cheerful smile.

When Frank arrived home he read that note. It was from Doris herself,

and ran thus:

"Something has happened to the young ladies. They were to have

had new dresses this month, and now they say they must make the

old ones do. There is less too for dinner than there was, and if

it were not for the fruit on our trees we would not have always

enough to eat. But that is not the worst; Miss Emma says I shall

have to leave them, as they cannot pay me any longer for my

work. As if I would leave them, if I starved! Do, do find out

what this means, for it is too much to believe that they are

going to be poor with all the rest they have to endure."

Find out what it meant! He knew what it meant; they had sacrificed their

case, and now they must go hungry, wear old clothes, and possibly do

their own work. It made him heart-sick; it made him desperate; it made

him wellnigh forget her look when she said: "Our friendship must not

grow into love, _must not_, I say, for both our sakes. It would be

fatal."

He resolved to see Hermione the next morning, and, if possible,

persuade her to listen to reason, and give up a resolve that endangered

both her own and her sister's future comfort.

XIV.

IN THE NIGHT WATCHES.

Meantime in the old house Hermione sat watching Emma as she combed out

her long hair before the tiny mirror in their bedroom. Her face,

relieved now from all effort at self-control, betrayed a deep

discouragement, which deepened its tragic lines and seemed to fill the

room with gloom. Yet she said nothing till Emma had finished her task

and looked around, then she exclaimed:

"Another curse has fallen upon us; we might have been rich, but must

remain poor. Do you think we can bear many more disappointments, Emma?"

"I do not think that I can," murmured Emma, with a pitiful smile. "But

what do you mean by riches? Gaining our case would not have made us

rich."

"No."

"Has--has Mr. Etheridge offered himself? Have you had a chance of _that_

happiness, and refused it?"

Hermione, who had been gazing almost sadly at her sister as she spoke

the foregoing words, flushed, half angrily, half disdainfully, and

answered with sufficient bitterness in her voice:

"Could I accept any man's devotion _now_! Could I accept even _his_ if

it were offered to me? Emma, your memory seems very short, or you have

never realized the position in which I stand."

Emma, who had crimsoned as painfully as her sister at that one

emphasized word, which suggested so much to both sisters, did not answer

for a moment, but when she did her words came with startling

distinctness.

"You do me wrong; I not only have realized, to the core of my heart,

your position and what it demands, but I have shared it, as you know,

and never more than when the question came up as to whether we girls

could marry with such a shadow hanging over us."

"Emma, what do you mean?" asked Hermione, rising and confronting her

sister, with wide open, astonished eyes. For Emma's appearance was

startling, and might well thrill an observer who had never before seen

her gentleness disturbed by a passion as great as she herself might

feel.

But Emma, at the first sight of this reflection of her own emotions in

Hermione's face, calmed her manner, and put a check upon her expression.

"If you do not know," said she, "I had rather not be the one to tell

you. But never say again that I do not realize your position."

"Emma, Emma," pursued Hermione, without a change of tone or any

diminution in the agitation of her manner to show that she had heard

these words, "have _you_ had a lover and I not know it? Did you give up

that _when_----" The elder sister choked; the younger smiled, but with

an infinite sadness.

"I should not have spoken of it," said she; "I would not have done so,

but that I hoped to influence you to look on this affair with different

eyes. I--I believe you ought to embrace this new hope, Hermione. Do but

tell him----"

"_Tell him_! that would be a way to gain him surely."

"I do not think it would cause you to lose him; that is, if you could

assure him that your heart is free to love him as such a man ought to be

loved."

The question in these words made Hermione blush and turn away; but her

emotion was nothing to that of the quieter sister, who, after she had

made this suggestion, stood watching its effect with eyes in which the

pain and despair of a year seemed at once to flash forth to light.

"I honor him," began Hermione, in a low, broken voice, "but you know it

was not honor simply that I felt for----"

"Do not speak his name," flashed out Emma. "He--you--do not care for

each other, or--or--you and I would never be talking as we are doing

here to-night. I am sure you have forgotten him, Hermione, for all your

hesitations and efforts to be faithful. I have seen it in your eyes for

weeks, I have heard it in your voice when you have spoken to this new

friend. Why then deceive yourself; why let a worn-out memory stand in

the way of a new joy, a real joy, an unsullied and wholly promising

happiness?"

"Emma! Emma, what has come to you? You never talked to me like this

before. Is it the memory of this folly only that stands in the way of

what you so astonishingly advocate? Can a woman situated as I am, give

herself up to any hope, any joy?"

"Yes, for the situation will change when you yield yourself once again

to the natural pleasures of life. I do not believe in the attitude you

have taken, Hermione; I have never believed in it, yet I have cheerfully

shared it because, because--you know why; do not let us talk of those

days."

"You do not know all my provocation," quoth Hermione.

"Perhaps not, but nothing can excuse the sacrifice you are making of

your life. Consider, Hermione. Why should you? Have you not duties to

the present, as well as to the past? Should you not think of the long

years that may lie between this hour and a possible old age, years which

might be filled with beneficence and love, but which now----"

"Emma, Emma, what are you saying? Are you so tired of sharing my fate

that you would try to make me traitor to my word, traitor to my

love----"

"Hush," whispered again Emma, "you do not love _him_. Answer me, if you

do. Plunge deep into your heart, and say if you feel as you did once; I

want to hear the words from your lips, but be honest."

"Would it be any credit to me if I did not? Would you think more of me

if I acknowledged the past was a mistake, and that I wrecked my life for

a passion which a year's absence could annul."

But the tender Emma was inexorable, and held her sister by the hands

while she repeated.

"Answer, answer! or I shall take your very refusal for a reply."

But Hermione only drooped her head, and finally drew away her hands.

"You seem to prefer the cause of this new man," she murmured ironically.

"Perhaps you think he will make the better brother-in-law."

The flush on Emma's cheek spread till it dyed her whole neck.

"I think," she observed gravely, "that Mr. Etheridge is the more devoted

to you, Hermione. Dr. Sellick--" what did not that name cost her?--"has

not even looked up at our windows when riding by the house."

Hermione's eye flashed, and she bounded imperiously to her feet.

"And that is why I think that he still remembers. And shall I forget?"

she murmured more softly, "while he cherishes one thought of grief or

chagrin over the past?"

Emma, whose head had fallen on her breast, played idly with her long

hair, and softly drew it across her face.

"If you knew," she murmured, "that he did not cherish one thought such

as you imagine, would you then open your heart to this new love and the

brightness in the world and all the hopes which belong to our time of

life."

"If, if," repeated Hermione, staring at the half-hidden face of her

sister as at some stranger whom she had found persistent and

incomprehensible. "I don't know what you mean by your _ifs_. Do you

think it would add to my content and self-satisfaction to hear that I

had reared this ghastly prison which I inhabit on a foundation of sand,

and that the walls in toppling would crash about my ears and destroy me?

You must have a strange idea of a woman's heart, if you thought it would

make me any readier to face life if I knew I had sacrificed my all to a

chimera."

Emma sighed. "Not if it gave you a new hope," she whispered.

"Ah," murmured Hermione, and her face softened for the first time. "I

dare not think of that," she murmured. "I dare not, Emma; I DARE NOT."

The younger sister, as if answered, threw back her hair and looked at

Hermione quite brightly.

"You will come to dare in time," said she, and fled from the room like a

spirit.

When she was gone, Hermione stood still for many minutes; then she

began quietly to let down her own hair. As the long locks fell curling

and dark about her shoulders, a dreamier and dreamier spirit came upon

her, mellowing the light in her half-closed eyes, and bringing such a

sweet, half-timid, half-longing smile to her lips that she looked the

embodiment of virginal joy. But the mood did not last long, and ere the

thick curls were duly parted and arranged for the night, the tears had

begun to fall, and the sobs to come till she was fain to put out her

light and hide behind the curtains of her bed the grief and remorse

which were pressing upon her.

Meanwhile Emma had stolen to her aunt's room, and was kneeling down

beside her peaceful figure.

"Aunt, dear Aunt," she cried, "tell me what my duty is. Help me to

decide if Hermione should be told the truth which we have so long kept

from her."

She knew the old lady could not hear, but she was in the habit of

speaking to her just as if she could, and often through some subtle

sympathy between them the sense of her words was understood and answered

in a way to surprise her.

And in this case Mrs. Lovell seemed to understand, for she kissed Emma

with great fondness, and then, taking the sweet, troubled, passionate

face between her two palms, looked at her with such love and sympathy

that the tears filled Emma's eyes, for all her efforts at self-control.

"Tell her," came forth at last, in the strange, loud tones of the

perfectly deaf, "and leave the rest to God. You have kept silence, and

the wound has not healed; now try the truth, and may heaven bless you

and the two others whom you desire to make happy."

And Emma, rising up, thanked God that he had left them this one blessing

in their desolation--this true-hearted and tender-souled adviser.

* * * * *

That night, as Hermione was tossing in a restless sleep, she suddenly

became aware of a touch on her shoulder, and, looking up, she saw her

sister standing before her, with a lighted candle in her hand, and her

hair streaming about her.

"What is the matter?" she cried, bounding up in terror, for Emma's face

was livid with its fixed resolve, and wore a look such as Hermione had

never seen there before.

"Nothing," cried the other, "nothing; only I have something to tell

you--something which you should have known a long time ago--something

about which you should never have been deceived. It is this, Hermione.

It was not you Dr. Sellick wished to marry, but myself." And with the

words the light was blown out, and Hermione found herself alone.