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diff --git a/old/69675-0.txt b/old/69675-0.txt deleted file mode 100644 index 98b482d..0000000 --- a/old/69675-0.txt +++ /dev/null @@ -1,15757 +0,0 @@ -The Project Gutenberg eBook of Allworth Abbey, by Emma D. E. N. -Southworth - -This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere in the United States and -most other parts of the world at no cost and with almost no restrictions -whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or re-use it under the terms -of the Project Gutenberg License included with this eBook or online at -www.gutenberg.org. If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: Allworth Abbey - -Author: Emma D. E. N. Southworth - -Release Date: January 1, 2023 [eBook #69675] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Richard Tonsing and the Online Distributed Proofreading - Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was produced from - images made available by the HathiTrust Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK ALLWORTH ABBEY *** - - - - - - ALLWORTH ABBEY. - - - BY - - MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. - - AUTHOR OF “THE FATAL MARRIAGE,” “RETRIBUTION,” “THE DESERTED WIFE,” - “LOST HEIRESS,” “DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “WIFE’S VICTORY,” “VIVIA,” “LADY - OF THE ISLE,” “HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,” - “THREE BEAUTIES,” “CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY,” “LOVE’S - LABOR WON,” “MISSING BRIDE,” “INDIA,” “BRIDAL EVE,” ETC. - - “There is probation to decree, - Many and long must the trials be; - But she’ll victoriously endure, - For her love is true and her faith is sure. - - “Sunrise will come next! - The shadow of the night will pass away! - The glory and the grandeur of each dream - And every prophecy shall be fulfilled.”—_Browning._ - - =Philadelphia:= - T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, - 306 CHESTNUT STREET. - - - - - Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1865, by - T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, - In the Clerk’s Office of the District Court of the United States, in and - for the Eastern - District of Pennsylvania. - - - - - TO - - MRS. FANNIE M^CDONALD MEAD, - - OF NEW YORK, - - THIS WORK IS DEDICATED, - - AS A SLIGHT TESTIMONIAL OF - - THE HIGHEST ESTEEM AND WARMEST AFFECTION - - OF - - THE AUTHOR, - - E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH. - - PROSPECT COTTAGE. - - _November 25th, 1865._ - - - - - CONTENTS. - - - PAGE. - - CHAPTER I. - THE FEARFUL WARNING, 25 - - CHAPTER II. - HORRIBLE SUSPICIONS, 34 - - CHAPTER III. - THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN, 46 - - CHAPTER IV. - THE ACCUSATION, 57 - - CHAPTER V. - THE ARREST, 66 - - CHAPTER VI. - THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE, 81 - - CHAPTER VII. - THE FLIGHT, 90 - - CHAPTER VIII. - ANNELLA, 106 - - CHAPTER IX. - THE CHAMBER OF DEATH, 116 - - CHAPTER X. - THE STUBBORN WITNESS, 130 - - CHAPTER XI. - THE YOUNG RUNAWAY, 141 - - CHAPTER XII. - THE ANCHORAGE, 152 - - CHAPTER XIII. - AN APPARITION, 164 - - CHAPTER XIV. - THE FUGITIVE RETAKEN, 178 - - CHAPTER XV. - IN PRISON, 195 - - CHAPTER XVI. - THE MYSTERIES OF EDENLAWN, 207 - - CHAPTER XVII. - THE STRANGE INTERVIEW, 217 - - CHAPTER XVIII. - FATHER AND DAUGHTER, 230 - - CHAPTER XIX. - “TRUST IN HEAVEN,” 251 - - CHAPTER XX. - THE FEARFUL SECRET, 263 - - CHAPTER XXI. - THE TRIAL, 279 - - CHAPTER XXII. - THE CONVICTION, 291 - - CHAPTER XXIII. - THE CONDEMNED, 301 - - CHAPTER XXIV. - DESPAIR, 313 - - CHAPTER XXV. - THE APPEAL OF DESPAIR, 327 - - CHAPTER XXVI. - THE MYSTERIOUS PLAN OF ESCAPE, 340 - - CHAPTER XXVII. - A YOUNG HEROINE, 349 - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - THE READING OF THE DEATH-WARRANT, 362 - - CHAPTER XXIX. - PREPARATION FOR DEATH, 375 - - CHAPTER XXX. - THE BURNING PRISON, 393 - - CHAPTER XXXI. - ANNELLA’S RETURN, 398 - - CHAPTER XXXII. - THE WRECK AND THE DISCLOSURE, 400 - - CHAPTER XXXIII. - THE DENOUEMENT, 408 - - - - - ALLWORTH ABBEY. - - - - - CHAPTER I. - THE FEARFUL WARNING. - - “She stood once more in the halls of pride, - And the light of her beauty was deified, - And she seemed to the eyes of men a star, - Lovely but lonely—flashing but far. - - “She fixed his gaze with her fearful spell, - And the book from his failing fingers fell; - While her low voice hissed in his shuddering ear, - ‘We’ve met at last, slave! Dost thou fear?’” - - -A few years only have elapsed since the public mind was electrified by -the discovery of a strange tissue of crimes, through which had perished -within the space of twelve months every member of a noble family, and in -which was implicated the honor of one of England’s haughtiest peers and -the life of one of her loveliest daughters, and finally, which added a -recent and thrilling domestic drama to those ancient histories and -ghostly traditions that have long rendered ALLWORTH ABBEY the resort of -the curious, and the terror of the ignorant and the superstitious. - -The principal circumstances were made sufficiently public at the time of -the discovery; some at least of the guilty parties were brought to -justice, and the effigy of the chief criminal may even now be seen in a -certain celebrated “Room of Horrors.” But much also remained enveloped -in mystery, for, underlying the bare facts that were openly proved, -there was a secret history, stranger, more atrocious and more appalling, -even, than those ruthless crimes for which the convicted felons -suffered. - -The knowledge of this secret history came to me in a singular manner; -and with the purpose of showing over what fatal pitfalls the most -innocent feet may sometimes stray, I proceed to relate the story, -entreating my readers to remember, amidst its strangest revelations, -that “nothing is so strange as reality,” and nothing more incredible -than truth:— - -ALLWORTH ABBEY, the scene of these events, is one of the most ancient -monuments of monastic history left standing in the United Kingdom. The -precise date of its foundation is lost in the dimness of far-distant -ages, and remains to this day a disputed point among learned -antiquarians. - -It is a vast and gloomy pile of Gothic architecture, situated at the -bottom of a deep and thickly-wooded glen, surrounded by high hills, that -even at noonday cast a sombre shadow over the whole scene, which is one -of the wildest, loneliest, and most picturesque to be found on the -northwest coast of England. The surrounding country may be called -mountainous, from the imposing height of the hills, and the profound -depth of the vales. - -Nothing can be more secluded, solitary, and sombre than the aspect of -this place. The grim old Abbey, lurking at the bottom of its deep dell, -reflected dimly in its dark lake, overshadowed by its tall trees, and -closely shut in by high hills, is just the object to depress and awe the -beholder, even though he never may have heard the fearful stories -connected with the place. - -Allworth Abbey is rich in historical associations and traditional lore. -Its cloisters have sheltered kings; its walls have withstood sieges; it -possesses its haunted cell, its spectre monk and phantom maiden. - -In the reign of Henry the Church-burner and Wife-killer, Allworth Abbey -was the home of a rich fraternity of Benedictine monks. And at the time -of that tremendous visitation of wrath which overswept the land, when - - “The ire of an infuriate king - Rode forth upon destruction’s wing,” - -Allworth Abbey was besieged and sacked by a party of soldiers under Lord -Leaton, a baron of ancient lineage in the North of England, and of great -merit in the estimation of King Henry Bluebeard. The abbot was slain at -the altar, the brethren were put to the sword, the Abbey was given to -the flames, and the lands conferred by the King upon the conqueror. - -Lord Leaton rebuilt the ruined portions of the Abbey, adapted it as a -family residence, and constituted it the principal seat of his race, in -whose possession it remained from that time until the date of those -strange household mysteries that I am about to disclose. - -The last male representative of the Leatons of Allworth was Henry, Lord -Leaton, whose name has since become so painfully memorable. With an -ancient title, an ample fortune, a handsome person, well-cultivated -mind, and amiable disposition, he married, early in life, a fair woman, -every way worthy of his affections. Their union was blest by one child, -Agatha, “sole daughter of his house,” who, at the opening of this story, -had just attained her eighteenth year. - -It is scarcely possible for a human being to be happier than was Lord -Leaton at this time. In the prime of his manly life, blessed with a fair -wife in the maturity of her matronly beauty, and a lovely daughter, just -budding into womanhood, endowed with an ancient title, an immense -fortune, and a wide popularity, Lord Leaton was the most contented man -in England. - -It was not even a drawback to his happiness that there was no male heir -to his titles and estates, for in Malcolm Montrose, the betrothed of his -daughter, he had found a son after his own heart. - -Malcolm Montrose, and Norham, his younger brother, were the sons of Lord -Leaton’s half sister, who had married a poor but proud Scotch laird. -Their parents were now both dead. From their father they had inherited -little more than an ancient name, a ruined tower, and a blasted heath. -It was therefore only by the assistance of Lord Leaton, that Malcolm was -enabled to enter the University of Oxford, and Norham to obtain a -commission in the army. - -It was the high character of Malcolm Montrose that commended him so -favorably to the esteem of Lord Leaton, and induced his lordship to -promote the betrothal between that young gentleman and the young heiress -of Allworth; for be it known that the engagement was rather of Lord -Leaton’s making than of the young pair’s seeking. - -They loved each other as brother and sister, nor dreamed of the -possibility of a stronger affection. They had naturally and easily -glided into the views of Lord and Lady Leaton, and had at length -plighted their hands, in perfect good faith, if not with the passionate -love of which neither young heart had as yet any experience. One of the -conditions of the betrothal was, that upon his marriage with the -heiress, Malcolm Montrose should assume the name and arms of Leaton. It -was also hoped that, in the event of the death of Lord Leaton, his -son-in-law might obtain the reversion of the title. - -It was soon after this solemn betrothal, that took place in the spring -of 185–, that Malcolm Montrose took leave of his friends, and left -England for an extended tour of the Continent. - -Up to this time the life of Lord Leaton and his family had been one of -unbroken sunshine. From this time the clouds began to darken around -them. - -On the day succeeding the departure of Malcolm, Lord Leaton received a -letter from India, informing him of the death of his younger brother, -who had left England many years previous to seek his fortune under the -burning sun of Hindostan. The large fortune he had apparently found was -the love of a beautiful native girl, whom he had secretly married, and -who, in ten months after, in the same hour, made him a widower and the -father of a female infant—the little Eudora, who, under her father’s -care, had managed to grow up even in that deadly climate. But now that -father had fallen a victim to the fatal fever of the country, and his -daughter Eudora was left destitute. - -Lord Leaton had been too long separated from his brother to feel keenly -his death; his fraternal affection took a more practical turn than -grief; he lost no time in procuring a proper messenger to send out to -India for the purpose of bringing back his niece, who, as the only child -of his sole brother, was, after Agatha, the heiress-presumptive of his -estates. - -As soon as Lord Leaton had despatched his messenger, he set out with his -family to visit Paris. They took the first floor of a handsome house in -a fashionable quarter of the city; but the circumstance of their being -in mourning for Lord Leaton’s brother caused them to live in great -retirement. - -This was about the time that the concerted revolution in the Papal -States had been discovered and suppressed, and when some of the noblest -Romans had fallen on the scaffold, and others had been driven into -exile. Among those whose fate excited the liveliest sympathy were the -Prince and Princess Pezzilini. The prince fell gloriously in the cause -of civil and religious liberty, and the princess was said to have -perished in the flames when the Palace Pezzilini was burned by the mob. -This was the common talk of Paris when Lord Leaton and his family -arrived there. - -It was within a few days after their settlement in their apartments, -that the attention of Lord and Lady Leaton was attracted by a lady who -frequently passed them on the grand staircase. She was a tall, -fine-formed, fair woman, of great beauty, clothed in mourning, and -wearing the aspect of the profoundest sorrow. No one could have seen her -without becoming interested—no one could have passed her without a -backward glance. She was sometimes attended by a stout, -dark-complexioned, middle-aged man, whose manner towards her seemed half -way between that of a good uncle and a faithful and trusted domestic. - -The feminine curiosity of Lady Leaton had been so much excited by this -mysterious lady and her strange attendant, that she had at length -inquired about her of the old portress of the house. And it was from -that garrulous personage Lady Leaton learned to her astonishment that -the beautiful stranger was no other than the Princess Pezzilini, who had -_not_ perished in the burning Palace of Pezzilini, but who had made her -escape with the assistance of a faithful servant, Antonio Mario, who, -for her better security, had circulated the report of her death, while -he bore her off to France. She was now living on the fourth floor of -that house, in great poverty and seclusion, attended only by her -faithful servant, Antonio Mario. - -So much Lady Leaton learned from the portress; but she lost no time in -delicately seeking the acquaintance of the beautiful and unfortunate -exile. - -She found the Princess Pezzilini very accessible to respectful sympathy. -She learned from her some further particulars of her history—among other -matters, that she had succeeded in securing from the burning palace a -box of valuable family documents and a casket of costly family jewels. -As, however, these jewels were heirlooms, she was unwilling to part with -the least one of them until extreme want should actually compel her to -do so; hence with almost boundless wealth at her command, she chose to -live in poverty and privation. This was her story. - -The lively imagination of Lady Leaton was affected by her beauty, -sensibility and accomplishments. The good and benevolent heart of Lord -Leaton was touched by her misfortunes, her courage, and her resignation. -And the end of it was that they invited her to return with them to -England, and make Allworth Abbey her home until the clouds that lowered -over her House should be dispersed, and the sun should shine forth -again. - -They spent the autumn in Paris, and returned to Allworth Abbey just in -time to prepare for Christmas. - -And it was on Christmas-eve that the messenger to India returned, -bringing with him Eudora Leaton. It was evening, and the family circle -of Allworth Abbey, consisting of Lord and Lady Leaton, Miss Leaton, and -the Princess Pezzilini, were assembled in the drawing-room, when Eudora -was announced. - -She entered, and her extreme beauty at once impressed the whole company. - -It was a beauty that owed nothing to external circumstances, for she had -arrived weary, sorrowful, and travel-stained; yet it was a beauty that -sank at once into the very soul of the beholder, filling him with a -strange delight. She was of medium height, and slender yet well-rounded -form. Her graceful little head was covered with shining, jet-black -ringlets, that fell around a face lovely as ever haunted the dream of -poet or painter. Her features were regular; her complexion was a pure, -clear olive, deepening into a rich bloom upon the oval cheeks, and a -richer still upon the small full lips; her eyebrows were perfect arches -of jet, tapering off to the finest points at the extremities; her eyes -were large, dark and liquid, and fringed by the longest and thickest -black lashes; her nose was small and straight; her mouth and chin -faultlessly carved; her throat, neck and bust were rounded in the -perfect contour of beauty; the whole outline of her form was ineffably -beautiful. A poet would have said that her most ordinary motions might -have been set to music, but to no music more melodious than the tones of -her voice. - -Such was the beautiful young Asiatic that stood trembling before her -strange English relatives in the drawing-room of Allworth Abbey on -Christmas-eve. - -Lord Leaton was the first to arise and greet her. - -“Welcome to England, my dearest Eudora,” he said, embracing her fondly; -“think that you have come to your own home, and to your own father and -mother, for after our daughter Agatha we shall love you best of all the -world, as after her, you know, you are the next heiress of our name and -estates.” - -“Dear uncle, give me but a place in your heart next to my cousin Agatha, -and—let the rest go,” said Eudora, in a voice vibrating with emotion. - -Lord Leaton then formally presented his niece to her aunt and cousin, -and to the Princess Pezzilini, all of whom received the beautiful young -stranger with the utmost kindness and courtesy. - -Agatha, in particular, seemed delighted with the acquisition of a -congenial companion in her charming Indian cousin. - -The evening passed delightfully; but for the sake of the weary -traveller, the family party supped and separated at an unusually early -hour. - -It was soon after Lady Leaton had retired to her dressing-room that she -heard a light tap at her door, and to her surprised exclamation of “Come -in,” entered the Princess Pezzilini. - -“You will pardon me for intruding upon you at this hour, but you know -what great reason I have to be devoted to your service, Lady Leaton, and -you know the force of my faith in presentiments. It is a presentiment -that forces me to your presence to-night,” said the princess in a -mournful voice. - -“Madame, I thank you earnestly for the interest you deign to take in my -welfare; but—I do not understand you,” said Lady Leaton, in surprise. - -“And I do not understand myself; but I must speak, for the power of -prophecy is upon me! Lady Leaton, _beware of that Asiatic girl_!” - -“Madame!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, in extreme surprise. - -“Yes, I know what you would say: she is your niece, the daughter of your -husband’s brother. But I tell you that she is of the treacherous, cruel, -and deadly Indian blood! I have watched her thoughts through this -evening. I noted her look when Lord Leaton told her that she was the -next heiress after Agatha. And I tell you that the gaze of the deadly -cobra-di-capella of her native jungles is not more fatal than the glance -of that Indian girl!” - -“Madame, in the name of Heaven, what mean you?” exclaimed Lady Leaton, -in vague alarm. - -The voice of the princess sank to its deepest tones, as she answered: - -“The deadly upas-tree of the Indies suffers nothing to live in its dread -neighborhood. If you could transplant such a tree from an Indian plain -to a fair English park, as it should grow and thrive, all beautiful life -would wither under its poisonous breath, until nothing should remain but -a blasted desert, and the deadly upas-tree should be all in all! Lady -Leaton, beware of the young Indian sapling transplanted to your fair -English park!” - -“Madame, you frighten me!” exclaimed Lady Leaton. - -“No; I only mean to warn you! I spoke from an irresistible impulse. And -having spoken, I have no more to say but to bid you good-night,” said -the Italian, lifting the hand of Lady Leaton to her lips, and then -withdrawing, and leaving her ladyship plunged in deep thought. - - - - - CHAPTER II. - HORRIBLE SUSPICIONS. - - The raven himself is hoarse - That croaks the fatal entrance of Duncan - Under my battlements.—_Shakspeare._ - - -The beautiful Asiatic girl soon won her way into every heart in the -household. No one could meet the soft, appealing gaze of her large, -dark, Oriental eyes, or hear the plaintive tones of her low, deep, sweet -voice, without feeling powerfully drawn towards her. No one could be -with her long without seeing that the angel form was tenanted by an -angel spirit, too. - -Eudora became the darling of the household. And yet, from all events -that quickly followed, it would seem that the previsions of the Princess -Pezzilini had been true. - -First of all the father of the family, Lord Leaton, a man in the early -prime of life and the full enjoyment of the finest health, sickened with -a strange disease that baffled all the skill and science of his medical -attendants. The most competent nurses were engaged to take their turns -day and night at his bedside. - -The ladies of the family also vied with each other in their attentions -to the invalid. But it was observed that in his moments of greatest -suffering, he would bear no one to approach him except his niece Eudora. - -This might be explained by the circumstances that Eudora’s presence was -very soothing, her step was noiseless, her motions smooth, her touch -soft, her voice low, and her gaze gentle; and all this had a very -calming and subduing effect upon the irritable invalid. And thus Eudora -became almost a fixture beside his couch. And all who loved Lord Leaton -were grateful to the gentle girl, who patiently resigned her daily -recreations and her nightly repose to devote herself to him. - -All except the Princess Pezzilini, who was observed to shake her head -and murmur to herself— - -“The fascination of the cobra-di-capella!” - -But no one paid attention to the murmured remarks of the lady, -especially as even she herself did not escape the charms of Eudora’s -presence, but frequently fell under the sweet spell that bound all -hearts to the beautiful girl. - -At length, one night, Eudora, worn out with fatigue, was ordered to go -to her bed. She mixed the sleeping-draught for her uncle, put it in the -hands of her aunt, and retired to her room. Lady Leaton was left alone -to watch by the bedside of her husband. - -She sat the sleeping potion down upon a stand near the head of the bed, -until Lord Leaton should awake from the light doze into which he had -fallen, and she went out to her dressing-room to change her dress for a -warmer wrapper, in which to sit up and watch the invalid. - -It was while she stood before the looking-glass which was opposite the -door and reflected a portion of the adjoining room, that Lady Leaton saw -the shadow of a female figure glide along the wall, and at the same -moment heard the rustle of a silk dress. - -She immediately turned and entered the chamber, but found no one there. -Lord Leaton had just awakened and turned over. - -“Has any one been here?” inquired her ladyship. - -“No one at all,” he answered. - -“It was fancy, then,” muttered the lady to herself, as she gave the -sleeping-draught to her husband. - -He drank it to the dregs; yet it did not seem to produce the usual -effects. The patient could not get to sleep; on the contrary, he grew -more and more restless, and soon became violently ill. - -Lady Leaton, in alarm, aroused the servants, and despatched a messenger -to Poolville, the adjoining village, for their medical attendant, who -immediately hastened to the bedside of his patient. But the utmost skill -of the physician was unavailing, for, before morning, Lord Leaton -expired. - -It was then that the medical attendant felt it his duty to declare to -the grieving widow that her husband had died from the effects of a -virulent poison, and to demand an investigation by the coroner’s jury. - -This would have been a terrible blow to Lady Leaton could she have been -made to receive it. But she indignantly repudiated the idea. - -What, _he_ poisoned?—_he_, Lord Leaton, who was so kind-hearted that he -would not have crushed a worm in his path, or killed a wasp that stung -him?—_he_, who was so universally beloved and honored that he had not -one enemy in the wide world?—_he_, in whose premature death no one could -have a benefit, but in whose beneficent life thousands possessed the -deepest interest?—_he_ taken off by foul means? The idea was too -preposterous as well as too dreadful to believe. - -No; the horror of such a suspicion was not added to the unspeakable -sorrow of the widow. - -But, as the doctor was firm in his purpose of having a _post-mortem_ -examination and a coroner’s inquest, of course both had to be held. -Nothing decisive, however, was elicited. No trace of poison was found -either in the body of the deceased or in the glasses from which he had -drank, or anywhere else. - -The single suspicious circumstance of Lady Leaton’s seeing the shadow of -a female on the wall, and hearing the rustle of a silk dress in her -husband’s chamber, was disproved by a separate examination of each -member of the household, in which it was clearly shown that every one -was at that hour in bed. And Lady Leaton herself admitted that her -imagination might have deceived her. The verdict of the coroner’s -inquest, therefore, was that the deceased died from natural causes. - -Lord Leaton had died too suddenly to have made a will, but his wishes -were so well understood by Lady Leaton, that she lost no time in -carrying them into effect. She wrote to Rome to Malcolm Montrose, -informing him of the sudden death of his uncle, and requesting him to -come immediately to England. She wrote, also, to Norham Montrose, who -was absent with his regiment in Ireland, giving him the same fatal -intelligence, and inviting him to join his brother at Allworth Abbey by -a certain day. - -Malcolm, though the farthest from the scene of action, was the first to -obey the summons. He hastened to England, and, without resting a single -night on his journey, hurried to Allworth Abbey. - -It was near the close of a stormy day in March that he got out of the -stage-coach at Abbeytown, and leaving his luggage to the care of the -landlord of the “Leaton Arms,” set out to walk the short distance to the -Abbey. He reached the top of the eastern range of hills that surrounded -the Abbey just as the sun, setting behind the western hills, cast the -whole dell into deep shadow. - -Never had the aspect of that sombre place seemed so gloomy and -depressing. The huge collection of buildings comprising the Abbey -lurking at the bottom of the deep dell, reflected dimly in its dark -lake, overshadowed by its gigantic old trees, enclosed by its lofty -hills, and cast into the deepest shade by the sinking of the sun behind -those hills, was well calculated to awe the traveller, even though he -might not have—as Malcolm had—a personal and tragic interest in the -scene. - -A few moments he spent in contemplating the picture, and then rapidly -descended the precipitous path leading down to the bottom of the dell. -At the foot of the precipice was the gamekeeper’s lodge and the -principal park gate. He passed this, and took the straightest line to -the Abbey. - -He passed one more gate and entered the grounds, immediately around the -house. A short walk brought him to the outer banks of the shaded lake. -An avenue of elms swept right and left around this lake and led up to -the centre front entrance to the Abbey. He took the right-hand walk, and -proceeding at a rapid pace, soon found himself before the main entrance. - -Here the first object that arrested his attention was the funeral -hatchment suspended over the doorway. A sigh was given to the memory of -his uncle, and then he went up the broad stairs, and knocked at the -great folding oak door of the main entrance. It was opened by the aged -porter, who welcomed him respectfully, and ushered him at once into the -library, while he went to announce the arrival to the widowed Lady -Leaton. - -While waiting the entrance of his hostess, Malcolm Montrose strolled to -the front window and looked out upon the scene—the dark lake immediately -under the walls of the Abbey, rendered darker still by the overhanging -branches of its encircling trees, and the lofty sides of its surrounding -hills, behind which the full moon was now rising. - -While Malcolm gazed moodily upon the scene, his attention was attracted -by a female form, clothed in black and gliding like a spirit among the -trees, that bordered the still lake. He could not at first see her face, -but the ineffable grace of her movements fascinated his eyes to follow -her every motion. At length she turned, and he caught an instant’s -glimpse of a dark face, which, even in that uncertain light, he fancied -to be as beautiful as that of the fable houri. The beauty disappeared in -the thicker foliage of the evergreens, and Malcolm Montrose turned to -greet his aunt, who now entered. - -Lady Leaton was a woman of commonplace, agreeable personality, -middle-aged, large, fat and fair in body, conscientious, discreet, and -affectionate in mind. She entered the room now, with her portly form -dressed in widow’s weeds, and her fair, round face encircled by a -widow’s cap. Her eyes were suffused with tears, and her voice was broken -with grief, as she advanced, held out her hand, and welcomed Malcolm -Montrose to Allworth Abbey. - -A short and agitated conversation sufficed to put Malcolm in possession -of the facts with which the reader is already acquainted; and of the -result of this interview it is only necessary to say that Malcolm -Montrose entirely coincided in opinion with Lady Leaton and with the -verdict of the coroner’s jury, in supposing that the late Lord Leaton -had died of some obscure disease, and not, as the doctor had believed, -of poison. It was a great relief to Lady Leaton to find that one so -clear-headed and true-hearted as Malcolm Montrose took the same views of -the case with herself. - -At the close of the interview she rang for a servant to show him to his -room, where he might change his dress for dinner. - -The chamber to which he was shown was situated immediately over the -library, and its front bay window overlooked the same scene. -Involuntarily Malcolm sauntered to the window and looked forth upon the -night. The moon was now so high in the heavens that its face was -reflected even in the shrouded mirror of the dark lake. As he looked -forth he saw the same beautiful female figure emerge from the thicket -and disappear in the direction of the house. She had evidently entered -the building. - -Malcolm turned away as though there was no longer any attraction in the -moonlight on the shrouded lake, and turned to give his attention to old -John, the valet of the late Lord Leaton, who stood ready to assist the -young man in making his toilet. - -When Malcolm Montrose had refreshed himself with a wash and a change of -dress, and stood ready to descend to the drawing-room, he presented in -himself one of the noblest specimens of manly beauty. - -He was at this time about twenty-five years of age, tall and finely -proportioned, broad-shouldered, deep-chested and strong-limbed. His head -was stately, well poised, and covered with rich, dark, auburn hair that -waved around a high, broad, white, forehead. His features were of the -noblest Roman cast; his complexion was fair and ruddy, and his eyes of a -clear, deep blue. His presence was imposing as that of one born to -command; his manners were at once gracious and dignified, and his -conversational powers brilliant and profound. He was one of those -masterpieces of creation, one of those magnetic men who attract and -control without any effort. - -When Malcolm Montrose entered the crimson drawing-room he found it -already brilliantly lighted up for the evening, and amid its glitter of -light and glow of color three fair women were revealed. The first, who -was his aunt, Lady Leaton, arose and led him up to the other two, who -immediately riveted his attention. - -Reclining languidly in an easy-chair sat a fair girl, with a delicate -complexion, dark-grey eyes, and light brown hair confined in a net of -black silk. - -Standing on her right hand, and bending affectionately over her, was a -large, tall, finely-formed, fair-haired woman, whose ample dress of -black velvet fell around her majestic figure like the robes of a queen -or the drapery of a goddess. - -“Madame, permit me to present to you my nephew, Mr. Montrose, of -Dun-Ellen; the Princess Pezzilini, Mr. Montrose,” said Lady Leaton, -respectfully presenting Malcolm to the stranger. - -Malcolm bowed deeply and reverently, and expressed himself honored in -making the acquaintance of the widow of the heroic Prince Pezzilini. - -The lady, on her part, raised her stately head, smiled sweetly, curtsied -silently, and immediately resumed her attention to the young girl in the -chair. But in that single glimpse of her full face, Malcolm saw that she -was of that rarest and strangest type of Italian beauty, a perfect -blonde—fair, as though she had been born under the cool, damp fogs of -England, instead of the burning sun of Italy; and, indeed, if the land -of her birth had given her any of its fire, it was only to be seen in -the warm and glowing smile that occasionally lighted up her face and -beamed from her clear blue eyes. - -Malcolm took in all these impressions during the few moments that were -occupied in his presentation, and then he turned to greet the young lady -in the easy-chair—his cousin Agatha. - -He saluted her gravely and affectionately, as befitted the serious -occasion of their meeting, and then, observing for the first time the -extreme delicacy of her face and form, and the languor of her attitude -and manner, Malcolm looked uneasy, and expressed a fear that she had -been indisposed. - -“No, she is not indisposed; that is, not seriously so; but she has not -seemed quite well or strong since—since our great bereavement,” answered -Lady Leaton, concluding the sentence in a faltering voice. - -“Not well; no, indeed!” thought Malcolm, as he gazed with concern upon -the fair, wan, spiritual face and fragile form of her whom he had left -but a few months before the very picture of perfect health. “Not well, -yet not seriously indisposed!” Was it possible that this great change -could have come over Agatha so gradually that its effects should have -escaped the eyes of even her own affectionate mother? Such must have -been the case, was the thought of Malcolm, as he held the thin and -wasted hand of the young girl in his own, and resolved that upon the -next day he would certainly call the attention of Lady Leaton to the -fearful change that, though it might have escaped the notice of those in -daily communion with the invalid, while their attention had been -absorbed by matters of such transcendent importance as the illness and -death of Lord Leaton, yet was, withal, so marked and so alarming as to -have shocked him who had left her six months before in full and blooming -health. - -While these thoughts engaged the mind of Malcolm, a soft footstep -approached, and Lady Leaton spoke, saying— - -“My niece, Eudora, Mr. Malcolm.” - -Malcolm raised his eyes carelessly. - -Yes, there she stood! the beautiful girl whose graceful form he had -followed with a delighted gaze as she glided among the trees upon the -banks of the dark lake. There she stood, in the perfect loveliness of -her Oriental charms, one of Mohammed’s fabled houris descended upon the -earth. There she stood—her elegant little figure drawn up to its full -height, her graceful head slightly bent upon her bosom, her jet-black -ringlets falling around her rich, warm, olive face, with its slender, -arched eyebrows, its large, dark, burning eyes, and its crimson cheeks -and lips. - -Only to look upon such beauty was a keen though dangerous delight. So -Malcolm Montrose felt, as he took her hand, raised his eyes to hers, and -met the quick and quickly-withdrawn flashing glance of those great, -black, burning stars, so full of half-suppressed fire, so replete with -thrilling, mysterious meaning. - -“I am very happy to meet you, my dear cousin,” he said, earnestly, as he -pressed and released her hand. - -With the long lashes dropped lower over her dark eyes, and her rich -bloom heightened, she curtsied slightly, and accepted the chair that he -set for her. - -Malcolm placed himself beside Agatha, and glided gradually into -conversation with herself and the princess; but his eyes involuntarily -wandered off to the beautiful Asiatic girl, and every furtive glance -thrilled him with a deeper and a stranger delight. - -Dinner was announced, and Malcolm gave his arm to the Princess Pezzilini -to conduct her to the dining-room. At dinner he sat next to the -princess, who was herself a woman of brilliant conversational powers; -but while conversing with her his thoughts continually wandered to the -lovely, dark-eyed girl on the opposite side of the table. - -When dinner was over, and they returned to the drawing-room, the evening -was spent in earnest conversation, until at length, when it was quite -late, Lady Leaton observed that Agatha seemed fatigued, and rang for her -maid to attend her to her chamber. Malcolm led Agatha to the door, where -he bade her good-night, and soon after the circle broke up for the -evening. - -On taking leave of Eudora, Malcolm again touched her hand, and met her -eyes with a thrill of delight as strange as it was incomprehensible. - -When Malcolm reached his chamber, he at once dismissed the old valet, -locked his door, and commenced pacing thoughtfully up and down the room. -He had enough of exciting subjects occupying his mind to keep him from -rest. The presence of the magnificent Pezzilini in the house; the death -of his uncle; the failing health of his fair young cousin; but through -all these disturbing subjects glided one image of ineffable -loveliness—Eudora, the beautiful Asiatic girl; and this haunting image -was so delightful to contemplate, that as often as it glided before his -imagination, he paused to dwell enchanted upon it. He would not listen -to the still small voice that warned him this was a dangerous vision; he -meant no wrong to Agatha, his betrothed bride, to whom his hand was -pledged, to whom he thought his heart was given, and he knew nothing of -the insidious approaches of that master-passion which steals first -through the eyes, then through the imagination, until it effects an -immovable lodgment in the heart. The field of his imagination was -already occupied; would the citadel of his heart be occupied? Who could -tell? - -It was after midnight when he retired to rest, resolving to be faithful -to his affianced bride, and sank to sleep, dreaming of the beautiful -Eastern houri. - -Eudora occupied a small, plainly-furnished room adjoining her cousin -Agatha’s spacious and sumptuous chamber, and, since Agatha had been -ailing, it was a part of Eudora’s duty, whenever the invalid was -restless at night, to sit by her bedside and read her to sleep. But on -reaching her little room this evening, Eudora found the door -communicating with her cousin’s chamber closed and locked on the other -side. - -“She wishes to be alone to-night,” said the gentle girl to herself, as -she drew a low chair and sat down before the little coal fire to fall -into one of those reveries to which her poetical temperament inclined -her. She thought of the magnificent new relative to whom she had been -presented that evening, for magnificent, indeed, to her he seemed in his -noble, manly beauty and grace. She dwelt upon his image with a strange -feeling of satisfaction and content, as upon some good long wanting in -her life, and now found and appropriated. She felt again the earnest -pressure of his hand in clasping hers; she saw again his eagle eyes melt -into tenderness as they met her own; she heard again the earnest tones -of his voice in greeting her. No one had ever before clasped her hand, -or looked in her eyes, or spoken to her heart as he did. Every one was -kind to the orphan; indeed it would have been impossible for any one to -have been otherwise to so gentle a creature, but it was with a -superficial kindness that did not seem to recognize her deeper need of -sympathy. No one had seemed to remember that the stranger girl had under -her black bodice a sensitive heart, to be wounded by neglect or -delighted by affection—no one but him; and he, too, so handsome, so -accomplished, and so distinguished, that he might have been excused for -slighting her. At least, so thought Eudora. - -“But the gods are ever compassionate, and he is like a god,” said the -hero-worshipping young heart to itself. It was so sweet to recall and -live over again that meeting in which he had been so earnestly kind. - -“He will understand and love me, I feel that he will!” she murmured to -herself, with a delighted smile. But the words had no sooner been -breathed from her lips than she understood their full import. It stood -revealed to her conscience as by a flash of spiritual light, that her -imagination was occupied by a forbidden and perilous vision. And yet it -was so sweet to entertain this alluring vision, and so bitter to banish -it away. - -She dropped her head upon her breast, and her clasped hands upon her -lap, and sat, as it were, with her dark eyes gazing into vacancy after -her receding dream. - -Some time she sat thus, and then murmured— - -“I am lonely and desolate indeed. None love me truly and deeply, as I -need to be loved, as I long to love. They give me food and clothing and -kind words, and with these I ought to be content, but I am not! I am -not! My heart is starving for a deeper sympathy and a closer friendship, -and I long for that as the famishing beggar longs for bread, but I must -not hope to satisfy this hunger of the heart upon forbidden fruit, and a -sure instinct warns me that even the kindred affection of my cousin is -forbidden fruit to me. I will think no more of him.” And with this wise -resolution Eudora offered up her evening prayers and retired to rest. -But in the world of sleep the forbidden vision followed her, and her -cousin Malcolm was ever by her side with looks of sympathy and words of -love. - - - - - CHAPTER III. - THE BRIDE OF HEAVEN. - - I will not think of him—I’ll pace - This old ancestral hall, - And dream of that illustrious race - Whose pictures line the wall. - And from their dark and haughty eyes, - Though faded now and dim, - A better spirit shall arise, - I will not think of him.—_Mrs. Warfield._ - - -Flight! In that one short syllable lies the only safety from a forbidden -passion, and where flight is impossible, passion becomes destiny. - -Malcolm Montrose had come to Allworth Abbey with the full understanding -that he was to remain with the bereaved ones for three months, and at -the end of that time quietly consummate his betrothal to the heiress by -a marriage that, in consideration of the recent decease of the head of -the family, was to be celebrated without pomp. Such had been the dying -instructions of Lord Leaton to his wife, and such she had conveyed in -her letter to Malcolm. To fly from his forbidden love would be to fly -also from his betrothed bride. He remained, therefore, happy in the -absolute obligation that compelled him to remain. Eudora had no other -refuge in the world whither to fly. Flight, therefore, to her also was -impossible. - -And perhaps by both it was unthought of. Circumstances bound them -together, and so passion became destiny. Both struggled perseveringly -with the growing madness. They instinctively avoided each other as much -as it was possible to do so. But in every casual touch of their hands, -every meeting glance of their eyes, and every intonation of their -voices, was transmitted the subtle fuel of that secret fire that was -smoldering in each bosom. They never remained for a moment alone -together; they never voluntarily addressed one word to each other; and -yet, when they did meet, or were forced to speak, the blushing cheek of -the girl, the faltering tone of the man, the averted looks of both, -betrayed to themselves, if not to others, the hidden love that was -burning in their breasts. - -Every motive of honor, gratitude and humanity constrained them to -conquer their passion, and not the least of these was their mutual -sorrow in the declining health of Agatha. - -Agatha was dying—though no one yet dared to say it, every one knew it. -The fair girl herself felt it, and instead of preparing for her bridal, -that was arranged to be celebrated on the first of May, she withdrew her -thoughts more and more from the things of this world, and fixed them -upon Heaven. Always of a thoughtful and serious turn of mind, she became -now almost saintly in her self-renunciation, her patience, and her -resignation. - -Often as she sat reclining in her easy-chair, watching the mutual -embarrassment of Malcolm and Eudora, and seeing, with the clear vision -of the dying, the hidden struggles of their hearts, a sweet smile would -break over her fair, wan, spiritual face, and she would murmur to -herself— - -“They are striving bravely to do right—they will not have to strive -long; a few more short weeks, and their reward will be certain; their -love will be innocent, and their happiness complete. And shall I, who am -going hence, envy them their love and joy? Oh, no! oh no! for well I -know that whither I go there is a fulness of joy and love that mortal -imaginations have never conceived.” - -The fair girl faded fast away. Day by day her thin form wasted thinner, -her pale cheeks grew paler, and her hollow eyes hollower, while the -saintly spirit within burned with a more seraphic brightness. The -symptoms of her malady were the same as those that had carried off her -father. The utmost skill and science of the medical faculty were taxed -in vain; they could neither define the nature of her wasting illness, -nor find a cure for it. The fair girl failed rapidly. Her easy-chair in -the drawing-room was soon resigned for the sofa in her own -dressing-room, from which she never stirred during the day. And about -the first of May, when she was to have been united to Malcolm Montrose, -the sofa was finally resigned for her bed, from which she never more -arose. - -Malcolm and Eudora reproached themselves bitterly for their -unconquerable love, because it seemed to wrong Agatha. They vied with -each other in the most affectionate attention to the invalid; and often -as they stood each side her couch, ministering to her wants, she longed -to make them happy by releasing Malcolm from his engagement to herself, -and placing the hand of Eudora in his own; but instinctive delicacy -withheld her from intermeddling with the love affairs of others. - -Lady Leaton, heart-broken by the loss of her husband, and the -approaching death of her daughter, observed the growing and -ill-concealed attachment between Malcolm and Eudora with all a mother’s -bitter jealousy. And struggled against as that attachment evidently was, -she nevertheless resented it as a grievous wrong to her dying child. - -Agatha, with the clairvoyance of a departing spirit, saw into the hearts -of all around her, and judged them in justice and mercy. One day while -her afflicted mother watched alone beside her bed, she said to her— - -“Mamma, dear, I wish to speak with you about Malcolm and Eudora. I know -that you are displeased with them, mamma; but it is without just cause. -They love each other; they struggle against that love, but they cannot -conquer it. It is because they were created for each other. Their -marriage is already made in heaven. My marriage with Malcolm, mamma, was -designed only on earth as a matter of policy and convenience. Malcolm -and I loved each other only as brother and sister; we never could have -loved in any other way even if I had lived to become his wife. But he -and Eudora love one other as two who are destined for time and eternity -to blend into one. Forgive them, mamma; forgive and be kind to them for -my sake.” - -“But you, Agatha!—my child!—I can think only of you!” sobbed the lady. - -“Dear mamma, I know that all your ambition has been for your Agatha’s -good, and happiness, and advancement. But consider, if your wildest -dreams for your child had been fulfilled, and even more than that, if -you could have made her a king’s bride, placed upon her brow a queen’s -crown, gathered around her all the wealth, splendor, and glory of this -world—could you have rendered her as happy, as blessed, and as exalted -as she is now by the free mercy of God—now, when she is departing for -that land the joys of which ‘eye hath not seen, ear heard, or -imagination conceived,’ and where she shall wait for you in perfect -bliss and perfect safety till you come? Mamma, your daughter is the -bride of Heaven, and that is better than being the wife of the noblest -man or the greatest monarch on this earth.” - -The countenance of the young saint was glorious in its holy enthusiasm, -and the human jealousy of her mother was dispelled before its heavenly -light. - -“You are better than I am; my child, my child, you are better than I am; -you are a saint prepared for heaven!” exclaimed Lady Leaton, fervently. - -“Mamma, grant Agatha one petition. She wants to see them happy before -she goes. They are so conscientious and so wretched, mamma; they are -afraid to speak to each other, or to look at each other, lest they -should wound or wrong me. It makes me miserable to see them so because I -love them both, mamma, and I know that they love me, and for my sake -they struggle bravely with their passion for each other. Let me speak to -Malcolm, mamma; let me tell him that I loved him only as a dear brother; -let me release him from his engagement to me, and let me place Eudora’s -hand in his with a sister’s frank and warm affection. Then, mamma, when -the embargo is taken off their love; when they are free to look at each -other and speak to each other as betrothed lovers may, then I shall be -happy in their happiness—happier still to know that I have promoted -it—happiest of all to feel how they both will love me for it. Dear -mamma, let Agatha do this little good and have this little delight -before she departs.” - -“My angel child, you shall do in all things as you please. You speak and -act from Heaven’s own inspiration, and it were sacrilege to hinder you,” -exclaimed Lady Leaton, in deep emotion. - -“Thank you, dear mamma, I shall be happy,” said Agatha, with a heavenly -smile. - -“And the deadly upas-tree shall be all in all,” said a low voice at the -side of Lady Leaton. - -She started, and turned to see the Princess Pezzilini standing there. - -“Madame!” she said, in some uneasiness. - -“Nay, I did but quote a line from a fable that I read you some three -months ago,” said the princess, quietly seating herself beside the bed. - -Agatha had been too deeply absorbed in her own benevolent plans to -notice what was passing. - -That evening, when all was quiet in the house, and the stillness of a -deeper repose pervaded her own luxurious chamber—Agatha dismissed all -her attendants, and sent for Lady Leaton, Malcolm, and Eudora to attend -her. They came immediately. The chamber was illumed with a soft, -moonlight sort of radiance from the shaded beams of an alabaster lamp -that stood upon the mantelshelf opposite the foot of the bed. - -The bed curtains were drawn away, revealing the fair face and fragile -form of the dying girl as she reclined upon her bed propped up with -pillows. She smiled on her relatives as they entered, and beckoned them -to draw very near. - -They came, and stood at the side of her bed—accidentally arranged as -follows: Eudora nearest the head of the bed, Lady Leaton next, and -Malcolm last. - -She put out her wasted hand, took the hand of Eudora, and held it -quietly within her own, while she seemed to collect her thoughts for -utterance. Then, still holding Eudora’s hand she raised her dove-like -eyes to Malcolm’s face, and whispered— - -“Dearest Malcolm! dearest brother of my heart! you will let the dying -speak out freely, I know.” - -“Speak, sweet Agatha, speak your will,” murmured the young man, in a -voice vibrating with emotion. - -“I was your betrothed bride, Malcolm; but our betrothal was a human -error, dearest; and the will of Heaven has interposed to break it. I am -called hence, Malcolm, to another sphere. Not your bride, but the bride -of Heaven shall I be. But before I go hence, Malcolm, I would prove to -you how true is the sister’s love I bear you, and the kindred affection -I feel for Eudora. I would prove these by two legacies by which I would -have you remember me.” - -She paused and drew from her wasted finger the keeper-ring, which its -attenuated form could scarcely longer hold, and placing it firmly upon -the round, plump finger of Eudora, she said— - -“This, dear one, is my legacy to you!” - -Then taking the same hand with the keeper-ring upon its finger, she -placed it in the hand of Malcolm, saying— - -“And this, dearest brother of my soul, this is my dying legacy to you!” - -She sank back exhausted upon her pillow, while low, half-suppressed sobs -broke from those around her. And Malcolm and Eudora each thought how -willingly they would give up their mutual love, nay, life itself, to -have restored this dying angel to health and joy. And Lady Leaton prayed -Heaven that her own life might not outlast that of her beloved child. At -length Agatha spoke again. - -“When I am gone, my mother will be very desolate—a widow, and childless. -Promise me this—dear Eudora, and dearest Malcolm—that you will be a son -and daughter to my mother.” - -In earnest tones, and amid suffocating sobs, they promised all she -required. - -A little while longer she held the hands of Malcolm and Eudora united -and clasped within her own, and then releasing them, she said— - -“Good-night, dearest Malcolm. Go to rest, beloved mother; Eudora will -watch with me to-night.” - -Lady Leaton stooped, and gathered Agatha for a moment to her bosom, and -with a whispered prayer, laid her back upon her pillows. Malcolm bent -down, and pressed a kiss upon her brow; and then both withdrew, leaving -Eudora upon the watch. And still holding Eudora’s hand, Agatha sank into -a peaceful sleep. - -Hours passed. The room was so quiet, the sleep of the patient was so -calm, and the position of the watcher so easy within her lounging-chair -that Eudora, overcome with fatigue of many nights’ vigil, could scarcely -keep her eyes open. - -Once, indeed, she must have lost herself in a momentary slumber, for she -dreamed that a women in dark raiment, with her head wrapped in a dark -veil, glided across the chamber, and disappeared within her own little -room; but when she aroused herself, and looked around, and walked into -the adjoining room to examine it, there was no one to be seen. - -“I have been dreaming—I have slept upon my watch,” said Eudora, -regretfully; and to prevent a recurrence of drowsiness, she bathed her -forehead and temples with aromatic vinegar, and saturated her -handkerchief with the same pungent liquid, and resumed her seat beside -the patient. - -At this moment Agatha awoke, complained of thirst, and asked for drink. - -Eudora went to a side-table, poured out a glass of tamarind-water, and -brought it to the invalid. - -Agatha drank eagerly, and sank back upon her pillows with a sigh of -satisfaction. - -Eudora silently resumed her seat and her watch; but scarcely five -minutes had passed, when suddenly Agatha started up, her eyes strained -outward, her features livid, and her limbs convulsed. - -Eudora sprang to her in alarm. - -Agatha essayed to speak, but the spasms in her throat prevented -utterance. - -In the extremity of terror, Eudora laid her down upon the pillows, and -sprang to the bell-pull, and rang loudly for assistance. - -Then hurrying back to the bedside, she found Agatha livid, rigid, with -locked jaws, laboring lungs, and startling eyes. - -She caught her up in her arms, rubbed her temples, and rubbed her hands, -exclaiming all the while: - -“Oh, my dear, dear Agatha! my dear, dear Agatha! what, what is this? -Speak to me! Oh, speak to me!” - -The strained eyes of the dying girl suddenly softened, and turned upon -the speaker a beseeching, helpless look, and then the rigid form -suddenly relaxed, and became a dead weight in the arms of Eudora. - -Lady Leaton, followed by several of the female servants, now came -hurrying in. - -“What is the matter? Is she worse?” exclaimed the mother, hurrying to -the bedside. - -“Lady Leaton, she is dead!” cried Eudora, in a voice of anguish. - -Let us draw a vail over the grief of that mother. In all this world of -troubles, there is no sorrow like that of a widowed mother grieving for -the death of her only child. - -At first Lady Leaton would not believe in the extent of her affliction. -She wildly insisted that her child could not, should not be dead—dead -without a parting word, or look, or prayer! She sent off messengers in -haste to bring their medical attendant. And not until Dr. Watkins had -come and examined the patient, and pronounced life fled, could Lady -Leaton be made to believe the truth, or induced to leave the chamber of -death. Then she fainted in the arms of Princess Pezzilini, and was borne -to her own apartment in a state of insensibility. - -It was some hours after this that Dr. Watkins somewhat peremptorily -demanded a private interview with Malcolm Montrose. - -The young man, in deep affliction for the death of her whom he loved as -a dear sister, gave audience to the doctor in the library. - -The family physician entered with a grave and stern brow, and seating -himself at the library-table, opposite Mr. Montrose, began— - -“Sir, what I have to say to you is painful in the extreme both for me to -utter and for you to hear; but the sternest duty obliges me to speak.” - -Mr. Montrose withdrew his hand from his corrugated brow, raised his -troubled eyes to the speaker, and awaited his further words. - -“I know that what I am about to communicate must greatly augment the -sorrow under which you suffer, and yet it must be communicated.” - -“Speak out, I beseech you, sir,” said Mr. Montrose, with a vague but -awful presentiment of what was coming. - -“Three months ago I attended the death-bed of the late Lord Leaton. I -gave it as my opinion then, I hold it as my opinion now, that his death -was accelerated by poison. The coroner’s jury came to a different -conclusion, and their verdict, taken together with the fact that the -_post-mortem_ examination detected no trace of poison, I confess shook -my faith in my own conviction. To-night I have been called to the -bedside of his only daughter; I have looked upon her dead body, and -heard an account of the manner in which she had died. And now, Mr. -Malcolm Montrose, I positively assert that Agatha Leaton came to her -death by poison, administered in the tamarind-water of which she drank -some five or ten minutes before her death—and I stake my medical -reputation upon this issue.” - -“My God! it cannot be true!” exclaimed Malcolm Montrose, starting up, -and gazing upon the speaker in the extremity of horror and grief. - -“Mr. Montrose,” said the doctor, impressively, taking the hand of the -young man, and forcing him back to his seat, “the widowed and childless -head of this house is now in no condition to meet this crisis. You are -her natural representative. You must summon all your firmness and take -the direction of affairs. I shall remain here to assist you. I have -already taken some steps in the matter; I have secured the jug and glass -of tamarind-water to be analyzed. I have also telegraphed for the family -solicitor to come down, and I have sent for the coroner, and for a -police force to occupy the house, for no one must be permitted to escape -until the coroner’s inquest has set upon the deceased and given in their -verdict.” - -“But, good Heaven, doctor!” exclaimed the young man in horror and -amazement; “who, _who_ could aim at so harmless and innocent a life?” - -“Who,” repeated the doctor; “who had the greatest interest in her death, -and in the death of her father before her?” - -“None! no one on earth! Who could have possibly had such an interest?” -cried the young man, shuddering. - -“Who is the next heiress to this vast estate after Lord Leaton and his -daughter?” said the doctor, looking fixedly in the eyes of his -companion. - -Malcolm Montrose started up, threw his hands to his head, and then -reeling back, dropped into his chair again, and remained gazing in -horror upon the speaker. - -“Who,” pursued the doctor, with a merciless inflexibility, “who had -constant access to the bedside of the late Lord Leaton?—who prepared his -food and drink?—who has been the constant attendant of his invalid -daughter?—who watched by her side last night?—whose hand was it that -placed at her lips the fatal draught that laid her dead?” - -“My God! my God, doctor! what horrible monster of suspicion has taken -possession of your mind? Give it a name!” exclaimed the young man, as -great drops of sweat beaded upon his agonized brow. - -“_Eudora Leaton!_ Her hand it was that prepared the death-draught for -her uncle! her hand it was that gave the poisoned draught to his -daughter! It is a terrible charge to make, I know; but we must not deal -hesitatingly with the secret poisoner,” said the doctor, solemnly. - -“Great Heaven! it cannot be—it cannot be!” groaned the young man, in -mortal anguish. - -The doctor arose to his feet, saying— - -“I leave you, Mr. Montrose, to recover this shock, while I go to put -seals upon the effects of this girl, and to prepare for the -investigation that shall bring the poisoner to justice.” - - - - - CHAPTER IV. - THE ACCUSATION. - - “If she prove guilty— - Farewell my faith in aught of human kind. - I’ll hie me to some hermit’s cave, and there - Forget my race.” - - -When the doctor had left the library, Malcolm Montrose threw himself -back in his chair, clasped his forehead between his hands, and strove to -master the consternation that seemed to threaten his very reason. - -Grief, horror, and amazement, sufficient to have shaken the firmness of -the strongest mind, deprived him for the moment of all power of -practical and definite action. And yet, through all the terrible emotion -that shook his soul to its centre, he was conscious of a profound -incredulity in the truth of the doctor’s statement. But the doubt, the -uncertainty, the mere suspicion of such atrocious crimes, perpetrated in -the bosom of his own family, overwhelmed him with consternation. - -“Dead by the hand of the secret poisoner! the baron and his daughter -too! the baron whose whole life had been one long act of the noblest -beneficence, and his child, whose days had been ever devoted to the -happiness of all around her! their benign lives cut off by poison! -Impossible! impossible! it cannot be! it is not so! - -“And yet, and yet the suddenness and the strangeness of both deaths, and -the unquestionable competency of the physician who attended them in -their last hours, and who now makes this dreadful assertion! - -“And if this is so, by whom, great Heavens? By whom has this atrocious -crime been perpetrated? and for what purpose? Who could have any -interest in the premature death of this noble man and lovely girl? - -“No one but—oh, Heaven! but Eudora! She is their heiress; the estate is -now hers, but she is innocent! my life, my honor, my soul will I stake -upon her innocence. And yet, if this father and child shall be proved to -have died by poison, how black the evidence may be made to appear -against her, and how weak her own position! She is an orphan and -friendless, and though on her father’s side of English parentage, she is -of foreign birth and education, and has been in this country too short a -time to establish a character. She has no good antecedents to set -against this dreadful charge with the strong testimony that may be -brought to support it. She was the third in succession to this estate, -and, consequently, her mercenary interest in the deaths of the baron and -his daughter. She was the constant attendant of the late Lord Leaton, -and prepared the drink of which he died. She watched last night by the -side of Agatha, and administered to her the so-called fatal draught. If -they are proved to have died by poison it will ruin her indeed. She will -be called a second Brinvilliers. She will be arraigned, tried, -condemned—oh, Heaven of Heavens! what unspeakable horrors remain in -store for her, innocent as an angel though I know her to be.” - -Such were the maddening thoughts that coursed through his brain and -caused the sweat of agony to start from his brow. He wiped the beaded -drops from his pale forehead, and sprang up and paced the room with -disordered steps, laboring in vain for the composure that he could not -obtain. - -The death of the noble-hearted baron in the prime of life, the death of -the sweet young girl in dawn of youth, were mournful enough even though -they died from natural causes, and if they perished by poison -administered by treacherous hands their fate was dreadful indeed. And -yet it was nothing to be compared with the unutterable horror of that -train of misfortunes which threatened the orphan, stranger, the innocent -Eudora. And thus other emotions of sorrow for the loss of his near -relatives were swallowed up in an anguish of anxiety for the fate of the -orphan girl. - -And so he strove for self-command, and coolness, and clearness of mind, -that he might be prepared to assist at the approaching investigation, in -the hope of discovering the truth, and clearing the fame of Eudora. - -He paced up and down the library floor until he had obtained the -necessary state of calmness to deal with this mystery. - -When the doctor had left the library he was met in the hall by a -servant, hastening towards him in great agitation, and saying: - -“Sir, I was just coming to see you. The Princess Pezzilini begs that you -will hasten at once to my lady’s bedside, as her ladyship is in the -death-throe!” - -Without a word of reply the doctor turned and hurried up the stairs and -along the corridor leading to Lady Leaton’s apartments. - -When he entered the chamber he found Lady Leaton in violent convulsions, -and restrained from throwing herself out of the bed only by the strong -arms of the Italian princess, which thrown around her shoulders -supported her heaving form. - -But, even as the doctor stepped up to the bedside, her form relaxed and -became supple as that of an infant. - -The princess laid the head back upon the pillow. Her eyes closed, and -the ashen hue of death overspread her features. - -The doctor took up her left hand, and placed his fingers upon the pulse. -But that pulse was still, and that hand was the hand of the dead. He -laid it gently down, and turning, looked upon those gathered around the -bed. - -They were the Princess Pezzilini, Eudora Leaton, and her ladyship’s -maid. - -Especially he fastened his eyes upon Eudora, who knelt on the opposite -side of the bed, with her face buried in the bed-clothes, in an attitude -of deep grief. - -“Can any one here inform me whether Lady Leaton drank of the -tamarind-water which stood upon the mantleshelf of Miss Leaton’s -chamber?” inquired the doctor, looking sternly around him. - -“Yes, sir,” answered the lady’s-maid, looking up through her tears; -“when my lady was so agitated by seeing the condition of Miss Leaton as -to be near swooning, and I was obliged to support her in my arms, I -called for a glass of water, and Miss Eudora quickly poured out a -tumbler of tamarind-water, saying there was no other at hand, and held -it to her ladyship’s lips.” - -“And her ladyship drank it?” - -“Yes, sir; she eagerly drank off the whole glassful, for she was so -anxious to keep up for Miss Leaton’s sake, not believing that she was -past all help,” replied the woman. - -“That will do,” said the doctor, once bending his eyes sternly upon the -kneeling form of Eudora. - -But the girl, unconscious of the storm that was gathering over her head, -remained absorbed in grief. - -“Madame,” said the doctor, turning, to the princess, “your friend has -joined her daughter. There is now no lady at the head of this afflicted -house. I must, therefore, entreat you for charity to assume some -necessary authority here over these dismayed female domestics; at least, -until some measures can be taken for the regulation of the -establishment.” - -The Italian princess lifted her fine face, in which grief seemed to -struggle with the habitual composure of pride, and gracefully indicating -Eudora by a small wave of her arm, she said: - -“You forget, sir, that we stand in the presence of the young lady of the -house, who, however bowed with grief she may now be, will soon, no -doubt, be found equal to her high position.” - -“Madame, if your highness alludes to Miss Eudora Leaton, I must beg to -say that she cannot be permitted to intermeddle with any of the affairs -of the household for the present,” replied the doctor. - -The mention of her name in so stern a manner aroused Eudora from her -trance of sorrow, and she arose from her knees, and looked around, to -see every eye bent on her in doubt, perplexity, and suspicion. While she -looked beseechingly from one face to another, as if praying for some -explanation of their strange regards, there came a low rap at the door. - -The doctor went and softly opened it. And the voice of a servant was -heard saying: - -“The coroner has arrived, and begs to see you at once, if you please, -sir.” - -“In good time,” replied the doctor. “Have the police arrived?” - -“Yes, sir.” - -“Send two of them up to me at once, and say to Coroner Adams, that I -will be with him immediately.” - -The servant withdrew, and the doctor, returning to the side of the -Italian princess, said: - -“Madame, will your highness be pleased to retire to your own apartments, -as this chamber, with all its other occupants, must be placed in charge -of the police.” - -The princess, with a look of surprise, bent her stately head, and passed -forth from the room. - -She had scarcely withdrawn when the two policemen presented themselves. - -“You will keep the door of this apartment, and let no one enter or pass -out,” said the doctor, posting the two officers one at each entrance of -the death-chamber. - -He gave a glance at Eudora, who stood still by the bedside, the image of -grief, wonder, and perplexity, and then he passed on, and went down to -rejoin Mr. Montrose, and to meet the coroner. - -He met Malcolm, who was just leaving the library to meet him. - -“What is the matter now? What new misfortune has occurred?” inquired the -young man, noticing the doctor’s severe and threatening countenance. - -“Lady Leaton has just expired, a victim to the same diabolical agency -that destroyed her husband and child,” said the doctor, sternly. - -Montrose started back panic-stricken, and muttering, - -“Horror on horror! Are we sleeping or walking—mad or sane? Lady Leaton -dead?” - -“We are awake and in our right senses, Mr. Montrose, and Lady Leaton is -dead—dead by the hands of that same young Asiatic fiend who murdered her -husband and her daughter!” - -“Dr. Watkins, beware how you charge an innocent girl with so heinous a -crime.” - -“Mr. Montrose, I see that you are a partizan of Miss Leaton’s, but I -have made no charge which I am not able to prove before the coroner’s -inquest, and which their verdict will not soon confirm.” - -“Does this most innocent and unhappy girl know of what she is accused?” - -“She knows her crimes, and doubtless she has reason to suspect that we -know them also.” - -“Do not say ‘_we know them_,’ doctor. I do not know of any crime of -hers; on the contrary, _I_ know in my own secret consciousness that she -is most innocent of all crime, and even of all wrong; and _you_ do not -know it; you only suspect it, and in that suspicion you wrong one of the -most excellent young creatures that ever lived.” - -“Mr. Montrose, you are blinded by partiality; but the veil will soon be -torn from your eyes.” - -“It is _you_ who are blinded by some prejudice when you accuse a young -and lovely girl of a tissue of crimes that would make the blood of a -Borgia run cold with horror!” said the young man, with a shudder. - -“We shall see; a few hours will decide between us;” replied the doctor, -grimly. - -“Where is the unhappy girl now?” inquired Malcolm Montrose. - -“Where she must remain for the present: in the death-chamber of Lady -Leaton, which is now in the charge of the police. And now, Mr. Montrose; -the coroner awaits us in the crimson drawing-room,” said the physician, -leading the way thither. - -It was broad daylight, the sun was high in the heavens, though the -dismayed servants seemed only now to remember to extinguish the lights -and open the windows. - -Breakfast was prepared in the breakfast-parlor, but no family circle -gathered around it. - -The doctor, the Princess Pezzilini, and finally Malcolm Montrose, -strayed separately and at intervals into the room, quaffed each a cup of -coffee, and withdrew. - -Meantime, the coroner formed his inquest. The investigation required -some time and much caution, therefore the whole house was placed in -charge of the police while the examination was in progress. - -Physicians and chemists were summoned to assist in the autopsy of the -dead bodies and the analysis of the water of which they had both drank -immediately before death. - -The autopsy and the analysis both proved successful. Traces of a -virulent poison were found in the bodies of the deceased, and the -presence of the same fatal agent was detected in the beverage of which -they had partaken. It was so far clearly proved that both Lady Leaton -and her daughter had died by poison! - -But by whom had it been prepared and administered? That was the next -point of inquiry. - -Alas! the question seemed but too easily answered. Nevertheless, the -coroner went coolly, formally, and systematically to work. - -The witnesses, that had been kept jealously apart during the progress of -the inquest, were called and examined separately, and their testimony -carefully taken down and compared together. The coroner’s jury then -deliberated long and carefully upon the evidence before them. - -The inquest lasted through the whole of two long summer days, and the -sun was setting on the second when they made up their verdict. - -“The deceased, Matilda, Baroness Leaton, of Allworth, and her daughter, -the Honorable Agatha Leaton, came to their deaths by the poison of -_Ignatia_, administered in tamarind-water by the hands of Eudora -Leaton.” - -A warrant was made out for the arrest of Eudora Leaton, and put in the -hands of an officer for immediate execution. - -“There! what do you think of that? Has my charge been proved? Is my -statement confirmed by the coroner’s inquest? What is your opinion now?” -inquired the doctor of Malcolm Montrose, who had been a pale and -agonized spectator of the scene. - -“My opinion is what it ever has been and ever will be—that Eudora Leaton -is innocent; innocent as one of God’s holy angels; and upon that issue I -stake my every earthly and every heavenly good, my every temporal and -every eternal hope, my life, honor, and soul!” - -“Then you’ll lose them, my young friend, that is all. Ah, Montrose, it -is hard to believe in atrocious crimes, even when we see them recorded -in newspaper paragraphs as committed by strangers and at some distance; -but we are appalled and utterly incredulous when they come closely home -to ourselves. This self-deception is natural, for doubtless other great -criminals have seemed to their own partial friends as unlikely to commit -the crimes of which they have been convicted, as this beautiful young -demon has seemed to us. People of notoriously bad character seldom or -never commit great crimes. They seem to fritter away their natural -wickedness in a succession of small felonies. It is your quiet, -respectable, commonplace people that poison and assassinate just as -though they hoarded all their sinfulness for one grand exploit.” - -“Sir, you treat the deepest tragedies of human life, the tragedies of -crime and death, with a levity unbecoming your age, your profession, and -the circumstances in which we are placed,” said the young man, in bitter -sorrow. - -“I treat the subject with levity! I never was in more solemn earnest in -my life! If you doubt my words, recall your own experience. Recollect -all the greatest criminals within your own knowledge, and say whether -they were not every one of them, according to their social positions, -very decent, very respectable, or very genteel persons—until they were -clearly convicted of capital crimes? I could name a score within my own -memory, only Heaven pardon them, as they have paid the penalty of their -crimes, I do not wish to vex their ghosts by calling up their names and -deeds to recollection.” - -Montrose did not reply. He could scarcely follow the doctor in his -discourse. His thoughts were all engaged with the hapless Eudora and the -train of unutterable misfortunes that lay before her. - -While he stood in bitter sorrow, a constable, holding a warrant in his -hand, approached, and touching his hat to the doctor and Mr. Montrose, -requested that they would please accompany him to the chamber of Miss -Leaton, that he might serve the warrant. - - - - - CHAPTER V. - THE ARREST. - - “Why bend their brows so sternly on me, Vaughn? - What have I done? Oh, tell me quickly, youth! - My soul can ill endure their frowning looks.” - - -Through all this long, dreadful investigation, Eudora had remained in -the death-chamber of Lady Leaton, bowed down with grief, but unconscious -of the heavy clouds that were gathering darkly over her young head. - -She had seen the body of her aunt carried away from the chamber towards -the crimson drawing-room where the coroner’s inquest was held, and where -the _post-mortem_ examination was made. - -She had been called in her turn to give her separate testimony before -the jury, and she had described the deaths of Agatha and that of Lady -Leaton simply as she had witnessed them. She had not omitted to mention -a circumstance that she had regarded as a dream—namely, the passage and -disappearance of a dark-robed woman in Agatha’s chamber. At the close of -her testimony she had been conducted back to the chamber from which she -had been taken, and there she had tarried through the remainder of the -investigation. - -Half stunned with grief, she felt no disposition and made no attempt to -leave the room. She saw the policemen guarding the doors, but did not -even suspect that she was their prisoner. She had noticed in the morning -the strange regards of those around her, but, absorbed in sorrow for the -loss of her relatives, the circumstance had passed from her mind. - -In the course of the day food and drink had been sent to her by the -thoughtful attention of Malcolm Montrose, but she had partaken of -nothing but a cup of tea. - -And now, at the close of this long and terrible day, she remained as has -been said, bowed down with grief, but totally unsuspicious of the dark -storm that was gathering around her. She sat in a low chair beside the -now empty bed, with her head down upon the coverlet, so dead to all -external impressions, that the door was opened and the room half-filled -with people before she moved. There was the Princess Pezzilini, Malcolm -Montrose, Dr. Watkins, the officer who brought the warrant, the two -policemen that kept the doors, and a crowd of male and female servants -drawn thither by curiosity. - -And still Eudora did not look up. - -The Princess Pezzilini glided softly to her side and stood bending over -her with looks of compassion; then raising her blue eyes swimming in -tears to the faces of the doctor and Mr. Montrose, she said: - -“Forgive me; I know that she is most guilty, and that I of all persons -should most condemn her, for she has destroyed my benefactress; but she -is so young, I cannot help pitying her, for we know that the more guilty -the wretched girl may be the more needful of compassion she is.” - -The voice of the princess sounding so near her ear caused Eudora to look -up; and at the same moment the officer who held the warrant advanced, -and laying his hand upon her shoulder, said: - -“Miss Eudora Leaton, you are my prisoner.” - -She did not understand. She arose quickly to her feet, and looked -inquiringly into the face of the constable, and from his face into those -of the persons that crowded the room and gathered around her. As her -star-like eyes ranged around the circle, the eyes of those she looked -upon sank to the ground, while dark frowns lowered upon every brow. - -As she gazed, her perplexity gave place to a vague alarm. - -“What is the matter? What is the meaning of this?” she inquired, in -faltering accents. - -An ominous silence followed her question, while the eyes of the crowd -were once more fixed sternly upon her. - -“Why do you look upon me so? What is it? Will no one speak?” she -demanded, while a vague, overpowering terror took possession of her -heart. - -“Tell her, officer, and put an end to this,” sternly commanded the -doctor. - -“Miss Eudora Leaton, you are my prisoner,” repeated the constable, again -laying his hand upon her. - -“Your prisoner!” she exclaimed, shrinking in dismay and abhorrence from -the degrading touch. “Your prisoner! what do you mean?” - -“Tell her, officer, and end this,” repeated the doctor, while Eudora -looked wildly from one to the other, and sank back in her chair. - -“Miss Leaton,” said the constable, blandly, “the crowner’s ’quest has -been and found a verdict against you, charging you with poisoning of -your aunt, Matilda, Lady Leaton, and your cousin, the Honorable Agatha -Leaton; and this paper in my hand is the crowner’s warrant for your -arrest.” - -Before he had finished, Eudora had sprung to her feet, and now she stood -with her dark, starry eyes dilated and blazing with a horror that -approached insanity. - -At length she found her voice. Clasping her hands and raising her eyes, -in a passion of self-vindication, she exclaimed: - -“Great Lord of heaven! is there any one on earth capable of such heinous -crimes? Is there any one here who believes me to be so?” - -The doctor came to her side, saying: - -“Young girl, the proof against you is too clear to leave a doubt upon -the mind of any one present.” - -“Proof? how can there be proof of that which never happened—which never -could have happened?—a crime which my very soul abhors; at which my -whole frame shudders, from which my whole nature recoils—and committed -by me and upon those whom I was bound to love and respect and serve! and -committed for what purpose, great Heaven! for what purpose? What object -could I have had in the destruction of my own nearest kindred, dearest -friends, and only protectors?” demanded the accused girl, in a tone of -impassioned grief, indignation and horror. - -“Your object was obvious to the dullest comprehension; it forms one of -the strongest points in the evidence against you,” said the implacable -doctor. - -“My object, then, what was it? You, who charge me with the crime, -declare the object!” exclaimed Eudora, rivetting upon his face her -blazing eyes, through which her rising and indignant soul flashed -repudiation at so vile a charge. - -“Your object, girl, was the inheritance of their estates. Lord and Lady -Leaton and their daughter being dead, you are the sole heiress of -unencumbered Allworth,” replied the unflinching physician. - -The fire that flashed from her eyes, the color that burned upon her -cheeks, died slowly out. The pallor of unutterable horror spread like -death over her face. She reeled as though she must have fallen to the -floor, but recovered herself by a violent effort. Clasping her hands in -the agonizing earnestness of her appeal, she exclaimed: - -“Oh! does any one here believe this of me?” - -Stern silence was the only reply. - -“Madame Pezzilini! you have known me intimately for months—do you -believe it?” she said, turning in an anguish of supplication to the -Italian princess. - -“Bellissima, my heart is broken—do not ask me!” said the princess, -averting her face. - -Eudora turned her despairing eyes to the crowd of stern, pitiless, -accusing faces around her, and seeing the form of Malcolm Montrose in -the background, she extended her clasped hands, in passionate prayer, -towards him, and the tones of her voice arose, wild, high, and piercing -in the agony of her last appeal, as she cried: - -“Mr. Montrose! oh, Mr. Montrose! _you_ do not believe me to be such a -fiend?” - -“No, no, no!” said Malcolm, earnestly, fervently, vehemently, as he -pushed his way through the crowd, and came to her side and took her -hand. “No, Eudora! I do not believe it! I have never for an instant been -tempted to believe it! You are innocent of the very thought of evil! and -this I will uphold both in private and in public! I will stand by you -like a brother; I will aid, protect and defend you to the last, so far -as you have need of me, and I power to serve you—and to this I pledge my -life, and soul, and honor! And as I keep this pledge to you, may Heaven -deal with me at my own greatest extremity! Take comfort, sweet girl! -Your innocence is a mighty, invincible stronghold, which all these -atrocious charges must assail in vain.” - -“Oh, thanks! thanks! thanks!” said Eudora, her fiery eyes melting into -the first tears that she had shed since her arrest. - -“Mr. Montrose, I would recommend you to be cautious,” said the doctor, -severely; “for let me inform you, young gentleman, that you are not so -far removed from suspicion as your friends could wish! Your betrothal to -the late Miss Leaton, and your attachment to the present one, are both -too well known already. And I assure you, the propriety of your own -arrest as an accomplice to this crime was seriously discussed at the -inquest.” - -The cheeks of Malcolm Montrose glowed, his eyes flashed, and he made one -threatening step towards his accuser, then recollecting himself, he -dropped his hand, saying: - -“No, no, no! you are an old friend of the family, and it is your zeal -alone for them that urges you to such indecorous speech and action. And -since the wisdom of the coroner’s jury was engaged with the question of -my arrest, I wish to Heaven they had ordered it! Since they have found a -verdict against this most innocent girl, I would to the Lord they had -found one against me as her accomplice, that I might stand where she -will have to stand; meet what she will have to meet; and endure what she -will have to endure! Go, tell the nearest magistrate from me, that in -all the felonies Eudora Leaton has committed Malcolm Montrose has been -her aider and abettor—nay, her instigator! Tell him, from me, that when -Eudora Leaton poisoned her kindred, Malcolm Montrose procured the bane -and mixed the drink! Tell him that when Eudora Leaton is in the -prison-cell, or waits in the prisoner’s dock, or stands upon the -scaffold, Malcolm Montrose should be by her side as far the more guilty -of the two! Tell him this from me, and get me arrested, and I will thank -you!” - -“You are mad, Mr. Montrose, as indeed the events of this day are well -calculated to make you,” replied the doctor. - -Then turning to the officer, he said: - -“It is getting late; had you not better remove your prisoner?” - -“It is some distance to the county gaol, sir. Is there such a thing as a -chaise in the stables, that I could have the use of to carry her in? or -else is there a messenger I could send to the Leaton Arms to fetch one?” -inquired the constable. - -“There is a chaise in the stables, I know. Go, John, and order it to be -got ready,” commanded the doctor. - -The old servant withdrew to obey. The constable turned to Eudora, and -said: - -“Miss Leaton, while the chaise is getting ready, you had better be -putting on your things.” - -“Oh, Heaven! is this some dreadful dream or raving madness that has -taken possession of me, or is it true that I must leave the house where -lie the dead bodies of my kindred, and go—to the county gaol, charged -with the murder of my nearest relations? Oh, horror! horror! Oh, save -me, Malcolm, save me!” she cried, covering her face with her hands as -though to shut out some horrid vision, and sinking to the floor. - -Montrose stooped and raised her, whispering: - -“I will! I will, Eudora! if it is in human power to do it! You need not -be taken from here to-night—you must not be! I will see the magistrates -myself.” - -Then turning to the crowd of servants that still lingered in the room, -he inquired: - -“Have the magistrates yet taken their departure?” - -“No, sir; they are taking some refreshments in the dining-room,” -answered one of the servants. - -“Rest here, dear Eudora, until I return,” said Montrose, placing her in -an easy-chair; and then going to the side of the Italian princess, he -said: - -“Madame, for Heaven’s sake, speak to her.” - -And he hurried from the chamber, and went down into the dining-room, -where the magistrates were sitting over their wine. - -He addressed them respectfully, speaking of the approaching storm, the -darkness of the night, and the badness of the mountain-roads that lay -between Allworth and the county gaol; and proposed that as the accused -was but a young and delicate girl, she might be permitted to remain at -Allworth Abbey through the night. - -Mr. Montrose, as the nearest male representative of the Leaton family, -might be supposed to have considerable influence with the magistrates. -The latter were, besides, pleased with their day’s work, and subdued by -the genial influence of the juice of the grape; and the boon that was -craved by Malcolm Montrose was not, under the circumstances, -unreasonable. Therefore, after some little delay and consultation, it -was agreed that the accused should remain at the Abbey through the -night, securely locked up in the chamber which she now occupied, and -strictly guarded by a pair of constables, one of which was to be placed -on the outside of each door. - -And Malcolm Montrose was authorized to bear this order to the constable. - -Meanwhile Eudora had sunk back in the large chair where he had left her, -and covered her face with her hands. The Princess Pezzilini had -despatched a servant to the little bed-room of Eudora to fetch her -bonnet and shawl. And now she stood beside the chair of the unhappy -girl, urging her to arise and prepare herself to accompany the -constable, and saying: - -“It will all turn out for the best, Bellissima, end how it may. If you -are proved innocent you will be set at liberty; if you are proved guilty -you will have the privilege of expiating your crime by the death of your -body and thus save your soul. So, end as it may, Bellissima, it will all -be right.” - -“But lawk, mum, s’posen she be innocent, and yet be found guilty, as -many and many a one have been before her?” suggested Tabitha Tabs, the -maid who had now returned with the bonnet and shawl, and stood with them -hanging over her arm. - -“In that case, my good girl, she will be a martyr, and go to bliss. So, -end as it may, it will all be right. We should bow to the will of -Heaven,” said the princess, piously. - -“Can’t see it, mum, as it would all be right for the innocent to be -conwicted, nor the will of Heaven, nyther, begging your pardon, mum, for -speaking of my poor mind,” said Tabby, respectfully. - -“You are a simple girl, and need instruction. Now, assist your young -mistress to put on her bonnet and shawl. Eudora, stand up, my poor -child, and put on your wrappings.” - -“Yes, Miss, do so if you please, as the storm is rising, and it is -getting late, and the roads is horrid between here and the gaol,” said -the constable, showing signs of impatience. - -“Ah, wait! pray wait until Mr. Montrose returns. He went to ask the -magistrates if I might be confined here until morning,” pleaded Eudora. - -“Do your duty, officer! Why do you stand arrested by the prayers of that -evil girl? She did not fear to commit crime, she should not fear to meet -its consequences. Do your duty at once, for every moment she is -permitted to remain beneath this honored roof is an outrage to the -memory of those whom she has hurried to their early graves,” said the -doctor, sternly. - -The constable still hesitated, and Eudora still stood with pale face, -intense eyes, and clasped hands, silently imploring delay, when the door -opened, and Malcolm Montrose entered with the order of the magistrates, -commanding Eudora Leaton to be locked in the chamber, under strict -guard, until the morning. - -“Thank you, thank you! Oh, thank you for this short respite, dear -Malcolm!” exclaimed the poor girl, bursting into tears of relief. - -Malcolm pressed her hand in silence, and then whispered to her to hope. - -The doctor really trembled with rage. - -“Very well,” he said, “I will see at least, that her present prison is -secure. Madame Pezzilini, will your highness condescend to withdraw from -the room?” he added, turning respectfully to the princess. - -“Good-night, Eudora; repent and pray,” said the princess, and bowing -graciously to Mr. Montrose and to the doctor, she withdrew. - -“Leave the room, and go about your several businesses every man and -woman of you! I want this room to myself and the constable,” was the -next stern order of the doctor to the assembled domestics. - -All immediately departed except Tabitha Tabs, who went boldly and placed -herself beside her young mistress as a tower of strength. - -“Follow your fellow-servants, woman,” commenced the doctor. - -“When my young lady orders me to do so, sir,” replied Tabitha, coldly. - -Eudora’s left hand was clenched in that of Malcolm Montrose, and she -threw out her right hand and grasped that of her humble attendant, -exclaiming eagerly: - -“Oh, no, no, no, do not leave me, good Tabitha!” For she felt almost -safe between the two. - -“Not till they tears me away piecemeal with pincers, Miss! for I reckon -I’m too big to be forced away all at once,” replied Tabitha, violently, -drawing up her large person, and looking defiance from her resolute -eyes. - -“Officers, remove that contumacious girl from the room,” said the doctor -angrily. - -The two constables stepped forward to obey, but Malcolm Montrose dropped -the hand of Eudora and confronted them, saying: - -“On your peril!” - -Then turning to the enraged physician, he said: - -“Doctor, nothing but my knowledge of the sincerity of your attachment to -the late family enables me to endure the violence of your conduct. But -you push your privileges and my patience too far. You have no right to -say that this girl shall not remain in attendance upon her unhappy -mistress through the night. What harm can she do? Besides, if Miss -Leaton is to be guarded by constables placed on the outside of her -chamber door, it is but proper that she should have a female attendant -in the room with her.” - -“Very well,” said the doctor, grimly, “as far as I am concerned, she may -keep her waiting-woman _in_; but I shall take very good care that she -herself does not get _out_.” - -And so saying, he went immediately to the two high Gothic windows that -lighted the vast room, closed the strong oaken shutters, placed the iron -bars across them, secured the latter with padlocks, and gave the keys to -the head constable, who held the warrant. He next stationed one of the -officers on the other side of the door leading to the other rooms of his -suite of apartments, directing him to lock the door and keep the key in -his pocket. And, finally, having ascertained that all the fastenings of -the chamber were well secured, he prepared to withdraw. - -Malcolm Montrose pressed the hand of Eudora to his heart, saying: - -“Good-night, dearest Eudora. Confide in the God who watches over to -deliver innocence.” And bending lowly to her ear, he whispered: - -“Hope.” Then raising his head and looking kindly toward Tabitha, he -said: - -“Good girl, take great care of your mistress to-night.” - -“You may trust me for that, sir,” answered Miss Tabs, confidently. - -And once more pressing the hand of Eudora, he resigned it and withdrew -from the room. - -The doctor and the head constable followed. They all paused in the hall -outside until the constable had double-locked the door, and put the key -in his pocket, and taken his station before the room. - -“And now I think your prisoner is quite secure, even though you should -sleep on your post, officer,” said the doctor, with grim satisfaction, -as he walked from the spot. - -Malcolm Montrose smiled strangely as he followed. - -In the hall below they were met by a servant, who announced the arrival -of Mr. Carter, the family solicitor, who had asked to see Mr. Montrose, -and who had been shown to the library, where he now waited. - -Malcolm immediately went thither, and when seated at the writing-table -with the attorney, related to him all the details of the household -tragedy, and the arrest of Eudora Leaton upon the awful charge of -poisoning the whole family. - -Even the clear-headed, case-hardened old lawyer was shocked and -stupified by the dreadful story. When Malcolm had finished, and the -lawyer had recovered his presence of mind, they discussed the affair as -calmly as circumstances would permit. The lawyer insisted that the -evidence against the accused girl was quite convicting, and that there -was not in the whole wide range of human possibility a single chance of -her being acquitted; while Malcolm, in agonized earnestness, persisted -in upholding her perfect innocence. - -“But if _she_ did not do it, who did it?” pertinently inquired the -lawyer. - -“Aye, WHO indeed! Conjecture is at a full stand!” answered Malcolm, -wiping the drops forced out by mental anguish from his brow. - -“Is no one else amenable to suspicion?” - -“Not one!” - -“Had the late family deeply offended any person, or casually injured any -one, or made any enemy?” - -“No, no, no; they never wronged or offended a human being, or had an -enemy in the world.” - -“Was there no one whose interest ran counter to those of the late baron -and his House?” - -“None on earth! Lord Leaton and his family were on the best possible -terms with all their friends, acquaintances and dependants. They were -widely, deeply, and sincerely beloved.” - -“It comes back, then, to this; that no one would have any interest in -the extinction of this whole family, except this half-Indian girl, who -is their heiress, who it appears attended them in their illness, and -prepared and administered the drinks of which they died, and in which -the poison was detected—the poison, mark you, of the _Faber Sancta -Ignatii_, a deadly product of the East, scarcely known in England, but -familiar, no doubt, to this Asiatic girl. Mr. Montrose, the case is very -clear,” said the lawyer, with an ominous shake of the head. - -“Then you think,” said the young man, in a tone of anguish, “that if she -is brought to trial——” - -His voice was choked by his rising agony. He could utter no more. - -“I think it as certain as any future event can be in this uncertain -world that Eudora Leaton will be condemned and executed for the -poisoning of her uncle’s family. Mr. Montrose! Good Heavens, sir, you -are very ill! You—you have not partaken of any food or drink in this -thrice-accursed house, but what you could rely upon?” exclaimed the -lawyer, rising up in alarm, and going to the side of the young man, who -had fallen back in his chair, his whole form convulsed, his pallid -features writhing, and the drops of sweat, wrung from anguish that he -vainly endeavored to subdue and control, beading upon his icy brow. - -“Mr. Montrose—let me call——” - -“No, no,” interrupted Malcolm, holding up his hand with an adjuring -gesture, and struggling to regain his self-control, for manhood can ill -brook to bend beneath the power of suffering. - -“No! It is the blow!” - -“Then, Malcolm, meet it like a man!” said the lawyer, who began to -understand that it was a mental, and not a physical agony that convulsed -the strong frame of the young man. - -“But she, Eudora, so young and beautiful, so innocent and so beloved, to -be hurled down to a destruction so appalling!” burst in groans of -anguish from the heaving breast of Malcolm. - -He dropped his arms and head upon the table, while sobs of agony -convulsed his great chest. - -“But I will save her!” he said to himself. “In spite of all this, I will -save her. I have staked my life, my soul and honor upon her innocence; -and now I will peril that same life, soul, and honor for her -deliverance!” - -This mental resolution gave him great strength, for at once he resumed -the command of himself, arose, apologized to the lawyer for the -exhibition of emotion into which he had been betrayed, and would have -resumed the conversation in a calmer frame of mind, had not a servant -entered and announced supper. - -Malcolm begged the lawyer to excuse him for not appearing at the supper -table, and also requested him to bear his excuses to the magistrates who -had assisted at the coroner’s inquest, and who now remained to supper. - -The lawyer readily promised to represent Mr. Montrose to the guests, and -withdrew for that purpose. - -Malcolm arose and paced the library floor, engaged in close thought for -about half an hour, and then passed out to seek the privacy of his own -chamber. - -The whole house was in a painful though subdued bustle. - -The members of the coroner’s jury, though at liberty to go, had not yet -dispersed. The strange fascination that spell-binds men to the scene of -any atrocious crime or awful calamity, kept them lingering about the -halls and chambers of Allworth Abbey. - -The undertaker’s people were also in the house making preliminary -arrangements for the approaching double funeral. And the servants of the -family were continually passing to and fro, waiting upon them. - -Malcolm passed through them all and went to his own chamber, locked -himself in, and threw himself upon a chair near the bay window that -overlooked the Black Pool. - -It was a beautiful summer night, and the stars that spangled the clear, -blue-black canopy of heaven were reflected on the surface of the Black -Pool like jewels upon an Ethiope’s dark bosom. - -But Malcolm had no eye for the beauty of the starlight night. He was -thinking of that black and endless night that had gathered over Eudora’s -head. He rested his elbow upon the arms of his chair, and bowed his head -upon his hand, and thus he sat for more than an hour without changing -his position. Then he arose and looked forth from the window, and turned -and paced the floor, stopping at intervals to listen. Thus passed -another hour. And by this time the troubled household had settled to -repose, and all was quiet. - -Then Malcolm Montrose left his room, locking the door and taking the key -with him, and passed down the long corridor leading to the central -upper-hall and the grand staircase. When he entered the hall he saw the -constable standing on guard before the chamber door of the imprisoned -girl. The man was wide-awake, on the alert, and touched his hat as Mr. -Montrose passed. Malcolm went down the great staircase and through the -deserted lower hall to the main entrance, where he unbarred and unlocked -the doors and let himself out. - -He took his way immediately to the stables, entered them, drew forth a -light chaise, led out a swift horse, put him between the shafts, and -finally jumped into the driver’s seat, and drove off through the -northern gate towards a thickly-wooded part of the park until he reached -the ruins of an ancient nunnery. Then he jumped out and fastened his -horse to a tree, and sought the cellars of the ruins, reiterating his -resolution: - -“I have staked my life, soul, and honor upon Eudora’s innocence, and now -to peril life, soul, and honor for Eudora’s salvation!” - - - - - CHAPTER VI. - THE UNDERGROUND PASSAGE. - - “’Tis sure some dream, some vision wild! - What, _I_, of rank and wealth the child, - Am _I_ the wretch that bears this shame, - Deprived of freedom, friends and fame?” - - -The chamber in which Lady Leaton had died, and where Eudora was -imprisoned, had, in the olden time, been the abbot’s apartment. It was a -vast, dark, gloomy room, now dimly lighted by a lamp that stood upon the -mantelshelf. - -For a long time after Malcolm Montrose, Dr. Watkins and the constables -had withdrawn from the chamber, Eudora remained, crushed back in the -depths of the large chair, with her head bowed upon her bosom, her black -ringlets falling forward, and half veiling her beautiful dark face, her -left hand, that Malcolm had resigned, falling listlessly down by her -side, and her right hand still clasped in that of Tabitha, who continued -to stand by her side. No word was spoken between them as yet. Eudora was -buried in profound, agonizing and bewildering thought, such as always -overwhelms the sensitive victim of any sudden and crushing misfortune. -The shock of the thunderbolt that had just fallen upon her, devastating -her inner life, and leaving the outer so still, and black, and -threatening: the vast, dark, sombre room; the dead silence around -her—all combined to shake her reason to its centre. In the confusion -wrought among nerves, head and brain by this inner storm of sensation, -thought and suffering, she was fast losing confidence in heaven, trust -in the reality of external circumstances, and even faith in her own -identity. - -Suddenly she threw herself forward, and tightened her clasp upon -Tabitha’s hand, with convulsive tone, exclaiming: - -“Wake me! wake me, Tabitha! I have the nightmare, and cannot rouse -myself. Oh, wake me! wake me, for the love of Heaven!” - -Tabitha, whom respect for her mistress’s sorrow had hitherto kept -silent, now became alarmed for her sanity. - -Bending over her with an almost reverential tenderness, she whispered: - -“Dear young lady, try to be composed and collect your thoughts, and -remember yourself.” - -“Oh, Heaven! I remember too well! too well!” cried Eudora, in a piercing -voice, dropping her face into her hands, and shuddering through her -whole frame. “It is no horrible illusion! It is an awful reality! My -aunt and cousin are really dead, and I am arrested upon the charge of -poisoning them! Oh, horrible! most horrible! Oh, I shall go mad! I shall -go mad!” she exclaimed, starting from her chair, casting up her arms, -and throwing herself forward upon the floor. - -For a moment Tabitha gazed in dismay upon this exhibition of violent -emotion in one whom she loved and honored almost to adoration, and then -kneeling down beside her, she gently put her arms around her waist to -raise her up, whispering in a low, respectful voice: - -“Dear young lady, try to recollect yourself, your dignity, your rank, -and, above all, your innocence, and put your trust in God!” - -Put your trust in God. It was the best advice the simple country-girl -could give, but the Archbishop of Canterbury could not have given any -better. - -Eudora suffered herself to be lifted up and replaced in the deep chair, -into which she sank helplessly, and where she remained, with her head -propped upon her breast, and her arms fallen upon her lap, in the stupor -of despair to which the violence of her anguish had yielded. - -Tabitha kneeled at her feet, took her hands, and gazing pleadingly up -into her face, said: - -“Dear Miss Eudora, look up and hope; all is not lost that is in danger! -Have faith in Him who delivered the three innocent children from the -fires of the furnace seven times heated. Come, now, let me undress you -and help you to bed.” - -“Into that bed—into that bed whence _her_ corpse has just been removed? -Oh, never, never! Besides, I could not sleep with the prospect of -to-morrow before me, when I shall be taken to the common gaol. How could -I sleep? I shall never sleep again! Good girl, leave me to my own -thoughts,” said Eudora, with a trembling voice and quivering face. - -Tabitha spoke no more, but drawing a footstool, she sat down at her -mistress’s feet, and silently held one of her listless hands. - -Some time they sat thus: the heavy minutes seemed drawn out to the -length of hours. The house was still as death, and the mantle clock was -on the stroke of eleven when the quick ears of Tabitha caught a slight, -cautious, grating sound in the wainscoted wall on the left of the -fire-place. She raised her head, and turned her eyes quickly in the -direction of the sound, and with a half-suppressed shriek and a -throbbing heart, she saw one of the oak panels slide away, and an -anxious face and a warning hand appear at the opening. - -The smothered cry of her woman had attracted Eudora’s attention; and -with the apathy of one plunged so deeply in wretchedness as to fear no -farther evil, the unhappy girl followed, with her listless glance, the -frightened gaze of her attendant. - -At this moment the hand at the opening was extended in an encouraging -gesture, and a familiar voice murmured, quickly and softly: - -“Hist! hist, Tabitha! Don’t be afraid! It is I.” - -And the next instant the man came through the opening, and Malcolm -Montrose stood within the room. He extended his hand in a warning manner -as he approached, saying: - -“Hist! hist! for Heaven’s love, control yourselves! be composed, and all -will be well!” - -By this time he stood before the mistress and the maid, who gazed upon -him in astonishment indeed, but not in alarm. - -“Let us speak in whispers, and then, thanks to the thickness of these -walls and doors, we shall not be heard by the policemen on guard. -Listen—there are bolts on this side of the chamber doors. Are they drawn -fast?” - -“No, sir,” replied Tabitha, in a hushed voice. - -With a sign that they should remain silent and motionless, Malcolm -glided on tip-toe, first to one door and then to the other, and -cautiously slid the bolts into their sockets, making them both as fast -on the inside as they were on the outside. - -He then returned to the side of Eudora, and stood for a moment listening -intently, and then apparently satisfied that all was well, he murmured: - -“Peace be with the worthy king or bishop who built these walls so -solidly! The sentinels without have heard nothing.” - -Then turning to the curious, anxious, and expectant waiting-maid he -whispered: - -“Tabitha, my good girl, I can depend upon you to aid me in freeing your -young lady?” - -“Depend upon me? Oh, sir, don’t you know and doesn’t she know that I -would throw myself between her and all that threatens her, and meet it -in her stead, if so be I could?” said the brave and devoted girl, in a -vehement whisper. - -“Indeed it will be but little less than that which will be required of -you, my good Tabitha.” - -“Don’t doubt me, sir, but try me!” said the young woman, stoutly. - -“Well, then, Tabitha, you have first to prepare your young lady for a -hasty journey—thanks to the secret passage leading from the abbot’s -apartments—to the ruins of the neighboring nunnery, which scandal -declares to have been once put to a less worthy use. I have been able to -provide the means for her escape. But you, my good girl, will have to -remain here to cover her retreat, to face those who will come to seek -her in the morning, and to withstand all questions as to how or with -whom she left her prison. Are you firm enough for the duty, Tabitha?” - -“Let ’em try me, that’s all, sir; and if they don’t find out as they’re -met their match this time, I’m not a woman, but a muff. They may send me -to prison, or they may hang me if they like. But I defy them to make me -speak when I don’t want to speak!” - -“They can do you no real harm, my girl, be sure of that. They would only -threaten and frighten you at most.” - -“Frighten who? Lawks, sir, you don’t know me; I aint made of -frightenable stuff. But, sir, how we talk! won’t they know at once that -my young lady got off through that secret passage of which you speak?” - -“No; for its very existence is unknown or forgotten. It was only -accident that discovered it to me some years ago, when I was delving -among the ruins of the convent, and found in one of the cellars its -other terminus. I entered it to thread its mazes; I should have been -smothered but for the many crooked crevices in its rocky roof that let -in the air. I found that it led to a steep narrow staircase; ascending -it, I found myself opposite a panel, the character of which I could see -by means of the narrow lines of light around its old and shrunken frame, -light that evidently came from the opposite side. Curiosity got the -better of discretion, and I worked away at the panel and slipped it -aside, when, to my dismay, I found myself looking in upon the privacy of -Lady Leaton’s sleeping-chamber, which was fortunately then empty. It was -this, which was in the olden time the apartment of the Abbot. I was but -a boy then, and being frightened at what I had done, I hastily replaced -the panel and retreated, and never mentioned my adventure to any one. -Afterwards, consulting the guidebook, I found that there was a mere -tradition of a secret passage leading from the Abbey to the Convent, -which scandal asserted to have been used by the master here when going -to rendezvous with some fair nun; but of the precise locality of this -secret passage, or even of its actual existence, the book did not -pretend to speak with authority. Once I mentioned the tradition to my -uncle and aunt, but they disregarded it as mere romance, and I kept my -own counsel, and deferred the mention of my discovery to some future -occasion. But to-night I have turned my knowledge of the secret passage -to some account; to-night, once more I have threaded its mazes, and find -myself in this chamber. I shall conduct Miss Leaton through this passage -to the other outlet in the cellars of the ruined convent; there I have a -chaise to carry her off. Farther than this, I need not tell you. And I -have told you this much, first, because I believe you fully worthy of -the confidence, and secondly, that being possessed of the real facts, -you may be on your guard against cross-questioning as well as against -threats, and so be able to baffle inquiry as well as to withstand -browbeating,” said Malcolm Montrose. - -“Oh, never you fear me, sir; I will never give Miss Leaton’s enemies the -satisfaction of knowing as much as I know,” said Tabitha, firmly. - -The young man had addressed himself first to the maid, not only to -secure her immediate sympathy and co-operation, but also to afford Miss -Leaton time to recover from her surprise, compose her spirits and -collect her thoughts. - -Now he turned to Eudora, who had been much agitated by the infusion of -new hope into her despair, but who now controlling herself, sat quietly, -though intently listening, and addressing her with reverential -tenderness, he said: - -“And now, dearest Eudora, rouse yourself; collect all your energies, and -prepare for your immediate flight.” - -She looked at him intently for a moment, and then in a faltering voice -said: - -“But oh, is it right? Ought I, who am as innocent as a child of that -which they charge me with, ought I, like a guilty creature, to fly from -justice? Think of it well, and then answer me, for I can rely upon your -wisdom as well as upon your honor.” - -“Eudora,” said the young man in a solemn voice, “it is not from -_justice_ that I counsel you to fly, for you are innocent as you say, -and the innocent have nothing to fear from justice; if there was a -shadow of a hope that you would meet justice, my tongue should be the -last to advise, my hand the last to assist your escape. No, Eudora, it -is not from _justice_, but from the cruelest injustice—from murder, from -martyrdom that I would snatch you!” - -“Yet still think once more. You grant that I am innocent. Conscious of -that innocence, ought I not to have courage enough to meet the trial, -and faith enough to trust in God for deliverance?” inquired the girl -gravely. - -“Trust in God, by all means, through all things, and to any extent: but -exercise that trust by wisely embracing the means He has provided for -your escape rather than by madly remaining to meet swift and certain -destruction.” - -“But yet—but yet it seems weak and wrong for the innocent to fly like -the guilty!” said Eudora, hesitatingly. - -“Does it? Then I will give you Scripture warrant and example for the -course! When Herod sent forth and slew the infants in Galilee, did the -parents of the child Jesus tarry in Bethlehem because he was innocent -and even Divine? No; warned by the angel, they fled into Egypt. In after -years, when Jesus went about preaching and teaching through Jerusalem, -and when the high priests sought Him to kill Him, did He tarry in deadly -peril because He was innocent, holy, and Divine? No! He withdrew into -the Mount of Olives, or entered a ship, and put off from the land, -because His hour had not yet come! Oh, Eudora! it is not faith but -presumption that tempts you to remain and face sure and sudden ruin,” -urged the young man, in impassioned earnestness, while he gazed in an -agony of anxiety upon her countenance. - -Eudora shuddered through her whole frame, but remained silent. - -“Oh, Heaven, Eudora!” he continued, “why do you still hesitate? Must I -set the truth before you in all its ghastly realities? I must, I must, -for time presses, and the danger is imminent! Listen, most unhappy girl! -You are here a prisoner, charged with the most atrocious crime that ever -cursed humanity; that charge is supported by a mass of evidence that -would crush an archangel! To-morrow morning you will be removed from -this room to the common gaol. Next week the assizes will be held; you -will be brought to trial; you will be overwhelmed beneath an avalanche -of evidence! and then—oh, Heaven, Eudora! but two short weeks will -elapse between the sentence of the judge and the execution of the -prisoner! In less than one little month from this you will be -murdered—martyred!” exclaimed the young man in thrilling, vehement, -impassioned whispers, while the agitation of his whole frame, and the -perspiration that streamed from his flushed brow, exhibited the agony of -his anxiety. - -With a smothered shriek, the unhappy girl fell back in her chair, and -covered her face with her hands, as though to shut out the scene of -horror that had been called up before her imagination. - -“Fly, Eudora! fly at once! fly with me, and I will place you in safety, -where you may remain until Providence shall bring the truth to light, -the guilty to justice, and your innocence to a perfect vindication! Fly! -fly, Eudora! It would be madness to stay!” - -“I will! I will fly!” she exclaimed, in a hurried whisper, as she -started up. - -Tabitha snatched up the black bonnet and shawl that had been brought in -on the preceding evening for a far different purpose, and hastily -assisted her mistress to put them on. She tied the little bonnet strings -under her chin, and tied the black crape veil over her face. Then she -wrapped the shawl carefully around her form, doubling its folds twice -over her chest to protect it from the chill of the night air, for -Eudora’s Asiatic temperament would ill bear exposure in this climate of -cold mists, and pronounced her ready for her journey. - -As Malcolm looked anxiously upon her, he saw that her simple, plain -dress of deep mourning was admirably well calculated for her escape and -her journey, for it revealed nothing of her social position, since the -wearer of such a dress might be the daughter of a tradesman or the child -of an earl. - -“And now, my good girl, we must take leave of you at once. Remember that -no one can harm you; therefore be firm in refusing to give any clue to -the manner of Miss Leaton’s escape,” said Malcolm Montrose, shaking -hands with the faithful attendant. - -“Never you doubt, sir; they shall draw me apart with wild horses before -they draw any information from me,” said Tabitha, firmly. - -“Good-bye, dear girl; I hope, and trust, and pray that you may come to -no evil through your devotion to me,” said Eudora, kissing her humble -friend. - -“Never you fear, Miss; if any body comes to grief in this chase, it -won’t be her as is hunted, but them as hunts, which is as much as to say -it won’t be Tabitha Tabs!” said the latter, valiantly. - -After once more pressing the hand of her faithful maid, Eudora followed -Malcolm through the secret opening, leaving the brave Tabitha alone in -the chamber. - - - - - CHAPTER VII. - THE FLIGHT. - - “Fly, lady, fly before the wind! - The moor is wild and waste, - The hound of blood is close behind, - Haste! gentle lady, haste!” - - -After closing the sliding panel behind him, and carefully adjusting it -in its place, Malcolm took the hand of his companion to guide her down -the narrow, steep and dangerous steps that led to the secret passage. -This caution was the more needful, as it was so dark that only Malcolm’s -previous knowledge of the passage enabled him to feel his own way and -guide his companion through it. - -Something like an hundred perpendicular steps brought them down to a low -and narrow archway, not unlike the entrance to a rudely constructed -tunnel. - -Although it was still quite dark, and Malcolm, drawing his companion -after him, was obliged to grope his way along this tunnel, yet -occasional sharp drafts of wind proved that there existed certain -irregular crevices in the rocks overhead that in the daytime admitted a -little light as well as air, although their winding or crooked formation -might prevent any one on the ground above seeing or suspecting the -existence of the subterranean passage beneath their feet. As this tunnel -took nearly a straight line to the old nunnery, a walk of about ten -minutes brought Malcolm and Eudora to the other terminus that admitted -them to the lower cellars under the ruins. - -When they had emerged from the tunnel into these cellars, Malcolm paused -and carefully collected bricks, stones, and other fallen portions of the -building, with which he choked up and concealed the narrow opening. - -Then taking the hand of Eudora, he led her from the cellars up into the -outer air. - -Here, in the ruined chapel, they found the pony-chaise fastened to a -young oak-tree that grew within what had once been the grand altar of -the chapel of the convent. - -He led the horse out to the road, and then returned and conducted Eudora -to the chaise, placed her in it, took the seat by her side, and drove -rapidly off. A drive of ten minutes brought them to a rural railway -station. - -Up to this time no word had been spoken between them, so intense had -been the anxiety of both. But now, when he had alighted and fastened his -horse to a tree, and came to the chaise to hand her out, he whispered: - -“Draw down your veil, Eudora, and keep it down.” - -She silently obeyed, and he handed her out and led her into the office -of the station. - -“Two first-class tickets to London,” he said to the clerk behind the -little office-windows. - -They were supplied to him. - -“When does the London train pass here?” he next inquired. - -“In half an hour, sir.” - -“That will do,” replied Mr. Montrose. Then, drawing the arm of Eudora -within his own, he conducted her to the waiting-room. - -It was empty. - -“Remain here, dearest Eudora, until I return. I shall be back in twenty -minutes. It is not likely that any one will come in here during my -absence, as very few first-class lady passengers take the train at this -station at this hour; nevertheless, keep your veil down,” said Malcolm, -as he placed her in a chair in a dark corner of the room. He then -pressed her hand, left her, and hurried out to the place where he had -left the pony-chaise. - -He unhitched the horse, mounted the driver’s seat, and drove madly off -towards Allworth. So fiercely he drove that in ten minutes he reached -the stables, and returned the horse bathed in sweat and covered with -foam to his stall. He replaced the chaise in the carriage-house, and -then set off in a run toward the railway station. He could not run quite -so fast as a horse could gallop, and so the distance accomplished by the -pony in ten minutes occupied him fifteen. - -It wanted, therefore, but about five minutes to the passing of the train -when he rejoined Eudora in the waiting-room. - -Besides Eudora, he found two gentlemen and one lady in the same room. -They seemed, also, to belong to the same party, for they walked and -talked together; and the subject of their conversation was that which -then formed the topic of the whole neighborhood, and which was destined -soon to form the topic of the whole kingdom—the tragedy of Allworth -Abbey! - -“They say,” observed the lady, “that it is incontrovertibly proved that -this Asiatic girl, Eudora Leaton, was the poisoner, and that her motive -was the inheritance of the estate. One can scarcely believe in such -depravity in one so young as this girl is represented to be.” - -“Crime is of no age or sex, madam; and from all that we can hear, it -seems abundantly proved that this young girl actually _did_ poison the -whole family,” replied the old gentleman addressed, whom Malcolm now, -with extreme anxiety, recognized as a neighbor, Admiral Brunton, of the -Anchorage, near Abbeytown. - -“Good Heaven, what a fiend she must be! But she is young, beautiful, -high-born, and very accomplished. Do you think that if she is convicted -they will really hang her?” - -“Hang her? Yes; the young demon! They will hang her as surely as they -did Palmer. English juries have no mercy on the secret poisoner. And the -fact of this one being a young, beautiful, and high-born girl, only -makes her crime the more unnatural and monstrous!” - -“But, admiral, it is hard to believe that so lovely a creature could be -such a monster,” said the lady. - -“Bah! bah! madam; you have not read history, or you have forgotten it. -Remember the Countess of Essex, Madame Brinvilliers, Lucretia Borgia, -Mary Stuart, and many other young, beautiful, and high-born devils. -Human nature is the same in all ages and countries. The youth, beauty, -and high-birth of this young Asiatic fiend will no more save her from -the gallows than the same sort of charms saved Brinvilliers or Mary -Stuart from the block!” replied the old gentleman, savagely. - -Shudder after shudder passed over the frame of the unfortunate subject -of these severe remarks, as she sat an unsuspected hearer of the -conversation. - -Malcolm, standing by her side, with his back to the speakers, could only -seek to sustain her courage by an earnest pressure of her hand. It was -but an ordeal of five minutes, and then the shrill whistle of the -advancing train warned all the passengers to hurry to the platform. - -The conversing party dropped their interesting subject, and hastened -away. - -Malcolm, drawing Eudora’s arm within his own, hurried after them. - -When they arrived upon the platform the train had stopped, and the -engine was noisily puffing and blowing like a short-winded alderman out -of breath after a run. - -Passengers were hurrying into the various carriages. - -“Can we have a _coupé_?” inquired Malcolm, slipping a crown into the -hands of one of the guards. - -“Oh, yes, sir,” answered that functionary, opening a door and admitting -the fugitives into the desired privacy. - -“Sweethearts!” he muttered to himself, as he locked the door and -pocketed the crown. - -The train started, and Malcolm and Eudora, finding themselves alone in -the _coupé_, looked in each other’s faces wistfully. - -“Oh, Malcolm,” said Eudora, “how terrible it is to be so wronged and -hated, and by one’s old family friends, too! Did you hear old Admiral -Brunton, how he spoke of me? Ah! little did he think how near at hand I -was to hear him.” - -“Yes, dear Eudora, I heard him. His remarks were valuable, only to show -how right you are to fly until this storm shall pass,” replied the young -man. - -“But to be wronged and hated so, Malcolm, and by my uncle’s old friends! -Oh! it is very, very cruel!” - -“You must bear up under it bravely, dear love. The time will come when -your innocence will be proved, and then those very friends who wrong you -by their suspicions now will bitterly repent their injustice, and will -love and esteem you more than ever before,” answered the young man, -encouragingly. - -The train rattled on. It was the express, and stopped at no other -station between Abbeytown and London, where it was expected to arrive at -five o’clock in the morning. - -Malcolm and Eudora sank back in their seats, and fell into silence. - -Eudora relapsed into despair, and Malcolm sank into thought. He had -taken her from confinement and immediate danger, but not perhaps from -quick pursuit and rearrest. In the plan of her instant deliverance his -decision and his action had necessarily been so prompt and rapid, that -no time had been left him to determine upon any fixed place of refuge -for the fugitive. His only general idea had been to fly with her, and -conceal her in the multitudinous wilderness of London, until he could -arrange her escape to the Continent. He wished above all things to make -her his own by marriage as soon as they should reach the city; but he -knew that to do so would expose her to certain discovery. He felt -therefore obliged to defer this purpose until he could escape with her -to the Continent. - -To attempt to take her from England immediately he knew would be to -expose her to the certainty of arrest. For, according to the usual -practice, as soon as her escape should be discovered, which it must -inevitably be in a few hours, telegrams he knew would be despatched to -the police or every seaport to anticipate her arrival and to intercept -her passage. - -To hide her, therefore, in the crowds of London until the first heat of -the pursuit should be over, then to escape with her to some foreign -country, and there unite his fate with hers for good or ill forever—and -then wait patiently until Providence should bring the truth to light, by -discovering the guilty and vindicating her innocence—seemed the only -plan that promised any success. - -“But where in London should he leave her?” It must be in a part of the -town far distant from the terminus of the Great Northern Railway; it -must be in a thickly-populated neighborhood, where the presence even of -a remarkable stranger should not attract the slightest notice; it must -be in lodgings over some small busy shop, where the people should be too -much occupied with their own concerns to pry into those of others. - -After much close thought, Malcolm fixed upon the Borough as the -neighborhood of their destination. Lodgings of the description he wished -to find for Eudora were not scarce in that locality. - -Having settled this point to his satisfaction, the next thing to be -considered was under what name and character, and with what pretext, he -should leave her in her destined lodgings. To introduce her by her real -name would be certain destruction, since, before another twenty-four -hours, that name—connected with a horrible crime—would be widely blown -over England. To pass her under an assumed name, though the extreme -exigency of the circumstances might almost seem to justify the -deception, was an idea abhorrent to his truthful, honorable and -high-toned nature. The longer he thought of this difficulty the more -insurmountable it seemed. Occupied with this problem, which any one of -less delicate scruples would have quickly solved, Malcolm did not once -speak again to his companion, even to attempt to rouse her from the fit -of despondency into which she had again fallen. - -Meantime the train flew over the sterile heaths of Yorkshire, and in due -time entered the more cultivated country nearer the great metropolis. - -At last, rousing himself desperately, he said to his companion: - -“Eudora, dearest, have you any middle name?” - -“Yes; I was christened Eudora Milnes; but I never use my middle name, -and, indeed, never did; it is quite a dead letter,” replied the girl, in -surprise at the question. - -“So much the better. I cannot endure the idea of your passing under a -fictitious name, and yet you must not be known as Eudora Leaton. I shall -therefore call you Miss Milnes; do not forget it. And if your other name -is marked upon any of your clothing, do not fail to cut it out, lest it -should meet the eye of your laundress. As you bring no clothing with -you, you will have to procure a small supply from some outfitter, and be -sure to order them marked ‘E. Milnes.’ They will think ‘E’ stands for -Emily, or Eliza, or some such common name. Dear girl, I trust these -precautions will not long be needful,” said Malcolm, endeavoring to -infuse into her heart a hope that he himself was far from feeling. - -The train flew onward, and soon the lights of London were seen to the -southward before them. - -Day was dawning when the train arrived at the King’s-cross station. - -“Now, my dearest Eudora, you must trust yourself entirely to me, -believing that I will do all that is best for your safety,” said -Malcolm, as the train stopped. - -“I am sure that you will, my best and only friend; besides, who in the -world have I now to trust in but yourself?” said Eudora, in deep -emotion. - -“You shall never regret the confidence you place in me, Eudora,” replied -Malcolm, earnestly. - -At this moment the guard opened the door. He was the same man who had -put them into the _coupé_ at the Abbeytown Station; and in grateful -remembrance of the crown-piece given him by Mr. Montrose, he now -politely inquired if the gentleman wanted a cab, and offered to call -one. - -Malcolm perceived at once that this man would be sure to remember -himself and his black-veiled companion, and would be able to describe -her appearance if inquiries should be made of him, as they were nearly -certain to be. He felt, therefore, the necessity of throwing the man off -the scent of his own purposed course. With this design, he inquired: - -“When does the next train start for Liverpool?” - -“At five thirty, sir.” - -“Then you may call me a cab at once,” said Mr. Montrose, handing his -companion from the _coupé_, and leading her through the station. - -The cab drew up. - -The officious guard held the door open until Mr. Montrose had put his -companion in and taken his seat beside her. - -“Where shall I order the man to drive, sir?” asked the guard. - -“To Euston-square Station, of course,” replied Mr. Montrose. - -“A runaway match, as sure as shooting. They didn’t even stop to take -their luggage,” said the guard to himself, as he closed the door. - -The order was given, and the carriage started. - -It was a dark, foggy morning, into which broad day seemed unable to -break. The streets were at this hour half-deserted, and very dreary. The -carriage rattled noisily over the stones between closed shops and -darkened houses, and drew up before Euston-square Station. - -Here the scene was much busier. A crowd of carriages of all descriptions -were continually drawing up or driving off. A multitude of people were -pouring in and out of the building, for one train had just arrived, and -another was just about to start. - -Mr. Montrose alighted, handed out his companion, and paid and dismissed -the cab. And at the same moment a newly-arrived traveller stepped up, -engaged the same cab, and ordered the man to drive to “Mivart’s.” - -And Mr. Montrose, glad that this possible witness to his next -proceedings was taken out of the way, led Eudora into the station. It -was very much crowded, and the space before the ticket-windows was -thronged. While Malcolm debated with himself whether he should carry his -_ruse_ so far as actually to lead Eudora up to the first-class window -and take tickets, he saw a gentleman and a young lady in deep mourning, -closely veiled, go up and get two first-class tickets to Liverpool. - -“That will do,” said Malcolm to himself. “Should inquiries be pushed to -this extent, that party may pass very well for her they seek.” - -Then drawing Eudora’s arm within his own, and joining the throng of -newly-arrived passengers that were passing from the station, he went -forth. Taking an opposite direction from that of the place at which they -had first been set down, he called another cab, placed Eudora in, took -his seat by her side, and ordered the man to drive to St. Paul’s -churchyard. - -It was now broad daylight, and all London was waking up and throwing -open its windows. As they drove along, Mr. Montrose said to his -wondering companion: - -“Now, my dearest Eudora, though you ask me no questions concerning this -strange proceeding, I must give you an explanation. I have acted thus in -order to throw your pursuers off the scent; for if that railway-guard -who attended us at Abbeytown and at the King’s-cross station, should be -examined by the police, as is most likely, though he may be able to -describe your person, dress, and appearance in such an accurate manner -as to leave no doubt upon their minds that it was yourself who came up -to London by the night train, yet, mark me, he will say that on reaching -the King’s-cross terminus you took a cab to the Euston-square Station to -catch the ‘five thirty’ down train to Liverpool. The cabman who took us -down will support his evidence, and even the clerk of the first-class -ticket-office will corroborate both testimonies by remembering a young -lady in deep mourning, who took a first-class ticket for that train to -Liverpool. Thus being thrown off the true scent by my ruse, they will -think that you have gone down to Liverpool with the purpose of escaping -by one of the outward-bound steamers, while you may repose unsuspected -and securely in London.” - -“But,” said Eudora, anxiously, “since I have fled, had I not better -continue my flight? Had I not better escape at once to some foreign -country?” - -“It would be impossible for you to do so at present, Eudora. I must tell -you why. In an hour or two from this time your flight will be discovered -at Allworth. In the same hour telegrams will be despatched to the police -of every seaport on the coast of England to intercept you if you should -attempt to pass. These telegrams will reach their destinations before -you could possibly arrive at any seaport, and you would be arrested -immediately upon your arrival.” - -“Oh, Lord of Heaven! that I, that I should be so hunted! hunted as -though I were a wild beast!” exclaimed Eudora, shuddering with terror. - -“Many a fair and good queen and princess has been so hunted before you, -dear girl! Even in recent times your own friend, the heroic Princess -Pezzilini, was obliged to fly for her life! Emulate her heroism, dear -girl,” said Malcolm, earnestly pressing her hand. - -“Ah! but she was not dishonored by the charge of a foul and monstrous -crime. Her offence was a political one, and her very flight was -honorable. There is no parallel between her case and mine,” moaned the -poor girl. - -“Take courage and have patience, dear Eudora, while I speak of our -future plans,” said Malcolm, affectionately pressing her hand. - -“Ah, I will! I will be courageous and patient! I ought not to complain -of any affliction so long as Heaven has left me so true a friend!” - -“Thank you, dear Eudora, for that tribute. Listen now, dearest; I will -take you to some safe and honorable retreat, and leave you there for the -present. When the first heat of the pursuit is over, when it will be -safe to do so, I will take you down to some one of the seaports, and -escape with you to America. There you will give me this dear hand in -marriage. There I will work for our mutual support until the course of -time and Providence shall have cleared you of this false and dreadful -charge, and paved the way for our happy return! This is my plan, Eudora! -How do you like it?” - -“Oh, Heaven bless and reward you, Malcolm, who sacrifice yourself to -save the poor lost girl, whom there is none either to pity or to -succor!” exclaimed Eudora, fervently. - -They had now turned into St. Paul’s churchyard, which was all alive with -the commencement of the business of the day. Malcolm kept his gaze out -of the window, as if in search of some particular place. At length, when -they had got just opposite to a ladies’ out-fitting establishment, he -stopped the cab, paid and dismissed it, and led Eudora towards the shop. - -“I deem it safest, dearest, to change at every place we stop. Go in -there now, and purchase things as you may require, and have them packed -in a box, with your name, ‘Miss Milnes,’ written upon it. I will remain -outside until you have completed your business.” - -Eudora entered the shop, and was promptly served with everything that -she needed. - -When she appeared at the door, with a shop-girl bearing the box behind -her, Malcolm hailed an empty cab that was passing by, entered it with -Eudora and her purchases, and gave the brief order: - -“To the White Swan Hotel, Borough.” - -A rapid drive of twenty minutes brought them to the house. - -Here Malcolm discharged the cab and entered the hotel, leading Eudora, -and followed by a porter carrying her box. - -He asked to be shown into a private sitting-room, and ordered breakfast -immediately for two. - -The waiter hastened to obey; and while breakfast was being prepared, -Malcolm persuaded Eudora to lay off her bonnet and shawl, and repose in -an easy-chair. - -A comfortable meal of coffee, muffins, fresh eggs and ham was soon -spread, and Malcolm led his companion to the table, saying: - -“Come, eat, dear Eudora; nature must be sustained, even through the -direst afflictions.” - -She drank a cup of coffee, and ate an egg and a small piece of bread. -When breakfast was over, Malcolm said: - -“You will stop and rest here for an hour, dearest, while I take a walk -in search of suitable lodgings for you. You will not be anxious or -frightened to be left alone?” - -“I will try not to be so,” she answered. - -He pressed her hand and left the parlor. - -As he passed through the coffee-room on his way out, he heard the -visitors and loungers discussing the news in that morning’s _Times_. -Some topic of unusual interest seemed to occupy them. Malcolm’s heart -stood still as he caught some detached portions of their conversation. - -“I recollect perfectly well when the baron died a few months ago. There -was a suspicion of his having been poisoned; and now to think of the -whole family being destroyed in that way!—and by one young girl to whom -they had been so very kind, too! What a young devil she must be!” said -one. - -“Oh, she comes from India, it appears. And India is the native land of -devils, as we have good reason to know since the revolt of the Sepoys,” -said another. - -“Well, it is a good thing that the unnatural young monster is in -custody. If she isn’t hung the gallows might as well be put down -altogether; but she is safe to be, for this beats Palmer all hollow.” - -Malcolm heard no more. With a sinking heart he hurried out into the air, -and took his way down the street, and began to tread the narrow lanes -and alleys of the neighborhood in search of such lodgings as he desired -for Eudora. At length, about half way down, between the two crossings of -a narrow street, he paused before a small green-grocer’s shop bearing -the name of Mrs. Corder, over which a bill in an upper window announced -“Apartments.” He entered the shop, and behind the counter found the -proprietress, a fat, middle-aged, motherly-looking widow, with a large -number of children, who were continually toddling in and out between the -little dark back parlor and the front shop. - -Stepping up to the counter, he asked the woman to show him the -apartments she had to let. - -“Here, Charley,” said Mrs. Corder, calling her eldest hope, a red-haired -lad of about ten years old, “to take her place while she showed the -gentleman the rooms above.” - -“The lodgers have a private entrance, sir,” she said, leading the way -out of the shop to a street door on its right hand, which admitted them -into a narrow passage, from which an equally narrow staircase led to the -second floor. - -Mr. Montrose followed the landlady up-stairs to a pair of small, plainly -furnished, but clean rooms, connected by folding doors. The front one -was a parlor, the back one a chamber. - -“What are your terms?” inquired Mr. Montrose, when he had glanced -approvingly around these rooms. - -“Twenty-five shillings a week, sir, with attendance,” replied Mrs. -Corder. - -“Have you other lodgers?” - -“No others, sir, except a poor gentleman and his daughter as have the -rooms over these, and has never paid me a penny for ’em,” added the -woman, in a low tone, but loud enough to be heard. - -“I will engage these rooms, for a lady, who will take possession -immediately; and here is four weeks’ payment in advance.” - -Mrs. Corder curtsied lowly in acknowledgment of this liberality, and -promised to have fires lighted immediately to air the apartments. - -And Mr. Montrose hurried back to the White Swan, where he found Eudora -still resting in the easy-chair, and awaiting him. - -“I have found you lodgings, dearest, where I hope and believe you will -be both comfortable and safe. They are over a small green-grocer’s shop -kept by a stout, rosy good-humored-looking widow, with a large family of -young children. And with her shop, her children, and her lodgers to -attend to, she is much too busy to pry into other peoples’ private -affairs. You may get ready now while I call a carriage,” said Malcolm, -and without waiting to hear her warm thanks, he passed out. - -In two minutes he returned, and led his companion, who was quite ready, -to the carriage. Her box was put in, and the directions given to the -coachman, who drove on. - -A quarter of an hour’s drive brought them to the private entrance of -Mrs. Corder’s house. The good-humored landlady stood at the door to -receive her new lodger. - -Mr. Montrose alighted, handed Eudora out, and led her into the house, -followed by the coachman carrying the box, which he sat down in the -passage. - -“Poor girl,” murmured the landlady to herself, as she noticed the deep -mourning and pale face of her guest. “Poor girl! an orphan, I dare -say—some clergyman’s daughter come up to London to get her living as a -daily governess or something. She do look like that. But lawk, she’ll -never be able to pay twenty-five shillings a week for her lodgings, and -that she’ll soon find out. Hows’ever, the gentleman has paid the first -month in advance, and maybe he may——. Lawk, I wonder whatever he is to -her——.” - -“This is my cousin, Miss Milnes, who is to be your new lodger, Mrs. -Corder. Will you please to show her at once to her rooms?” said Mr. -Montrose, who, having settled with the man, now turned and presented his -companion to her landlady. - -“Yes, certainly, sir; the rooms are quite ready. I’m proud to see you, -Miss Miller—that’s a real governessing name, is Miller,” added the -landlady, _sotto voce_, as she led the way up-stairs, and threw open the -door of the front parlor. - -Malcolm and Eudora entered the room, and the landlady lingered to -receive orders. - -“You may have the box sent up, if you please, Mrs. Corder,” said Mr. -Montrose, to get rid of the good woman, who dropped a curtsey and -withdrew. - -“Now, dearest Eudora,” said the young man, “for your own sake I must -hasten to leave you. I must hurry back to Allworth Abbey, that no one -may suspect that I have been so far absent from the neighborhood, or -connect my absence with your disappearance. My presence is also -necessary to assist at the funeral obsequies at Allworth. So you -perceive, dearest, that I must immediately depart.” - -“Oh, yes, I know that for every good reason you must go,” said Eudora. - -“And this advice I must give in leaving you—keep yourself closely within -doors! send the landlady or her son out for whatever you may require—but -go not forth yourself. If time hangs heavily on your hands, send for -books from Mudie’s Circulating Library, a branch of which stands near -this. Do not risk writing to any one, not even to me, unless it should -be positively necessary; and, if you do write, be careful neither to put -address nor date at the top of your letter, nor name of any sort at the -bottom; and direct your letter to Howth, a post town about twenty miles -from Allworth. Do you mark me, dear Eudora?” - -“Oh, yes, I mark, and I will remember and follow your directions.” - -“I will write to you under your middle name of Milnes, and post my -letters at Howth. Now, dearest, trust in God—trust also in me; keep up -your spirits, and hope for the best. You will be quite safe here, as you -know the hunt for you will be led off in an opposite direction. Your -landlady is evidently a good-humored, obliging, unsuspicious creature, -who will endeavor to make you comfortable. If she should betray any -curiosity upon the subject of my interest in you, tell her so much of -the truth as that we are betrothed, but avoid telling her my name; she -will probably believe it to be the same as your own. Will you remember -all these things?” - -“Oh, yes, yes, dearest Malcolm!” said Eudora, endeavoring to control her -emotions. - -“And now, my beloved, I have not a moment more to stay, for I must catch -the train. Good-bye! good-bye! I leave you in the keeping of Him who -ever watches over the innocent,” said Malcolm, pressing her to his bosom -in a parting embrace. Then he put her gently back into her chair, and -hurried from the room. - -On the stairs he met the boy bringing up the box, and in the passage -below he saw the landlady. - -“I have taken leave of my cousin, Mrs. Corder; but I must commit her to -your best care. She has lost both her parents, and is in deep sorrow, as -well as in reduced circumstances; she never lived in lodgings before, -and is very inexperienced. Therefore, I must beg that you will be a kind -of mother to her,” said Mr. Montrose, slipping another five-pound note -into the hand of the woman as he took leave of her. - -“Thank’ee, sir; lawks, sir, I’m a poor widder, with a large family, but -I don’t require no bribery to do my duty by my lodgers, nor likewise to -be good to a poor, dear, fatherless, motherless young creature like -her,” said the landlady, pocketing the money. - - - - - CHAPTER VIII. - ANNELLA. - - “She is our perplexity, - A creature light and wild; - Though on the verge of beggary, - As careless as a child.” - - -When the door had closed behind Malcolm Montrose, and Eudora was left -alone in her strange lodgings for the first time in her life, then all -the extreme miseries of her position rushed back upon her memory, and -despair overwhelmed her soul. - -To be charged with an unnatural and monstrous crime, at the very name of -which her pure heart shuddered;—to be hunted like a wild beast;—to be -hiding like a burrowing fox;—the situation was terrible in its danger; -but oh, how much more terrible in its degradation! And through all her -own personal consciousness of wrong, shame, sorrow, and peril, two -questions continually forced themselves upon her attention: - -WHO was the poisoner of her uncle’s family? - -WHAT was the motive for the fell deed? - -Although the last two days had been a season of unexampled distress, -excitement, and fatigue—and although for the last three nights she had -not once closed her eyes in slumber—yet she could not now rest for one -moment in her chair. - -She started up with her hands pressed to her throbbing and burning -temples, and with a distracted manner and irregular steps paced the -floor. - -One of the most perplexing elements in her misery was that she could not -adequately comprehend her own situation. She understood “a horror” in -her state, but not her state. Knowing her own innocence, it seemed to -her absolutely incredible that every one else should not know it also, -and monstrous that any one should suspect her of crime, and especially -of such an atrocious crime. She could not fully credit the fidelity of -her own memory, the evidence of her own experience, or the testimony of -her own senses. She was haunted with a vague suspicion that this was all -a frightful dream, from which she should presently awake in surprise and -joy. - -This distrust of the actual is a dangerous state of mind, being the -intermediate stage between the last extremity of mental suffering and -the insanity to which it tends. Just as the wretched girl was beginning -to lose herself in these metaphysical miseries the real world broke in -upon her with the voice of her landlady, who was heard outside the door, -saying: - -“Here, Charley, set down the box; I’ll take it in myself; and now you -go, like a clever boy, and mind the shop till I come.” - -There was a sound of the box set down upon the floor and of the retreat -of Charley down the stairs, and then a rap at the door. - -“Come in,” said Eudora, pausing in her walk. - -The landlady entered, and inquired: - -“Where will you have this set, Miss Miller?” - -“In my chamber,” replied Eudora, in a startled voice, like one suddenly -roused from a dream. - -Our landlady looked wistfully at her, and after depositing the box in a -corner of the bed-room, she came back, and in a motherly manner took -Eudora by the hand, and made her sit down again in the arm-chair, while -she stood by her and said: - -“Now, don’t ye take on so, that’s a darling! Sure we’ve all got to lose -our parents, unless we ourselves die afore our time. I’ve lost my mother -and father; yes, and the father of my thirteen children, too! And _I_ -don’t take on about it! Sure if I did the house would go to ruin and the -children to the union! And then there’s that poor child up-stairs, with -a father as is worse nor dead, coming home every night drunk, and -beating and starving her nearly to death! Why, _she_ don’t take on, but -is as merry as a monkey, with her lantern jaws and large eyes. And more -be token, if it wasn’t for the child, I’d ha’ sent the father packing -long ago, which he has never paid me the first penny of rent for his -rooms the six weeks he has been here, and swears at me when I ask him -for it! So you see, dear, everybody has their own troubles in this -world, but for all that we musn’t take on about it, but must do the best -we can for ourselves and each other too. Now I make no doubt you would -be the greatest of blessings to that young girl up-stairs, and she’d be -the best of amusement to you! _She’d_ take you off your sorrows; she’s -the liveliest, queerest, funniest—There, _that’s_ her now! Listen!” - -At this moment a bounding step was heard upon the stairs, and a -carolling voice broke forth in song: - - “I care for nobody—no, not I! - And nobody cares for me!” - -as the singing-girl vanished up into the upper stories of the house. - -“There! that’s her! she’s always just like that! Now it’s ten to one as -that child will have any dinner this day, yet listen how she sings like -a lark! Shall I go and fetch her down to you? She’d be a world of -entertainment to you!” - -“Oh, no, no, not for the world. I am not fit for any company, least of -all for that of a light-hearted girl. Yet I thank you for the kind -thought,” replied Eudora. - -“Well, then, dear, since you are too heavy-hearted to be soothed by -anything lively, you must try to interest yourself in something -serious—anything to take your mind off from brooding over your own -troubles,” said the landlady, and taking a folded newspaper from her -pocket, she added: - -“Now here, here’s this morning’s _Times_ as I’ve been and borrowed from -the library at the corner, o’ purpose to read the true account of this -horrible poisoning case up in the North! Lawk! only to think of it, my -dear—a whole family p’isoned by one young girl, and she their own orphan -niece as they fotched over from Indy, and did so much for! But they’ve -_got_ her, that’s a comfort! they’ve _got_ her safe enough! She’ll never -get off! To think of any young girl being of such a born devil and -coming for to be hung at last. Lawk! it do make my blood run cold.” - -“But how do you know that she poisoned the family?” asked Eudora, in a -faltering voice, and with a shudder that she could not control. - -“Lawk! dear, it’s all as clear as a sunshiny noonday. Here, read it for -yourself. I see my landlord coming across the street towards the house, -and he’s a-coming after his money, which, thanks to Mr. Miller’s -liberality, I have got all ready for him.” And so saying, the landlady -put the _Times_ into the hands of her panic-stricken lodger and went -away down-stairs and into her shop, where she found her surly landlord -waiting. - -“Well, mum,” began the latter, turning a contemptuous glance around the -little shop, “I have come to tell you that I will not wait another day! -There are now two quarters’ rent due, and if the money is not -forthcoming I intend to sell you out. You needn’t tell me any more about -lodgers that can’t pay; if you _will_ keep paupers in the house you must -take the consequence.” - -“Mr. Grubbins,” said the landlady, going behind her counter with a -bustling air of self-confidence, “luck is like a pendulum as sways first -to the right and then to the left, and so on backwards and forwards. And -if I have one lodger as can’t pay all at once, poor gentleman, I have -another as pays like a princess! You see the Lord hasn’t forgot me and -my thirteen orphans. So, if you please, Mr. Grubbins, write me a receipt -for a half year’s rent; for I mean to pay you all, and get out of _your_ -debt, though I mayn’t have five shillings left.” - -Mr. Grubbins stared in astonishment, and then, with but little abatement -of his severity, wrote out the receipt, while Mrs. Corder laid two -five-pound notes and five sovereigns in gold down upon the counter. - -“Be more punctual for the future, and don’t let one quarter run into -another, and then, maybe, you’ll keep out of trouble,” said Mr. -Grubbins, for he did not believe in the continuous prosperity of a poor -widow with thirteen children, even with Providence to remember her and -them. - -And so Mr. Grubbins relieved the little shop of his oppressive presence. - -Meantime, up-stairs, Eudora, under the spell of a strange fascination, -pored over the _Times’_ account of the tragedy at Allworth Abbey. There -she saw her own blameless name held up to public scorn and execration. - -When she had finished reading, she let the paper drop listlessly from -her hands, while she herself fell again into that stupor of despair -which threatened to undermine her reason. - -In this miserable torpor she sat motionless, until the entrance of the -landlady to lay the cloth for her solitary dinner. - -The good woman was, as usual, full of kindness, solicitude, and gossip, -but all this availed nothing in arousing the wretched girl from her -apathy. Even the dinner, when prepared, remained untasted, nor could the -landlady prevail upon her stricken lodger to approach the table. - -“Oh, this will never do in the world! The girl will kill herself,” -thought good Mrs. Corder, as at length she carried away the untouched -spring chicken and green peas. “I’ll just wait till tea-time, and then -if a cup of good strong green tea don’t rouse her out of this, I know -what I’ll do. I’ll just make free to call in the medical man from over -the way to look at her. I’m not a-going to let such a profitable lodger -as _she_ is die for want of seeing after, _I_ know.” - -And accordingly, an hour after the failure of the dinner, Mrs. Corder -brought up Eudora’s tea, with some delicate cream toast and delicious -guava jelly, all of which she arranged in the most tempting manner upon -the table. She then besought her young lodger to partake of it, hinting -at the same time that unless the latter would listen to reason in a -matter in which her own health was concerned, it would really be -necessary to call in the medical man over the way to see her. - -The threat of a visit from the doctor had more effect than all the other -arguments by Mrs. Corder. Eudora suffered herself to be seated at the -table, and drank off the cup of tea that the careful hostess put into -her hand. - -And such was the beneficial effect of that blessed gift to woman, “the -cup that cheers, and not inebriates,” that Eudora, notwithstanding all -her wrongs, griefs and terrors, felt her vital spirits returning, and -with them her natural relish for food. And to Mrs. Corder’s great joy -she ate a round of toast and a spoonful of jelly. - -“Now, there’s for you! now then you’ll do. See what it is to take -advice. If you had had your own way, you’d a’starved yourself nearly to -death, and been ill. And now, if you’ll take more advice, you’ll go -right to bed and to sleep,” said the delighted woman as she cleared away -the table. - -Eudora followed her counsel, and retired almost immediately to bed, -where as soon as her light was put out, and her head was dropped upon -her pillow, a feeling of drowsiness stole over her brain, and she slept -and forgot her sorrows. - -Late that evening—after Mrs. Corder had given her children their supper, -and sent them to their beds up in the attic, and had closed up her shop -for the night—she came up-stairs and paused for a moment on the first -landing to listen at Eudora’s chamber door. Hearing her breathe deeply, -like one soundly sleeping, the landlady nodded and smiled confidentially -to herself, murmuring: - -“Ah, ha! she is sleeping like a baby, the poor, dear, motherless -child!—sleeping like an innocent infant baby without a trouble in the -world, thanks be to the laudamy drops as I put into her tea-cup, and to -Him as made the poppy grow for the sake of sorrowful mortals; for if it -hadn’t a’ been for that, sure she’d a’ gone mad to-night instead o’ -going peaceably to sleep. Well, laudamy is a blessing for which we -should be thankful, as well I know as I would a’ gone crazy the night -Corder died if so be the medical man hadn’t a given me laudamy drops!” - -So saying, and being perfectly satisfied with the result of her own -medical experience, good Mrs. Corder glided noiselessly up the second -pair of stairs, and paused again upon the second landing. - -Seeing a light shine through a half-open door, she, without the ceremony -of knocking, entered a fireless and cheerless bed-chamber, where a young -girl of about fifteen years of age sat reading by the light of a -farthing candle. - -Mrs. Corder sat her own candle down upon the chest of drawers, and -dropped into a chair to recover her breath, while she gazed with -interest and curiosity upon the young girl who was so absorbed in the -perusal of her book as not to notice the entrance of the landlady. - -No one—not even the most careless observer—could have looked upon that -girl with indifference. Her form was slight and fragile, and her face -pale and thin from that unmistakable emaciation which attends a slow -starvation—a slow starvation that saps life as surely as a slow poison. -Yet, withal, the character of her face was full of spirit, courage, and -even mischief. Her bright brown hair rippled back from a full round, -white forehead, and flowed down her shoulders in wavelets that were -golden in the light and bronze in the shade. Her eyebrows, of a darker -hue, were depressed towards the root of her nose, and elevated towards -the temples, giving a peculiarly arch expression to her large, clear, -gray eyes, that, fringed with their long, thick lashes, might otherwise -have seemed too thoughtful and melancholy for one so young. Her slightly -turned-up nose, and short upper lip and rounded chin, were also full of -that expression of archness which seemed the natural characteristic of -her face. For the rest, she wore a faded light gray dress, without any -addition except a white linen collar. - -When Mrs. Corder had watched her for about a minute, she called her -attention by saying: - -“Miss Annella!” - -The young girl started, and looked up, and with a laugh exclaimed, - -“Oh, Mrs. Corder, is that you? How you startled me! bringing me so -suddenly down from dream-land to sober earth. I feel as if I had fallen -from a balloon, and struck the ground in a very damp, cold marsh.” - -“Miss Annella, dear, I just dropped in to say if so be you are awaiting -up for the captain, you may as well go to bed, because, if he comes home -to-night—which is very uncertain, you know—I can just let him in -myself.” - -“Thank you, dear, kind Mrs. Corder; you are really too good for this -wicked world! But you are tired with this day’s work, and you need your -full night’s rest to prepare you for to-morrow’s; therefore, you see you -must go to bed and go to sleep. As for me, I have got an interesting -book here, and I could not leave it until I get to the end of it if it -were to save my life! So sitting up will be no act of self-denial on my -part.” - -“La, now! what sort of a book is it as can keep a young gal out of her -bed at this time o’night?” inquired the landlady, with interest. - -“It is the history of a brave boy, that took his father’s crime upon his -own childish shoulders, and ran away to draw off the chase from his -father’s house, and threw himself upon the world to seek his fortune! -Yes, and he will find it too; or, at least, I shall not lay the book -down until he does.” - -“Lawk! I wonder if it is true?” - -“To be sure it is true; every word of it is true. It is too good not to -be true!” replied the girl, enthusiastically. - -“Well, I declare!” - -“Oh, how I wish I was a boy!” - -“Lawk, Miss Annella?” - -“Yes, I do! Oh, don’t I wish I was a boy! If I were, oh, wouldn’t I go -and seek my fortune, too!” - -“Lawk-a-daisy me, Miss Annella, whatever do you mean?” inquired the -astounded landlady. - -“I mean just what I say!” exclaimed the girl, throwing down her book, -and laughing gaily. “I mean that I would like to be as free as I should -be if I were a boy, or rather if I were a man. I would like to go where -I please, to do as I wish; to struggle with the goddess Fortune until I -had made the capricious vixen my slave!” concluded the girl; and it was -strange to see the fire that gleamed from her dark-gray eyes, and glowed -upon her wan cheeks, as she spoke. - -“La, bless my soul,” thought the terrified landlady, “what a misfortin -it is for young creatures to lose their mothers, for sure, never was a -woman so beset with two such luny gals as I am by these two motherless -young things. The one down-stairs is a-going melancholy mad, and the one -up here is gone merry mad.” Then aloud she asked: - -“Miss Annella, do you remember your mother?” - -“My poor, dear mother!” said the girl, in a tone of deep pathos, and -with a total change of expression and manner. “No, I am very sorry that -I cannot remember her. How should I, when she died while I was yet in -the cradle—died broken-hearted, it is said, because my grandfather would -never forgive her for having married my father.” - -“Well, that was hard, too; for though it’s undutiful for a child to -marry against the wishes of her parents, and never turns out to no -good—as you may see yourself—still it is unnatural for a parent to hold -out forever agin a child. So she died, poor woman, while you were a -baby!” - -“She died in the second year of her marriage, when I was but a few -months old.” - -“Ah, then, that accounts for all your oddities, poor child. I daresay, -now, you never even had a female aunt to look after you?” - -“Not since I can recollect. I never had one but my father. We used to -live about in barracks, wherever his regiment might be quartered for the -time, until the evil days came, and poor father was cashiered—” - -“Umph, ah! for drink, I suppose,” thought the landlady; but she said -nothing, and Annella continued: - -“Since that time we have lived about in London lodgings, but never in -any lodgings, Mrs. Corder, where I have been so happy as I have been -here with you,” said the poor girl, with grateful tears swimming in her -eyes. - -“Hum! I can easily comprehend _that_; I’ve never pressed the captain for -his rent, which I don’t suppose his other landladies has been so -forbearing,” thought the good woman; but instead of expressing such a -thought, she said, kindly: - -“Well, child, having so many fatherless children of my own, it came -natural to me to try to make a motherless girl comfortable; for, as I -often says to myself, suppose my children had been motherless, for -though it is bad enough to be fatherless, it is ten thousand times worse -to be motherless, as every orphan child knows. So now, my dear, I think, -as you are determined to finish your book before you go to bed, the -sooner I go and leave you to do it the better. And so good-night, my -dear.” - -“Good-night, dear, good Mrs. Corder,” replied the young girl, warmly -pressing the kind hand that was extended to her. - -And the worthy landlady took up her candle and went up a third flight of -stairs to the attic, where she slept with her numerous progeny in -quarters nearly as close as those of the fabulous “old woman that lived -in a shoe, and had so many children she didn’t know what to do.” - - - - - CHAPTER IX. - THE CHAMBER OF DEATH. - - “Whence is that knocking? - How is’t with me since every noise appalls me?” - - -The sleep of Eudora was deep, long and refreshing. It was late in the -morning when she was awakened by the sound of an unusual commotion in -the house. - -She started up in affright and listened, for in her present distressing -position every new event seemed charged with deadly danger to herself. - -As, with breathless lungs and beating heart she listened, she heard the -sound of several heavy footsteps coming slowly up the stairs, and -frequently pausing, as if to rest a burden. She heard them stop on the -first landing outside her door, and then proceed heavily up the second -flight of stairs. Then she heard them enter the room over her head, and -deposit their burden so heavily that its slow fall shook the ceiling. -This was followed by the shriek of a girl, that rang piercing through -the house, and then dead silence. - -Unable longer to endure the agony of suspense, Eudora rang her bell -violently. - -The summons was immediately answered by the landlady, who hastily -entered the room. - -Finding Eudora pale, faint and trembling, in a state of deadly terror, -she came to her side instantly, saying: - -“There, I knew they would frighten you in your nervous state, though I -cautioned them to be quiet, too.” - -“What is it?” gasped Eudora. - -“La, dear, the men a-bringing home the captain in a dead stupor from the -public, where he has been a-drinkin’ all night.” - -“The captain?” echoed Eudora, still in a state of bewilderment. - -“Yes, dear, Captain Wilder, as I told you about him and daughter last -night. They’ve just brought him home stupid with drink, and the poor -girl thought he was dead, and screamed out, that was all; but I told her -as he’d come to after a bit, and made ’em lay him on the bed, so don’t -you alarm yourself about it, my dear.” - -Eudora sank back upon her pillow, half ashamed of the relief she felt in -knowing that the present shock of sorrow had come to another instead of -to herself. - -Mrs. Corder brought her hot water, and then Eudora arose and dressed, -and passed into her sitting-room, where a comfortable breakfast was soon -prepared. - -Eudora was not so completely absorbed in her own great sorrow as not to -feel some sympathy with the poor girl up-stairs. And she requested Mrs. -Corder to supply Miss Wilder with anything that might be necessary, and -charge it to herself, Eudora. - -As the landlady had said, the captain came out of his stupor, but it was -only to fall into frightful convulsions of _mania-á-potu_. - -Many times during the day the kind-hearted landlady was obliged to run -up-stairs to render assistance to his unfortunate daughter, whose youth, -sex, and inexperience alike rendered her unfit and incompetent to manage -a man in the frenzy of that terrible malady. - -All the afternoon and evening, Eudora was appalled by the dreadful -groans, shrieks, and struggles of the demoniac, as he might truly be -called, who was possessed by the demon of intoxication. - -Late at night those violent demonstrations of frenzy ceased. And Eudora -hoped, for the sake of his hapless daughter, that his madness was over -for the present. - -_It was over for ever._ - -Eudora was just preparing to go to rest, when her door was abruptly -thrown open, and the landlady, in great excitement, entered the room, -saying: - -“Oh, Miss Miller, my dear, for the love of Heaven, go up-stairs and stay -with that poor girl, while I run for the doctor. I do believe the -captain is dying!” - -Eudora, deeply shocked at what she heard, and sensible withal that she -could do but little good in such a case, could not, however, disregard -such an appeal. She arose at once to comply. - -“It is the back room up-stairs, immediately over your own, my dear; -you’ll be sure to find it,” said Mrs. Corder, hurrying away. - -Eudora immediately went up-stairs and rapped at the door of the -apartment to which she had been directed. But receiving no answer, she -gently pushed the door open and entered the room. - -It was a poorly-furnished chamber, lighted by a single tallow candle, -that stood upon a stand on the left side of an uncurtained bedstead, and -cast its sickly beams upon the haggard face of the dying man, whose form -lay extended upon the mattress, and covered with a white counterpane. - -On the right side of the bed knelt his daughter, with her hands clasping -his hands, and her eyes gazing fondly and anxiously into the face of her -father. So completely absorbed was she in her attention to him, that the -entrance of the visitor remained unnoticed. - -“Father,” she said, continuing to gaze imploringly into his insensible -countenance, “father, don’t you know me—won’t you speak to me? Father, -it is your own Nella!” - -She waited, without removing her eyes from those of the dying man, but -receiving no answering word nor even a conscious look in reply to her -impassioned appeal, she dropped her face upon the counterpane, and -sobbed aloud. - -At this moment Eudora glided to her side, laid her hand softly upon her -shoulder, and spoke gently to her, saying: - -“Do not weep so bitterly, Miss Wilder. There may be hope yet.” - -The child sprang lightly to her feet, threw back the golden brown -tresses that half veiled her face, and fixed her long-lashed, soft-gray -eyes upon the beautiful vision that had entered the room, like an angel, -to breathe of hope. - -“I am your fellow-lodger, Miss Wilder, and having some experience in -illness, I have come to render you what assistance I may,” pursued -Eudora. - -“Oh, thank you! thank you a thousand times for coming! But do you think -you can do anything for him! Oh, see! he takes no notice even of a -stranger coming into the room! he does not even know _me_!” exclaimed -Annella, taking her visitor by the hand, and drawing her closely to the -bedside, while she pointed to the suffering man, over whose face the -gray shadows of death were already creeping. - -Eudora saw that this case was not only beyond her skill, but beyond that -of the most skilful physician. Yet she could not find it in her heart to -communicate this grievous truth to the child whose soft, dark eyes were -fixed so beseechingly upon her face. - -“Have you any stimulant in the house—any hartshorn, or even -eau-de-cologne?” - -It was almost mockery to ask for any article of comfort in a place where -the common necessaries of life seemed wanting. And so Eudora felt it to -be when poor Annella shook her head, and then burst into tears. - -“Do not weep, dear; the doctor will be here in a moment, and he will -send the proper remedies immediately,” said Eudora, who had taken up and -was briskly rubbing the icy hand of the sufferer. - -Annella followed her example with the other hand, which she chafed with -the hot tears that fell fast from her eyes. - -The moment after footsteps were heard upon the stairs, and the landlady -and the doctor entered. - -The latter immediately stepped to the side of the bed, from which Eudora -and Annella retired to give him place. - -The doctor took up the hand that Eudora had relinquished, and held it -for about a minute with his finger on the pulse. Then he softly laid it -down again, and stood with his eyes fixed in grave contemplation upon -the stiffening face before him. The landlady drew near in awe. - -“Remove his unhappy daughter from the room. The man has ceased to -suffer,” said the doctor, in a low tone, yet not so low but that its -import struck the heart of Annella, who rushed to the bedside, gazed -wildly upon the fixed features of her father, and then seizing the -doctor’s hand, exclaimed: - -“Dead? Do you mean dead? Oh, no, sir! no, sir! say he is not dead.” - -“Poor child! my saying that will not bring him to life. He has ceased to -suffer! and we must all bow to the will of Heaven!” - -With a low, inarticulate, sobbing moan, like the last utterance of a -breaking heart, the poor girl sank upon the bed beside her father’s -body, and buried her face on his cold bosom. - -There was no violent demonstration of sorrow. After that first -broken-hearted sob and moan she lay as patient, as silent, and as -motionless as the dead beside her. - -They let her remain for a little time, during which they stood in -reverent silence around the bed of death; and then the doctor said: - -“She must be removed. She will make no resistance; she is too much -prostrated to do so.” - -And Mrs. Corder went and tenderly raised the light form in her own -strong, motherly arms, murmuring: - -“La! she has no more solidness in her nor a poor little starved sparrow -in the hard frost.” - -“Bring her into my room, and lay her upon my bed, dear Mrs. Corder, and -then, while you attend to the dead, I will do all I can for the living,” -said Eudora, gravely leading the way from the chamber of death. - -Mrs. Corder followed with her light burden, carrying it, as she had been -desired, to Eudora’s room, deposited it carefully upon her bed, and then -withdrew to render the necessary services elsewhere. - -Eudora, drawn completely out of herself, forgot for the moment her own -sorrows in ministering to those of the poor, bereaved destitute Annella. -Much acquaintance with grief had taught Eudora the rarest of all -arts—that of wisely comforting the afflicted. She knew that sorrow is -less hurtful when it is permitted to express itself in complaints. She -tempted Annella to complain, and the child said: - -“Oh, Miss Miller, it is so—_so_ hard! I hadn’t a friend in the world but -him—and he hadn’t one on earth but me! We were all in all to each other! -and so we always have been, ever since I can remember! When the -court-martial took his commission away from him, he gathered me to his -heart, and said—‘Thank God they can never take _you_ from me, my Nella!’ -And now he is taken from me!” - -Here a burst of tears interrupted her speech. When it was over she -resumed her complaint: - -“They speak ill of him because he drank, Miss Miller; but he could not -help it. How hard he tried to break himself of that fatal habit no one -knows so well as myself—except his Maker! but he never could! Drinking -was as much a disease with him as coughing is with the consumptive, or -shaking is with the paralytic. Oh, Miss Miller, you look so good! _you_ -don’t think hard of my poor dead father do you?” - -“No, dear; I have always believed inebriation—habitual inebriation—to be -a mere disease,” said Eudora, sympathetically. - -“Oh, it is! it is just as much a disease as dyspepsia or consumption is! -This disease that he could not conquer—the dishonor that he felt to the -inmost core of his heart—the despair that he should ever recover all -that he had lost—these broke his heart! I know it; and I will defend his -memory if no one else does!” - -Here another burst of weeping arrested her farther discourse. When this -second gust of sorrow was past, she continued her touching apology for -the dead: - -“If man could see as God sees—what it was that first drove him to -drink—I mean what it was that first brought on this disease, they would -pity instead of condemning him! It was my mother’s early death! He loved -her so much, Miss Miller. Since she died he has never looked upon -another woman with affection. And he loved me so much for her sake! And -now he is gone, and I shall never see him more—never! never! never!” - -Here, for the third time, a wild gush of tears and sobs choked her -voice; but as it gradually subsided to quiet weeping, she grew still, -and dropped into slumber. - -She was but a child in her first sorrow, and like a child she had cried -herself to sleep. - -Eudora then quietly undressed, and lay down by her side, where she soon -shared the same blessing of oblivion and repose. - -The next day was one of great bustle in the house. - -The parish officers, summoned by the troubled landlady, were early on -the premises to take cognizance of the deceased and his necessities. - -It was to be a parish funeral; there was absolutely no help for it. Mrs. -Corder, after having paid her half year’s rent, had not five shillings -left in the world; and as for credit—who in this world would credit a -poor widow with thirteen children, even for a grave in a Christian -churchyard! - -Eudora was equally destitute of money and credit. Mr. Montrose, in -remembering everything else, had forgotten to supply her with funds. And -thus the heiress of Allworth Abbey had not so much as a crown left in -her purse. A fugitive and a stranger, she dared not ask for credit, even -if there had been a chance of her obtaining it. - -Thus it happened that the father of Annella was obliged to be buried at -the expense of the parish. - -In such burials there is no reverent delay, no long lying out; no -funeral feast; no train of mourners; all is plain, cheap, and -expeditious. The coffin was sent in the same morning, and the interment -was ordered for the afternoon. - -Annella heard of this arrangement with a stony resignation. - -“He will not feel it,” she said; “and as for me it does not matter.” - -When the hasty parish funeral was over, there was a talk among the -parish officers of sending the young girl for the present to the union, -until some other disposition could be made of her, and this was opposed -by Mrs. Corder with all her heart and soul. - -“Sure, sirs,” she said, “I would no more consent to her going to the -union, nor I would one o’ my own. Sirs, I’ve thirteen a’ready, and I -don’t mind making ’em fourteen; certain, one more or less can’t make no -noticeable difference in a family like mine, unless it should be one -less instead o’ one more, which the Lord in his mercy forbid!” added the -mother, fervently. - -“Thirteen children! Do you tell me to my face that you have thirteen -children, woman? What do you mean by having thirteen children in an -over-populated parish like this? I should think a visitation of the -scarlet-fever would be a godsend to you,” said one of the officers, -staring in astonishment. - -“Now, may the Lord forgive you for that speech, sir! And as for the -rest, sir, if ever I bring my children on the parish, it will be time -enough for you to reproach me for first bringing ’em into the world. And -more be token, instead of wanting to put a child on the parish, I am -offering for to take one offen it,” said the widow, in honest -indignation. - -“And that’s true, too,” observed the other officer, “but then you have -enough to support now; you will never be able to bear the burdens of an -additional one.” - -“Lord, sir, it will be but the putting of a ha’-penny more on every -measure of peas, or potatoes, and persuading the people that they are -better nor usual,” added Mrs. Corder, _sotto voce_. - -“Humph, humph, well, we will leave the child with you to-night, and -think about it. Perhaps the parish may give you something for keeping -her, until she recovers herself, and is strong enough to be bound out.” - -“Sirs, I thank you; but I would no more take parish help for her nor I -would for one of my own, as I told your worships before.” - -“Well, well, my good woman, there will be time enough to think of that,” -said the senior officer, as himself and his companion took their leave. - -This conversation had taken place in the little back parlor behind the -shop. - -But there had been one unseen, silent, but attentive listener to this -discourse. And that listener was Annella, who, crouching in her grief in -a dark corner of the room, had been a witness to the whole interview. -And while Mrs. Corder was attending the parish officers to the -shop-door, Annella slipped through the side-door opening from the little -back parlor into the hall, and crept away to the privacy of her own -room, there to mature her plans for the future. - -An hour afterwards Mrs. Corder carried her up a cup of tea and a round -of toast, and setting these refreshments down upon a little stand, she -dropped into the nearest chair to recover her breath, and said: - -“Now, for the future, my dear, you will come down and take your meals -with me. I have adopted you, and so you are to be my daughter, unless -some of your kinsfolk should come forward and take you away from me; -which I hope they won’t, unless they can do much better for you than I -can.” - -Annella spoke no word of thanks, but arose and knelt down by the side of -the good mother, and raised her fat hand to her pale lips, and kissed it -fervently. - -“There, child, there; do get up and drink your tea, I aint a image to be -knelt down afore, nor likewise a sovring Queen to have my hand kissed. -But if you are fond of old women, and do want to be petted, why here, -then,” said the affectionate creature, raising the girl, and drawing her -slight form to her own motherly bosom. - -“There, now drink your tea while it is hot, and then go right to bed, -and get a good night’s rest. And mind to-morrow morning come down and -take your breakfast with me at eight o’clock,” said the good woman, -releasing the orphan. - -And then, as Mrs. Corder was much too busy to indulge in sentiment, she -arose and bade Annella good-night, and left her to repose. - -“And now I’ll just look in and see how my other girl does. I might as -well own up to having fifteen children at once, for this beautiful -creature needs a mother’s care as much as any of the others,” said Mrs. -Corder to herself, as on her way down stairs she paused before Eudora’s -door and rapped. - -Being requested to enter, she put her head in at the door, saying: - -“I just looked in upon you to see if you required anything, and to say -that you needn’t trouble your tender heart any longer about Miss Nella. -She’s having her tea, and is going to bed presently. She’ll do very well -for the present. I have adopted her.” - -“You should really be at the head of an orphan asylum, Mrs. Corder,” -said Eudora, looking up from her book. - -“I think I am at the head of an orphan asylum with fifteen orphans to -look after,” said Mrs. Corder, smiling at her own notion. - -Then ascertaining that Eudora required nothing more that evening, she -wished her good-night, and withdrew into the lower regions to attend to -her own more rightful orphans. - -Early the next morning the worthy landlady was stirring. She opened her -little shop betimes, placing the red-haired heir of the house of Corder -behind the counter to serve the early customers, while she busied -herself in the kitchen behind the little back parlor, preparing -breakfast for her family. - -Eight o’clock arrived, and the morning meal was ready; but Annella had -not made her appearance. - -“She is oversleeping herself, poor child; so much the better, it will do -her a world of good; and I can just keep some coffee and muffins for her -against she does wake; so now, children, come, get your breakfasts.” - -And so saying, as in that busy household there was no time to wait, the -good woman gathered her numerous progeny around the long kitchen table. - -When their healthful appetites were well satisfied, the careful mother -bustled up, and leaving her eldest daughter, Sally, a good-humored, -red-haired lass of sixteen years of age, to clear away the table, she -hurried off, up-stairs, to wait upon her lodger. - -And it was while Eudora was seated before a delicate morning repast of -black tea, buttered toast, and soft-boiled fresh eggs, that the latter -inquired: - -“How is Annella this morning?” - -“I have not seen her yet. She is oversleeping herself, poor child, after -all this fatigue and distress, and I hope she will feel the better of -it,” said the worthy woman. - -“And yet it is ten o’clock. She may be ill, Mrs. Corder. And you know -there is no bell in her room.” - -“That is true, Miss Miller; I will run up and see.” - -And so saying, the landlady left the room and went up-stairs. - -Eudora heard her footsteps overhead passing about from one room to the -other, apparently in great excitement. - -Then there was silence for a little while. - -And then the lady was heard rushing down the stairs. - -She threw open the door of Eudora’s room and entered in a state of -extreme agitation, holding an open letter in her hand, and exclaiming: - -“She is gone, Miss Miller!” - -“Gone—_who_?” inquired the bewildered Eudora. - -“Nella! Nella! Who else?” - -“Nella! But _where_ is she gone! Sit down and take breath, Mrs. Corder.” - -The landlady dropped panting into the nearest chair. - -“Now, tell me quietly all about it, Mrs. Corder.” - -“She’s gone! She’s off! that’s all about it.” - -“‘Gone,’ ‘off,’ you said that before; but _why_ has she gone?” - -“’Cause she’s crazy; ’cause she’s frightened o’ the parish officers, -blame ’em, and o’ the union, and o’ being bound out, or else o’ being a -burden to me!” - -“But _where_, then, has she gone!” - -“To her ruin, I’m afeard! To seek her fortin’, she says.” - -“But in what direction?” - -“Lord knows! _I_ don’t, if _she_ does herself. This comes all along o’ -having no home and no mother, and being brought up in a barrack, with no -one but a tipsy father to look after her. Here, Miss Miller; here’s her -letter. I haven’t more than just looked over it. And to go off without -her breakfast, too, before any of us was up! But here’s her letter, Miss -Miller; it is intended for you as well as for me, for see it is -directed—‘_To my good friends_!’ Read it out loud, please, and then, -maybe, I may understand it better, for I never was a good hand at making -out writing.” - -Eudora took the letter, and read: - - DEAR, KIND FRIENDS:—When these lines shall meet your eyes, the poor - girl that you have befriended will be far away from London. But do not - think that she is ungrateful because she is forced to leave you; - forced to leave you for your own sakes as well as for her own. She - cannot consent to become a pauper, to be disposed of by the parish - officers in any manner which they may think proper. And she cannot - remain a burthen upon good Mrs. Corder, or dear Miss Miller. She longs - for freedom and independence, and pines for the country and the open - air. She has not a relation in the world upon whom she has any claim. - But that you may not be uneasy about her, know that she is gone to - seek her fortune in the north of England. There she has a possible - friend in the daughter of her mother’s nurse, the foster-sister of her - mother, Tabitha Tabs, who lives as ladies’-maid at a place called - Allworth Abbey, somewhere in the county of C——. For her mother’s sake, - this Tabitha may help her to some good place in the country, where she - will be willing to work very hard, so that she can only see the green - fields, breathe the fresh air, and feel herself a free girl. And so, - dear friends, pray feel no anxiety for her welfare. But believe, that - He who fed the young ravens will care for her, who will always - remember your kindness with the warmest gratitude while her name is - - “ANNELLA.” - -When Eudora, in reading this letter, met the name of Allworth Abbey, a -deadly terror came over her. She felt all the extreme danger that -threatened herself in the journey of this unsuspicious girl. She could -scarcely command herself sufficiently to read the letter to its close. -And when she had finished the perusal, the paper fluttered and dropped -from her hand, and she sank back half-fainting in her chair. - -The landlady perceived her emotion, but ascribed it wholly to sympathy -with the misguided fugitive. She picked up the letter, and smoothing it -out, began to look at it again, saying: - -“Did ever any human creature hear of such a mad act? For to go and leave -well-known friends to seek her fortin’ among total strangers; and -without any north star to steer by, as one may say, but a ladies’-maid -somewhere in the North of England. Stay. Where did she say the maid was -at service?” - -“At a place called Allworth Abbey,” faltered Eudora, with as indifferent -an air as she could assume. - -“Allworth Abbey? Allworth Abbey? Sure I have heard that name somewhere -lately, and heard no good of it neither,” said the landlady -meditatively. - -Then with a sudden flash of memory lighting up her face, she exclaimed: - -“Why, it’s the very place where that wicked young girl poisoned all her -relations! Lawk! to think that she should be going there! But she -couldn’t ha’ read the _Times_, or heard o’ what’s happened in that -family, or she never would be going there.” - -“There’s a special providence in the fall of a sparrow and a -fore-ordained fate in the journey of a wild girl to Allworth Abbey,” -sighed Eudora. - - - - - CHAPTER X. - THE STUBBORN WITNESS. - - “If a woman will, she will, you may depend on’t: - And if she won’t, she won’t, and there’s an end on’t.” - - -We must return to the scene of the tragedy, and relate what took place -at Allworth Abbey immediately after the escape of Eudora. - -In the first place, as soon as Eudora had taken leave, and before she -had passed through the secret egress, Tabitha shut her eyes, and turned -her back so that she might not actually _see_ by what means, or in whose -company her mistress quitted the chamber. - -But as soon as she heard the panel slipped into its place, and the bolt -on the other side shot across it, she turned, and with a smile of -triumph, sank into the easy-chair, saying: - -“Now they may cross-examine me until all is blue, if they like, and I -can swear a hole through an iron pot that I never saw how she left the -room.” - -And so saying, Miss Tabs yielded herself up to the repose of which she -stood so much in need. - -It was late in the morning when she was awakened by a loud knocking at -the door. - -She started up, recollected in an instant where she was, who rapped, and -what was required. - -She jumped up, rubbed her eyes, shook herself, and went to the door. - -“Well, what do you want?” she inquired, as she opened it a little way. - -“We want the prisoner. Here’s some breakfast for her. Let her eat it -quickly, for the chaise is at the door to convey her to the county -gaol,” said the policeman on duty, handing in a waiter of coffee and -bread. - -“The prisoner? What prisoner are you talking about? There is no prisoner -here!” said Tabitha, disdainfully, as she received the waiter, and set -it upon the side-table. - -“Miss Eudora Leaton, your missus, our prisoner. Tell her to get herself -ready quickly, as we must take her off towards the prison directly,” -said the policeman. - -“My missus! Why, haven’t you taken her off already?” exclaimed Tabitha, -in well-assumed surprise. - -“Taken her off already? No! What do you mean?” inquired the policeman, -in astonishment. - -“I mean as how she isn’t here! as you know very well she isn’t, ’cause -you’ve taken her away! What have you done with her—eh?” cried Tabitha. - -“Come, woman, none of your nonsense; it won’t do with us, I can tell -you; so just get your missus ready to go with us.” - -“And I tell you she ain’t _here_! and you know it a great deal better -than I do! ’cause you _must_ have taken her away! You kept the door!” - -“Not here!” exclaimed the policeman, passing without ceremony into the -room, and proceeding to search it. - -“Now it is of no use to try to gammon people in this way, by pretending -to search the room where you know very well that she cannot be found,” -said Tabitha, scornfully. - -“Where is she?” thundered the policeman. - -“That’s what _you’ll_ have to tell! _You_ kept the door! I suppose you -came in while I was asleep and stole her away! Mayhap you’ve murdered -her and thrown her into the lake for aught that I know! Oh! you shall -pay for it!” cried Tabitha, working herself up into a well-acted -passion. - -The policeman, without paying further heed to her words, immediately -gave the alarm; and the chamber was soon filled with an eager and -curious crowd. - -“Now, then! what is all this about?” inquired the doctor, who was -present. - -“Why, sir, this girl declares that the prisoner has escaped!” said the -policeman. - -“I don’t declare no such thing! I declares that when I woke up this -morning she was gone; and it stands to reason, as that perlice guarded -the door, he must have stolen her away while I was asleep,” cried -Tabitha, in an angry voice. - -“Escaped? how? when? where? Look to all the outer doors and windows. -Search the house! Search the grounds! Give the alarm in the -neighborhood! Fifty pounds to any of you who will bring her back! -Disperse! quick! she destroyed all your master’s family!” exclaimed the -doctor, vehemently, addressing the assembled servants, who hurried away -to obey him. - -“How came you to be so, so negligent, officer, as to let your prisoner -pass you?” inquired Squire Humphreys, one of the magistrates, who had -remained in the house all night, because he was a friend and neighbor of -the late Lord Leaton. - -“As Heaven hears me, your worship, she never got out through this door! -I never left my post for a single minute during the night, but stood -leaning up against the door itself; so that even if I had dropped -asleep, and the door could have been opened, I should have fallen down -and been roused by the fall. But I never closed my eyes during the whole -night, your worship,” said the policeman. - -“This is most wonderful,” continued the magistrate, who, with the -doctor, made a careful examination of the room, including the fastenings -of the window-shutters, which were all found secure. - -“Has any one questioned my comrade, your worship?” inquired the -policeman, respectfully. - -“Sure enough no one has done so,” said the doctor, going and knocking at -the door of the little dressing-room. - -The officer on guard there unlocked the door, and stood face to face -with the doctor. - -“Your prisoner has escaped! How came you to be so careless as to let her -pass?” demanded the doctor. - -“Pass! On my honor, sir, no one has passed me the whole night. I have -stood with my back leaning against the door and the key in my pocket all -the time,” said the officer, in astonishment. - -“This is most inexplicable! Did neither of you hear any noise in the -night?” inquired the magistrate. - -“None whatever, your worship,” said the first officer. - -“Everything was as silent as death, sir,” added the second. - -“This is most incredible! The girl seems to have been a sorceress as -well as a poisoner, and to have vanished up the chimney in a flame of -fire!” exclaimed the doctor, in an angry dismay. - -“I beg your worship’s pardon,” said the principal policeman, coming up -and touching his forehead to the magistrate. - -“Well, Sims, what is it?” - -“I think, sir, as the prisoner could not have escaped through either of -the doors guarded by me or my comrade, that she must have got out in -some other manner, and that this young woman, who stayed with her all -night must know all about it; and with submission to your worship, I -think she ought to be made to tell.” - -“Oh! _ought_ I? I’d like to see who’ll make _me_ tell anything I don’t -want to tell!” exclaimed Miss Tabs, thrown as completely off her guard -as any passionate person may be if one can only succeed in making them -angry. - -“I agree with you,” said the doctor to the policeman. Then turning to -Tabitha, he said: “Young woman, you have betrayed yourself. You -evidently know something of this mysterious escape of the prisoner. And -we must insist upon your divulging all that you do know.” - -“Werry well, insist away; I aint no manner of objection to your -insisting as much as ever you please,” replied Tabitha, folding her -arms, setting her teeth, and grinning defiance at the doctor. - -“How did the prisoner escape from the room?” demanded the latter. - -“I don’t know,” replied Tabitha. - -“You _do_ know, and I will make you tell,” vociferated the doctor. - -“Werry well then, make me,” sneered Miss Tabs. - -“How did the prisoner escape, I ask you?” - -“And I tell you I don’t know.” - -“Young woman, I am that sure you _do_ know, and you shall be forced to -tell.” - -“Listen to me then; I will tell you what I _do_ know, and I won’t tell -you anything more.” - -“That is all we wish to hear. Go on.” - -“Well then, I fell asleep in that chair, and when I woke up my missus -was gone. That’s what I _know_. And it stands to reason as that perlice, -as kept the passage door, must have come in while I was asleep and stole -her off.” - -“Young woman, are you telling the truth?” - -“Yes, sir; ’pon my word and honor.” - -“The _whole_ truth?” - -“Lawk, sir, I don’t _know_ the whole truth no more nor Pontius Pilate.” - -“Girl! you know more than you choose to tell; but I will find a way to -make you open your mouth,” said the doctor, sternly. - -“And I won’t open my mouth no wider for nobody on earth, nor for nothing -that can be done to me! I’ll be burked, and made a subject of, and -’natomized in a dissecting-room afore I’ll open my mouth any wider for -anybody on earth! So there now!” - -“Young woman, it is my duty to inform you that if you know anything of -the escape of the prisoner, you can be made to divulge it,” said the -magistrate. - -“I don’t know nothing at all about it, and I won’t divulge anything -about it,” said Miss Tabs, rather inconsistently. “I won’t! to save -anybody’s life! And I’d like to see who’ll make me speak when I don’t -want to speak! I’d like to see the Church and the State try to do it! or -the army and navy try to do it! or the House of Commons and the House of -Lords try! or the Archbishop of Canterbury and the Lord Chancellor try! -or all of them together try to make me speak when I don’t want to -speak!” - -“Or hold your tongue when you don’t want to hold it, you impudent -creature!” exclaimed the doctor, in a rage. - -“Well, I s’pose people can be imperent if they choose to take the -consequences, can’t they? And here am I, ready to take the consequences. -I s’pose you’ll do something dreadful to me! well, do it; here I am, -ready to be made a wictim of, or a martyr of, or a ’natomy of! But I -won’t speak! I won’t speak! I won’t! to please anybody.” - -“You are speaking all the time, you wretch! You are deafening us with -your speech, if you would only speak to the purpose,” said the doctor. - -“Your words, young woman, betray that you do know more of this matter -than you are willing to divulge,” said the magistrate, gravely. - -“I have told you what I do know, sir; that when I closed my eyes my -mistress was still in the room, and when I woke up she was gone.” - -“But have you no knowledge or suspicion of how she went?” - -“I have no certain knowledge, sir, as I did not see her when she left. -But as there seems no other way of her getting out of the room, it -stands to reason that that policeman as kept the passage door must have -let her out.” - -The magistrate and the doctor looked at each other in perplexity. They -had full faith in the policeman; they had no faith whatever in Tabitha, -and yet the evidence was certainly against the policeman, and in favor -of Tabitha. She saw this, and followed up her advantage by saying, -valiantly: - -“There, gentlemen, I have told you the truth. I can’t tell you any more -than that. Now you may do your worst to me, for here I stand ready to be -a martyr to the truth.” - -The doctor and the magistrate still continued to look into each other’s -faces for counsel. - -“Why don’t you make the policeman confess? Don’t you see that there was -no other way for Miss Leaton to escape but through the door that he -guarded, for the dressing-room guarded by the other policeman has no -outlet, and the window-shutters were all barred and padlocked by the -doctor, who took away the keys with him. And even if he had not done so, -the windows are full sixty feet from the ground, and even if she had -attempted to jump from either of them, she must have broken her neck. -But she could not even have attempted it, since the windows were found -as they were left, securely fastened. And therefore, your worship, is it -not perfectly clear as my mistress must have left the room through the -door guarded by that perlice?” concluded Tabitha, pointing vindictively -at the innocent but discomfitted officer. - -“Sims, this looks very badly for you,” said the magistrate. - -“I know it do, your worship, but I hope my character is above -suspicion.” - -“I believe it to be, Sims, and I do not myself suspect you.” - -In fact, both the magistrate and the doctor strongly suspected Tabitha, -but as the evidence was certainly not against her, they could do nothing -in the premises. - -They left the chamber, and went down into the crimson drawing-room, -which had been the scene of so many of the investigations, to consult -with the others upon the best means of searching for and recapturing the -fugitive. - -They remained long in consultation before it occurred to them to summon -one who might be supposed to take the deepest interest in the matter. -Then Mr. Humphreys said: - -“Had not Mr. Montrose better be requested to give us his company and -counsel in this affair?” - -“Certainly,” replied Doctor Watkins, ringing the bell. - -“Give my respects to Mr. Montrose, and say that we should be pleased to -see him here,” said the doctor to the footman who answered the bell. - -The servant withdrew, but presently returned with the news. - -“Mr. Montrose has not yet risen, sir.” - -“Lazy fellow, and it is nearly twelve o’clock,” said the doctor, -dismissing that matter from his mind, and resuming the business with the -magistrates. - -The form of a placard was drawn up, offering a reward for the -apprehension of Eudora Leaton, and this was ordered to be immediately -printed and posted all over the country. The police were sent out in -every direction to prosecute the search; and when these measures for the -apprehension of the fugitive had been taken, the doctor ordered in -breakfast, and sat down with the magistrate and solicitor to partake of -it. And while they were thus engaged, Malcolm Montrose, who had returned -home unobserved, quietly entered the dining-room, and bade them good -morning. - -“Oh, you are up at last!” said the doctor. - -“I had a very bad night’s rest; that must be my apology for a very late -appearance,” said Malcolm, drawing his chair to the table. - -“And have you heard since you came down that the prisoner has escaped?” - -“Yes, so my servant informed me; but she cannot have gone far.” - -“Why, no; and as the promptest measures have been taken for her -apprehension, we hope soon to have her safely lodged in jail. But the -great mystery is the manner of her escape. She must have vanished up the -chimney. I suspect Tabs of knowing more about it than she is willing to -tell; but then there is no evidence against her, and she insists that -her mistress must have been spirited away by the policeman on guard -while she, Tabs, slept. And in fact if we were not assured of the -fidelity of Sims, this would seem the most likely solution of the -mystery.” - -“I should think it would seem the only one,” said Malcolm, secretly -thanking Heaven that Tabitha had proved “game,” and that the manner of -Eudora’s escape was as yet unknown and unsuspected. - -The remainder of the day was passed in fruitless search for the -fugitive, of whom several traces were supposed to have been found. One -policeman brought back the report that a young lady in deep mourning had -taken the night train at Poolville for Edinburgh. Another that a young -person answering to the description of Eudora Leaton had been seen to -get into the cross-country stage-coach going to Sherbourne. A third -brought the intelligence that a young woman in black had been seen to go -on board a vessel bound for Abbeyport—a small sea-coast village six -miles from Allworth—to Arrach, on the north coast of Ireland. - -Policemen, armed with warrants, were sent off in all these directions, -while the route of the fugitive remained undiscovered. - -Late that night Lieutenant Norham Montrose, the younger brother of -Malcolm, arrived at the Abbey. - -Norham Montrose was, in form and features, the very counterpart of -Malcolm, having the same tall, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, strong -limbed athletic form, the same noble Roman features, and the same -commanding presence. But in complexion and in temperament they were as -opposite as day and night; for whereas Malcolm was fair as a Saxon, with -clear, blue eyes, and light auburn hair, Norham was dark as a Spaniard, -with jet-black eyes and raven-black hair and whiskers. And where Malcolm -was gracious, liberal and confiding, Norham was haughty, reserved and -suspicious. - -He had not visited the Abbey since the arrival of Eudora from India, and -consequently he had never seen her. The letter from the family solicitor -that summoned him to the house informed him of all that had taken place. -And now he came with his dark blood boiling, and his heart burning in -hatred and vengeance against her whom he considered the fell destroyer -of the doomed Leaton family. - -Malcolm received him with grave affection, and they talked over the late -tragedy in very much the same strain in which Malcolm had already -discussed the circumstances with others—Malcolm insisting upon the -innocence of Eudora, and Norham, like former opponents, appealing to the -overwhelming evidence against her. - -The next day had been appointed for the double funeral. - -At an early hour of the morning the guests began to assemble to pay due -respect to the memory of the deceased. - -Among the neighboring gentry who had been invited to assist at the -solemnities, were the respective families of the Honorable Mrs. -Elverton, of Edenlawn, and the veteran Admiral Sir Ira Brunton, of the -Anchorage. - -These, as the nearest neighbors and dearest friends of the deceased, -arrived first upon the premises. - -The admiral came alone in a mourning coach, and was received by Mr. -Montrose and Lieutenant Montrose. - -Mrs. Elverton came, accompanied by her daughter Alma, and was received -by the Princess Pezzilini in the deepest mourning. - -It was high noon when, in all the “pomp, pride and circumstance” of -death, the remains of Lady Leaton and her daughter Agatha were consigned -to the family vault under the chapel, where three months before those of -the head of the House had been laid. They were placed, the wife on the -right and the daughter on the left of the late Lord Leaton. And it was -with feelings deeper than awe that the mourners left the chapel where -rested the bodies of the last of that once flourishing but now -extinguished race. - -After the funeral obsequies were over, it was arranged that the brothers -Malcolm and Norham Montrose, as next of kin and heirs presumptive, -should remain for the present in charge of Allworth Abbey. - -But as it was known that the Princess Pezzilini, still a young and -beautiful woman, could not continue as the guest of two gentlemen in a -house where there was no other lady, she was immediately overwhelmed -with invitations. All the country gentry contended for the honor of the -company of an exiled princess. But the beautiful Italian decided to -accept for the present the hospitality of the veteran hero, Admiral Sir -Ira Brunton. - -And the same evening, attended by Miss Tabs, whom she had taken into her -service, the princess accompanied the gallant admiral to his elegant -retreat, the Anchorage. - - - - - CHAPTER XI. - THE YOUNG WANDERER. - - “Either they fear their fate too much, - Or their desert is small, - Who put it not unto the touch, - And lose or win it all.” - - -The interests of our history require that we take up the fortunes of the -captain’s orphan daughter from the moment that she was left alone on the -evening preceding her flight. - -Poor Annella had not been brought up as other young girls, and therefore -should not be judged by the same standard. - -The only and motherless child of a dissipated officer in a marching -regiment, nearly the whole of her neglected childhood had been passed in -the camp, in the barracks, and in perpetual change of place. - -And in this roving and unguarded life she had contracted a reckless -spirit of independence, a proud impatience of restraint, and a wild love -of freedom, which might lead her into the gravest errors, precipitate -her into the deepest misfortunes, and require the severest discipline of -Providence to correct. - -Hitherto her short life, though erratic, had been blameless. - -Now deprived by death of her father, her only natural guardian, and the -only authority she would recognize, her high spirit revolted at the -thought of control by any other power. And above all, the idea of a -degrading parochial interference in her personal matters was most -abhorrent to her proud heart. - -Thus, the strongest motives that could actuate a creature of her -peculiar character prompted her to immediate flight—on the one hand, a -loathing dread of the degradation of being sent to the union, or bound -to a mistress, or left a burden upon the poor widow; and on the other -hand, a longing desire for liberty, fresh air, and country scenery; and -under all this a latent love of adventure, a romantic disposition, and a -long-cherished secret resolution to make her own way in the world, -combined an irresistible power to urge Annella to this strange -proceeding. - -From the hour of overhearing the conversation between the parish -officers and the landlady, she had firmly determined upon making her -escape into the country. - -To hint such a purpose to Mrs. Corder she knew would be to raise instant -and fatal opposition to her plans; and once resolved to escape, she was -desirous that her departure should be without hindrance or pursuit. -Therefore her withdrawal must be private as well as prompt. - -But to leave the house without taking leave of her kind friends would -seem ungrateful, and to leave them in anxiety concerning her fate would -be cruel. - -Therefore, after some consideration, she resolved upon the expedient of -writing a farewell letter. When she had finished, folded, and directed -this letter, she pinned it in front of the frame of her dressing-glass, -in a conspicuous place, where she knew it must be found. - -Next she made a large compact bundle of all the most valuable portions -of her personal effects; then she put up a small parcel containing only -a single change of clothing. And then she looked into her purse, that -contained just half-a-crown, which had been slipped into her hand by -Eudora, and accepted as a loan, to be repaid at some future day. - -Lastly, she lay down upon the bed to rest while waiting for the dawn of -day to commence her journey. She did not expect or even wish to sleep; -yet scarcely had her head sunk upon her pillow, when her fatigue -overcame her excitement and cast her into a deep sleep that lasted until -morning. - -Day was dawning when she awoke with a start and a sudden recollection of -her purpose. - -She sprang up from the bed, and commenced cautious but hasty -preparations for her flight. - -When quite ready, she took her bundles in her arms and silently -descended the stairs until she reached the narrow entrance-hall. She -softly glided along this hall until she reached the front door. She -unlocked this door, passed through it, closed it behind her, and went -forth alone into the world. - -The street was at this hour more deserted, still, and silent than at any -other time of the day or night. The latest wayfarers had long since -retired, and the earliest were not yet astir. The rows of houses on each -side the street presented long, dark lines of unbroken gloom and -quietness. - -For a moment Annella stood before the door she was about to leave, and -looked up and down the street in perplexity where first to direct her -steps. - -Then she turned up the street, and walked on briskly in the direction of -the city. - -It was growing quite light, so that by the time she reached London -Bridge the sun was rising and throwing a flood of golden glory over the -waters of the river. - -She crossed the bridge and hurried onward up King William street until -she reached the shop of a Jew dealer in second-hand clothing. - -She entered this shop, untied her large bundle, displayed its contents -upon the counter, and inquired of the Jewess in attendance: - -“What will you give me for these?” - -“How mush do you wantsh?” asked the woman. - -“I think they are worth three pounds, but you may have them for two,” -replied Annella, hesitatingly. - -“Two poundsh!! You are jokinsh,” said the Jewess turning the half-worn -dresses over in disdain. - -“What will you give me for them, then?” inquired Annella, impatiently. - -“Five shillingsh for the lotsh.” - -“That will not do,” said Annella, beginning to tie up her bundle. - -“Stopsh, stopsh, letsh talk a little more,” said the woman, detaining -her customer. - -Annella paused, and a little more bargaining ensued, in which, as a -matter of course, Annella was cheated. Impatient to be off, she closed -the sale, disposing of her wardrobe for the sum of ten shillings, and -left the house. - -Keeping nearly due north, she walked on until in due course of time she -reached the King’s-cross Railway station. - -It was now nine o’clock. - -She entered the ticket-office, and inquired when the next train would -start. She was told at ten minutes past the hour. This gave her just -time enough to get a cup of coffee and a bun at the pastrycook’s stall -opposite the office. - -When she had partaken of this refreshment that her long walk had made so -necessary, she went up to the third-class ticket-window, laid her half -sovereign upon the ledge, and enquired of the clerk: - -“How far on this line will this money take me?” - -Instead of answering her question the clerk regarded her with such a -look of suspicion, that she hastened to say: - -“I have just lost my father, and have no relations here in London. I -wish to go to the north, where I have a friend. I have only twelve -shillings and six pence, and I wish to save half-a-crown to buy food, -and to go as far as half-a-sovereign will carry me on my way; after that -I must walk.” - -There were other passengers thronging to the window to be accommodated, -and so the clerk hastily drew in the half-sovereign and pushed out a -ticket, which she seized as she left the window, and joined the crowd -that was hurrying towards the third-class carriages. She had just taken -her seat when the train started. - -It was the first train, and thus it happened that at the very moment in -which good Mrs. Corder discovered the absence of her favorite, Annella -was full forty miles from London, flying northward at the rate of forty -miles an hour. - -As the train rushed onward the wild girl’s spirits rose. - -It was a beautiful day in spring; the earth wore its tenderest and -freshest green; the sky its softest and clearest blue; and the sun shone -out like the smile of God over all nature. - -Annella was alone in the world; she had just buried her father, and had -not a reliable friend left upon earth; she had but one change of -clothing in her parcel, and one-half crown in her purse; she knew not -exactly where she was going; where she should eat her next meal, or take -her next night’s rest. - -And yet, in a state of poverty, friendlessness, and uncertainty that -must have crushed the spirit of any grown-up man or woman subjected to -the trial, this child could not feel sorrowful, anxious, or foreboding. - -The sun was bright, the country fresh, and the motion rapid; and between -the beauty of the day, the swiftness of the journey, and the shifting of -the scenery, her spirits were so exhilarated that she could have sung -for joy. It was rapture to watch the woods and fields, farms and -hamlets, hills and valleys reel past her as the train flew onward. It -was delight to stop at the strange towns, with strange streets and -houses, and strange people coming and going. And it was ecstasy to rush -onward again with lightning speed. And intoxication to feel that she was -free! - -She might be the most miserable little creature alive, but she did not -know it. She might come to beggary the next day, but she did not think -it. She might be rushing straight to ruin, but she did not feel it. -Thus, despite of frowning Fate, the spirit in her bosom clapped its -wings and crowed for joy. - -And by this the reader may jump to the conclusion that Annella’s brain -was slightly “touched;” that she was a little “luny;” that she had not -her “right change.” Nothing of the sort, dear reader. Annella was simply -undisciplined, inexperienced, and eccentric. Her ignorance was “bliss.” -And so, though poor and friendless, she set forth to seek her fortune -with as brave a spirit as ever inspired Richard Cœur-de-Lion, Lady -Hester Stanhope, or any other knight or dame of ancient or of modern -times when sallying forth in quest of adventures. - -The day wore on. The afternoon was so much more sultry than the season -warranted, that the weather-wise farmers in the carriage with Annella -predicted the approach of one of the heaviest storms that ever shook -heaven and earth. And, as if in justification of this prediction, -towards evening the clouds began to gather thick, black, and lowering -over the earth. The face of the country also changed. The lovely woods, -fertile fields, and fruitful farms were all left far behind, and the -barren heaths of the north lay all around. - -And still the train rushed onward in the face of the approaching -tempest. And still with undaunted spirit, Annella sped on towards her -unknown fate. - -One after another of her fellow-passengers left the carriage in which -she travelled, until at last, at a small roadside station, Annella found -herself quite alone. And at this station the guard put his head in at -the door with the peremptory demand: - -“TICKETS!” - -Annella started from her day-dream, and nervously produced hers. - -“You’ve travelled thirty miles farther than you’ve any right to do with -this ticket, and I’ve a great mind to give you in charge,” said the -guard, angrily. - -“Have I? Indeed I did not mean to do it. I quite forgot to look at my -ticket,” said Annella, beginning to tremble in a manner most unworthy of -damsel-errant seeking her fortune. - -“You knew where you were going to, I suppose,” growled the guard. - -“Indeed I didn’t; I only wanted to go as far by rail as this ticket -would take me.” - -“And that was to Howth, and you’ve left Howth twenty miles behind you.” - -“My gracious!” was the dismayed exclamation of poor Nella. - -“Come! that won’t do, you know; you’ve got to get out, and I shall give -you in charge of a policeman. I see one coming now.” - -“Don’t! pray don’t! See, I’ve two shillings left, that ought to be -enough to pay for a twenty-miles’ ride in a third-class carriage,” said -Annella, springing out, and thrusting her last money into the hand of -the guard. - -That exemplary officer pocketed the fee, and ran forward to open the -door of a first-class carriage to admit a gentleman and lady who were -waiting for seats. - -The train moved on, leaving Annella standing alone by the roadside with -her little bundle in her hand, but without a penny in her purse. Around -her, in all directions, lay the barren and rolling heaths. Above her -lowered the dark and threatening clouds. Night, storm, and darkness were -approaching, and she was houseless, friendless, and penniless on the -heath. She looked around her on all sides for shelter from the gathering -tempest, but she could not see a sign of human habitation. Even the -little wayside station, so busy a moment before, seemed now shut up and -deserted. - -In fact, the business of seeking her fortune did not seem half so -pleasant as it had appeared in the morning, and she fairly wished -herself home in good Mrs. Corder’s third-floor back; but only for a -moment, and then her spirits rallied, and she walked on, saying to -herself: - -“Come, Nella, we mustn’t be dismayed by the first difficulty, let us go -on; we are in a Christian country, any how, and by-and-by we must come -to some cottage, where the people will give us shelter from the storm -to-night, and to-morrow will be a new day.” - -And so, with a smile in the face of frowning Fortune, she struck into a -road that crossed the rail way track and hurried onward. - -She knew not where she was bound. She knew not where in all the north -Allworth Abbey, the goal of her desires, might be situated. She knew not -even whether she might be within five or ten miles of the place. In -setting out to seek it she had taken the general northern route as far -as the train would carry her for her money, trusting to the chapter of -accidents to find the rest of her way to her destination. - -“It must be within a circuit of twenty miles, I should think; and -somebody about here must know something about it. So to-night I must -seek shelter from the storm, and to-morrow inquire my way to the Abbey,” -she thought, as she trudged onward through the gathering darkness. - -Low mutterings of thunder and large drops of rain warned her to hurry -her steps. She ran on, looking eagerly to the right and left to spy out -some wayside cottage in which she might find refuge from the impending -storm. But the darkness was now so thick that she could scarcely see her -own road. - -Suddenly the clouds were cleft asunder by a stroke of forked lightning, -that blazed from horizon to horizon, making the night for one instant as -bright as noonday. This was immediately followed by a reverberating -crash of thunder and a heavy fall of rain. - -Annella stood still, but not appalled; for in that one instantaneous -glare of light she had seen on a rising ground far to the westward the -white chimneys of a mansion-house. And though the whole scene was again -swallowed up in darkness, she kept the direction of the house in her -“mind’s eye,” and bent her steps towards it, trusting in the frequent -flashes of lightning to correct her mistakes and guide her on her way. - -Her way lay up and down hill through this dreadful night of storm, of -blinding lightning, of deafening thunder, and of drowning rain. Confused -by the warring elements, saturated with wet, and exhausted by fatigue, -Annella yet held on her way towards the mansion upon which she had fixed -as her house of refuge. - -As she approached the neighborhood of this dwelling she grew independent -of the lightning as a guide, for in the darkness between the flashes she -could see the windows of the mansion, which seemed to be illuminated -from within as for a festival. - -And from the moment that she found she could keep the house constantly -in view, she toiled on towards it hopefully, saying to herself: - -“It may be a gentleman’s house or a lord’s house, but it must be a -civilized Christian’s house, and therefore it must afford me shelter -from the storm for this one night.” - -So, though nearly blinded, deafened, and drowned by the lightning, -thunder, and rain, Annella valiantly pushed on towards the goal. - -But ah! that place of refuge was much farther off than she had supposed -it to be. A brilliant light set upon a hill is seen for a long way off -in a dark night; and long after Annella had first caught sight of the -illuminated windows, she continued to toil on through night and storm -and darkness, through thunder, lightning, and rain, up and down hill, -over the rough road, without seeming to get much nearer the desired -haven. - -Even the storm grew weary of raging and growled itself to rest. The -lightning ceased to flash, the thunder to roll, and the rain to fall; -the clouds dispersed, the stars came out, and the moon arose; and -Annella, hungry, wet, and weary, still pushed on up hill and down hill -towards the illuminated house, which, at last, she was certainly drawing -near. - -At length she began to ascend a hill on which the mansion stood, blazing -like a beacon-light at sea. When she reached the summit of the hill she -found herself arrested by the low brick wall that seemed to enclose the -home-park attached to the house. Taking this wall for her guide, she -followed it, hoping that it would bring her at last to the gate or the -gamekeeper’s lodge. Keeping close to the wall, and walking rapidly, she -came indeed to the gate, which stood wide open and unguarded, as the -lodge beside it was untenanted. - -She passed through the gate and entered a long semi-circular avenue of -elms, that in the course of fifteen minutes’ rapid walk brought her up -in front of a magnificent house, the whole square front of which was -illuminated from top to bottom. - -And yet there was not a living creature to be seen! - -Annella paused in awe, and gazed upon the brilliant and imposing front, -muttering to herself: - -“There must be a party here to-night. And yet there cannot be, either, -for I see no servants, no carriages, and no crowd. And though everything -is as bright as heaven, it is also as silent as the grave! What in the -world can be the meaning of it all?” - -Without daring to go up and knock at the principal door, Annella turned -and went around to seek admittance at some humbler back entrance, -thinking, with a shudder: - -“I shall be torn to pieces by the dogs, I suppose.” - -But no dogs barked, and Annella made her way unharmed to the back part -of the house. - -Here the windows were likewise all illuminated, and some of them were so -near the ground that Annella was tempted to look in upon the inmates -before knocking for admittance. - -So she climbed upon an outside cellar-door, and holding by the -window-sill above it, looked through the window in upon the room. - -It was a cosy sitting-room, warmly lighted, well carpeted, and well -curtained, though now the curtains were drawn back, letting the cheerful -light stream out into the cheerless night. There was a table in the -centre of the room covered with a most comfortable and substantial -supper. - -Within her view sat two persons—a tall, lean, gray-haired old man, and a -short, fat, fair-haired old woman. - -They looked so happy that Annella could not choose but hold on to the -window-sill and gaze upon their happiness, until the woman, raising her -eyes to the window, started, uttered a shriek, and dropped her knife and -fork. - -And at the same instant Annella sank down out of sight upon the -cellar-door. - -But soon she heard a commotion in the room over her head, followed by -the opening of a door to the left, and the crashing of a footstep -through the shrubbery. And the next instant she felt herself rudely -seized, and set upon her feet, while a rough hand turned the light of a -dark lantern full upon her face, and a harsh voice demanded: - -“Ship ahoy! Who are you?” - -“Annella Wilder!” gasped the captured girl, as she recognized the tall, -lean, gray-haired old man whom she had watched at his supper. - -“From what port?” asked the questioner. - -“I don’t know, sir,” answered Annella, in perplexity. - -“Where bound?” - -“I do not understand you, sir.” - -“Who’s your skipper?” - -“Indeed I cannot tell you, sir.” - -“Come along in then to the admiral! We’ll see if we can’t make you show -your colors. We can’t have any piratical-looking crafts cruising about -in our seas without overhauling their letters of marque! so I’ll just -take you in tow and tug you into port, alongside of the admiral,” said -the oddity, keeping a firm hold of his prize, and forcing her on through -the back entrance into the house. - - - - - CHAPTER XII. - THE ANCHORAGE. - - Some, indeed, have said that creeping, - Lightly to the casement leaping, - Slily through the window peeping, - They a ghostly maid have seen. - To the oaken sill she clingeth, - And her wanlike hands she wringeth, - Then in garments white she wingeth - O’er the grassy plain so green.—_E. P. Lee._ - - -About three miles west of Allworth Abbey, upon a commanding hight near -the sea-coast stood the Anchorage, the seat of Admiral Sir Ira Brunton. -The park extended to the sea, and its western wall rose directly from -the edge of the cliff, which formed a natural boundary to this extensive -domain. - -Immediately under this cliff nestled the little fishing village of -Abbeyport, with its single street of cottages facing the sea, its small -fleet of fishing-smacks drawn up to the shore, and its one humble -tavern, called the Flagship, kept by Mr. Tom Tows, a retired boatswain, -and patronized liberally by the kitchen cabinet of Admiral Sir Ira -Brunton. - -The Anchorage, was a large, square, gray edifice, three stories high, -with two great halls crossing each other at right angles, and dividing -each floor into four separate suites of apartments. - -The numerous windows of the mansion commanded from all points the most -magnificent prospect perhaps to be found in the three kingdoms. - -The front windows facing the west looked over the grand slope of hills -towards the edge of the cliff, and down upon the picturesque village at -its foot and out upon the boundless ocean. - -The back, or east windows, looked inland down into the deep valley and -thick woods in which was hidden the old Abbey and the dark pool which -lay before it. - -The north windows looked out upon a rolling country of sterile heaths, -dotted here and there with an oasis in the form of a farm or a hamlet. - -And lastly, the south windows looked down over a smiling landscape of -wooded hills surrounding a green valley, in the midst of which lay a -lovely lake, upon whose farthest bank stood the elegant villa of -Edenlawn, the seat of the Honorable Mrs. Elverton. - -Admiral Sir Ira Brunton, the proprietor of the Anchorage, was originally -a man of the people. By talent, courage, and good fortune, he had risen -from the humblest post in the navy to his present high position. - -He shared, however, that too common weakness of self-made men—an -exaggerated respect for hereditary rank. - -At the mature age of forty, when he had attained the rank of -post-captain, and was flushed with his recent success, he attempted to -marry into the peerage by proposing for the hand of the titled but -dowerless daughter of an earl. - -But failing in this enterprise, he wedded the only child and heiress of -a wealthy city banker, who brought him as her portion a half million of -pounds sterling, the beauty of a Venus, and the temper of a Xantippe. - -With a part of the money he bought the magnificent estate of the -Anchorage, and with the lady he lived a tempestuous life of twelve -years, at the end of which she stormed herself to death, leaving him as -a legacy one fair daughter, ten years of age, named after her mother, -Anna Eleanora. - -Admiral Sir Ira—then Captain Brunton—did not again venture on the -dangerous sea of matrimony, but brought home his widowed mother to take -charge of the young lady, and engaged a French governess to superintend -her education. But a simple-minded, old-fashioned dame, and an -unprincipled French adventuress, were not exactly the best guides for a -self-willed girl. - -And so it happened that when Miss Anna Eleanora was about sixteen years -of age, while her father was at sea, and herself with her grandmother -and governess at Brighton, she accidentally formed the acquaintance of a -young lieutenant of Hussars, whose regiment was stationed at the -neighboring barracks. With the connivance of the French governess, who -was heavily feed for the purpose, the young officer frequently met the -little heiress, with whom he finally eloped to Gretna Green, where they -were married. - -If, instead of that romantic love which had misled both the young -creatures, fortune had been the object of the lieutenant, he must have -been wofully disappointed, for when the captain returned from the coast -of Africa, and heard of the runaway marriage, he discarded his daughter -and son-in-law, and forbade the names of either ever to be mentioned in -his presence. - -As the commands of Captain Brunton were as absolute as the laws of the -Medes and Persians, the name of his only child and her young husband -dropped from conversation and from memory, and thus their offence, and -even their very existence, became an old and forgotten story. - -The captain rose from post to post in the navy, until, finally, at the -advanced age of seventy-five, he retired from active service with the -well-earned rank of an admiral and the well-merited title of a baronet. - -His household at this late period of his life was a very remarkable -illustration of family longevity. - -It consisted of his grandmother, a hale old dame of one hundred and -eight years; his mother, a healthy old woman of ninety-two; himself, a -hearty veteran of seventy-five; and his grand-nephew and adopted heir, -Midshipman Valerius Brightwell, a young gentleman of nineteen. - -The antique grandmother of this strong family was commonly called “old -mistress,” “the old madam,” or “old Mrs. Stilton.” The ancient mother -was termed “young mistress,” “the young madam,” or “young Mrs. Brunton.” -The veteran admiral was denominated by his venerable ancestresses “that -thoughtless boy,” and by the household, “the young master.” And the -midshipman was called by the old ladies, “the dear baby,” by the -admiral, “the lad,” and by the servants, “little Master Vally.” - -At the venerable age of seventy-five, with an emaciated form, a withered -face, and a grey head, the veteran did not even suspect that he was -growing old, far less know that he was really an aged man, who had -already exceeded the average duration of a human life. - -The truth was that the existence and the vigorous health of the two -ancient ladies, his mother and his grandmother, kept the admiral in his -prime. How could any man feel old, while his mother and his grandmother -still lived in a green old age—and while they still thought of him and -spoke of him as a gay young man, who had not yet sowed all his wild -oats, but who required the constant supervision and guidance of his -elders to keep him out of temptation and danger? - -And thus, while the whole family honestly united in keeping up this -delusion, could the admiral be blamed for sharing it? - -Among the domestic servants of the Anchorage two deserve mention—Mr. -Jessup, late of Her Majesty’s Service, now in that of Admiral Sir Ira -Brunton, to whom he filled the relation of confidential attendant, and -Mistress Barbara Broadsides, the housekeeper. - -Jessup was tall, thin, pale-faced, and grey-haired in person; and -narrow, prejudiced and authoritative in mind. - -Mrs. Broadsides was short, fat, rosy, and fair-haired in person; and -liberal, merciful, and yielding in disposition. As might be expected, -there was a strong attraction of antagonism between these two opposite -natures that led to a matrimonial engagement that was to be consummated -after the death of the admiral and his mother and grandmother; but as -the sibyls and their descendant had fallen into “a confirmed malady of -living on for ever,” Jessup and Mrs. Broadsides were growing old as -betrothed lovers. - -Such, with the necessary number of men and maid servants, was the -household of Admiral Sir Ira Brunton at the time he invited the Italian -princess to honor his mansion with her presence. - -The admiral had gallantly given up his coach for the accommodation of -the princess and her attendant, while he himself escorted them on -horseback. - -It was a lovely summer afternoon, and when they emerged from the dark, -wooded vale, and ascended the high grounds lying between it and the -sea-coast, nothing could be more animated than the sudden change of -scene from deep shadow and circumscribed view to open sunshine and a -boundless landscape. The princess and her attendant enjoyed it -exceedingly, and despite all adverse circumstances, felt their spirits -rise accordingly. - -The admiral frequently rode up to the side of the carriage to point out -some object of interest in the landscape, such as the bright little -lake, Eden, lying like a clear mirror in the bosom of its green valley, -and reflecting in its deep waters its lovely, embracing hills, and its -crowning villa of Edenlawn. - -And upon these occasions the admiral ever addressed his illustrious -guest with the profoundest respect as “your highness,” until at length -the princess, with a sweet and mournful look and tone, said: - -“Do not mock me with that title, best friend. I am a widow and a -fugitive, dependent on your bounty for the roof that shelters my head -and the bread that maintains my life. Do not mock me, therefore, with -any titles of honor. I am poor Gentilescha Pezzilini; no more than that. -I do not even permit my servants to address me by any other title than -the simple one of madame, that a matron of any rank may bear.” - -“Madame, I am the humblest of your servants, and must obey you,” said -the admiral, bowing deeply as he fell behind the carriage. - -“A deused fine woman! I’m glad that she is a widow, and a fugitive, and -the rest of it. I wonder—humph—” thought the admiral, falling into a -day-dream, in which the fair person of Madame Pezzilini formed the -principal figure. - -Clearly, “that thoughtless boy” was in danger of forming an indiscreet -attachment! - -While they passed slowly over the beautiful downs, the bright sky became -gradually overcast, and low mutterings of thunder reverberated around -the horizon. - -Once more the admiral approached the carriage-window to say: - -“We shall have a storm, madame. Shall I order your coachman to drive -faster?” - -“Certainly, Sir Ira. I only desired to be driven slowly that we might -enjoy the lovely afternoon, but since it grows dark and stormy, let us -get on by all means, especially as you are exposed to the weather. Had -you not better get into the carriage, and let my servant Antonio take -your horse?” inquired the princess. - -“I thank you, madame; and should the storm really overtake us, I will -gladly avail myself of your permission to do so; but I hope that we -shall get under shelter before it breaks upon us,” replied the admiral; -and then calling to the coachman, “Drive like the deuse, Ned,” he again -fell behind. - -The sky grew darker and darker, the thunder rolled louder and nearer, -and though Ned really drove his horses as if the Evil One were in chase -of him, he had only made the half circuit of the park wall, and turned -into the circular avenue of elms leading to the house, before the black, -overhanging canopy of clouds was suddenly broken by a blinding flash of -lightning, followed by a stunning crash of thunder and falling deluge of -rain. - -The admiral spurred his steed, the coachman whipped his horses, and in -two minutes they reached the house. The admiral sprang from his horse, -assisted the princess to alight from the carriage, and led her into the -house, just in time to escape another flash of lightning, peal of -thunder, and whirl of rain. - -They were met by the two old ladies, who had come out into the hall to -do honor to their guest. They were two fine old dames, tall, thin, -fair-faced, and grey-haired like their descendant, the admiral. They -were both dressed similarly in black satin gowns with white muslin -neckerchiefs, and white lace caps; and looked very much alike, except -that the elder had more flesh and less hair than the younger. They stood -smiling and courtesying with pleasing, old-fashioned affability. - -“Madame Pezzilini,” said the admiral, with formal courtesy, “will your -highness permit me to present to you my grandmother, Mrs. Stilton, and -my mother, Mrs. Brunton, who both feel highly honored to receive you?” - -“That we do,” said the elder. - -“Yes, I’m sure,” added the other. - -“Ladies, kind friends,” said the Italian, “you see before you no -princess, but a poor widow, a stranger and a fugitive, who seeks only a -temporary asylum under your hospitable roof.” - -“You are kindly welcome, madame, either as one or the other,” said Mrs. -Stilton, heartily, offering her hand. - -“Ah, that indeed you are!” chimed in Mrs. Brunton, extending hers. - -The princess received and pressed those venerable hands, and was about -to express her thanks, when a broad glare of lightning, accompanied by a -deafening roll of thunder, and a shock of wind and rain that seemed to -shake the house, made them spring apart. The effect of this burst of the -tempest was felt with the more force from the fact that all the window -shutters were still open. - -“Good gracious, Iry!” said the oldest lady, as soon as she had recovered -from the shock; “surely you’ll have the shutters closed on such an awful -night as this?” - -“No, ma’am, not this night, of all nights in the year. The harder the -storm the greater the need of a beacon-light to guide any wayfaring -traveller to the house,” said the admiral, decidedly. - -Then turning to the princess, he added: - -“Madame, I have a custom of which I hope you will not disapprove; it is -to leave my window-shutters open every night up to the latest hour of -retiring, so that the lights may shine far out over the downs, to guide -any weary and benighted traveller to one house, at least, where he is -sure to find welcome and succor. And especially on tempestuous nights, I -light up the whole house from top to bottom, to invite any poor, -storm-beaten wayfarer to its shelter. I hope you approve of the custom?” - -“I think it a grand and beautiful instance of benevolence!” said the -princess, in a fervent tone. - -“I am rewarded,” replied the admiral, “that is, if I had deserved -reward; but the fact is, that in doing this, I only pay a debt. -Providence having guided me through a very stormy existence into this -safe port at last, the least I can do is to open the harbor freely to -all other tempest-tost barques. That is the reason I call it the -Anchorage; for any storm-driven craft is free to enter and drop anchor -here.” - -“It is nobly said—” began the princess; but the words were interrupted -by another burst of the tempest that rattled all the windows, and seemed -to shake the firm building to its foundation. - -“Iry, I must say that you are clean mad. Every pane of glass in the -house will be shattered, and cost no end of money to replace, besides -the inconvenience!” cried Mrs. Stilton, as soon as she could recover her -breath after the last shaking. - -“No danger, grandmother; these old windows have stood harder storms than -this,” replied the admiral, laughing. - -Then turning to the princess, he said, in a low voice: - -“Madame Pezzilini, my grandmother and mother are old-fashioned dames, -and so I hope that you will make allowance for their ways.” - -The quick ears of the old lady caught this disparaging apology, and she -was prompt to reply. - -“Don’t you mind that boy, madame; like all young people, he thinks -himself wiser than his elders; but time will teach him better, and show -him that old-fashioned ways are the best ways after all.” - -The princess opened her large blue eyes in astonishment at hearing this -grey-haired veteran spoken of as an inexperienced youth, but remembering -that it was his grandmother who spoke thus, she merely bowed and smiled -in reply—the bow and smile being, in this case, a non-committal answer. - -“And now, my dear grandmother, old fashions and new fashions both agree -in suggesting that Madame Pezzilini be shown to her apartment before -tea,” said the admiral. - -“Certainly, certainly! I beg your pardon, madame, but the thunder and -the lightning and the wind do so confuse my poor head. Oh!” she -exclaimed, as another burst of the tempest shook the house. - -When the deafening noise subsided, the old lady turned, and said: - -“Come here, Broadsides, and show this lady and her maid to the suite of -rooms on the second floor front, right side. And when you have made her -comfortable, show her into the drawing-room to the tea-table—the Lord -have mercy upon us!” - -This latter exclamation was called forth by a terrible glare of -lightning that filled the whole house like a conflagration, accompanied -by a rolling, crashing, stunning peal of thunder, and a rushing shock of -wind that seemed about to batter down the walls over their heads. It was -some minutes before this furious blast subsided. - -And then Mrs. Broadsides, who had been waiting behind her old mistress, -came forward, courtesied, and led the way up the grand staircase to the -splendid suite of apartments that had been fitted up for the reception -of the illustrious Italian. - -Jessup at the same moment advanced from some obscure retreat where he -had been lurking, took possession of his master, and marshaled him off -to his chamber to change his wet riding-coat for a dry-evening-dress. - -And the two old ladies retreated to the drawing-room to await the return -of the admiral and his guest. - -When they were seated side by side in their comfortable arm-chairs on -the right of the fire-place: - -“What do you think of her, Abby, my dear?” said the antique lady to the -ancient one. - -“I think she is a very charming woman, and I pity her misfortunes.” - -“And so do I. But see here, Abby, my dear, you must really look after -that boy of yours, or he will be making love to this Italian lady.” - -“Yes, mother; I see that.” - -“And you know, Abby, that you would not like the lad to marry a -foreigner.” - -“No, mother.” - -“So, though we must be as kind as possible to this unfortunate princess, -whose story reminds me of all the fairy tales I ever read in my life, -_still_ we must keep an eye on that boy, and see that he does not make a -fool of himself, Abby.” - -“Certainly, mother—Lord bless our souls!” she broke off, as their -conversation was again interrupted by another rapid onslaught of the -tempest that cannonaded the walls as if it did not mean to leave one -stone upon another. - -The two old ladies sat crushed in a silence of deep awe for nearly an -hour, until the furious storm had raged itself into a temporary rest. -Then Mrs. Stilton spoke: - -“I do not know how anybody can have the spirits to drink tea on such a -night as this, but I suppose it will be wanted all the same; for Iry -never turns aside from his way for any storm that ever falls, and as for -the princess, she looks like just such another. So, Abby, child, you may -ring for the tea.” - -Mrs. Brunton, who sat nearest the chimney-corner bell-pull, complied, -and the tea-service was brought in and arranged upon the table. - -And soon after they were joined by the admiral, who, “despite the storm -that howled along the sky,” had made a very careful evening toilet, and -by his nephew, Midshipman Valerius Brightwell, a fine, tall, dark-haired -young man, who, when not on active service, was at home at the -Anchorage. - -These had scarcely taken their seats when the door opened, and the -Princess Pezzilini entered, her golden hair and fair face radiant in -contrast to the rich black velvet dress that was her usual costume. - -Way was immediately made for her, the young midshipman was presented in -due form, and the whole party sat down to tea. - -The storm had spent its fury, and now only revived at intervals in -inoffensive blasts of wind, faint flashes of lightning, and low -mutterings of thunder. - -And the conversation at the tea-table became animated, even upon a -gloomy subject. - -They talked of the tragedy at Allworth Abbey, and of the flight of -Eudora. - -Opinion was divided upon the subject of the accused girl’s guilt or -innocence. - -The two old ladies and the admiral agreed in pronouncing the evidence -against her to be too convincing to admit a doubt upon the subject. - -The young midshipman, who had seen Miss Leaton several times at church, -and judging as a young man will by the face, declared his absolute faith -in her innocence, in despite of all the testimony that might be brought -against her. - -The Princess Pezzilini held a neutral position between the -controversialists, affirming that the whole affair seemed to her a -horrible mystery, to which she could find no clue. - -We will leave the drawing-room circle canvassing this question, and look -into the housekeeper’s room upon another party, with whom we have a -little business. - - - - - CHAPTER XIII. - AN APPARITION. - - Through the lighted window prying, - Softly on the bright pane sighing, - Then in sudden panic flying, - Through the untrodden gloom, - To the dark oak-tree she cometh, - Round its trunk she wildly roameth, - Shuddering as the dark stream foameth, - There she waits her coming doom.—_E. P. Lee._ - - -It was a medium-sized, comfortable apartment, well carpeted, and -well-curtained, with its back windows looking out upon the shrubberies -in the rear of the mansion. - -A well-spread supper-table stood in the middle of the floor, and around -it were gathered Mrs. Broadsides, Mr. Jessup, Miss Tabs, and Mr. -Antonio, who were the housekeeper’s guests for the evening. Their -conversation, like that of their superiors, had turned upon the late -tragic events at Allworth. - -Here, also, opinion was divided upon the subject of the supposed -criminal—Mrs. Broadsides, Jessup, and Mr. Antonio loudly declaring their -belief in the guilt of Eudora, and Miss Tabs stoutly asserting her faith -in her innocence. - -But through the whole of this conversation, it was observed that at -intervals Mrs. Broadsides, who sat at the head of the table opposite the -window, would often start, stare and bless herself, while Jessup, who -sat at the foot, would twist his head over his shoulder as though he saw -a spectre behind him. - -Politeness deterred Miss Tabs and Mr. Antonio from taking any notice of -these strange manifestations. - -At length Jessup, after giving his own neck a most dangerous wring, and -getting no satisfaction for his pains, spoke out, saying: - -“Mrs. Broadsides, I would be obliged to you, ma’am, if you would tell me -what it is that you see out of that window, for shiver my timbers if I -can see anything but black darkness.” - -“Jessup, don’t ask me! that’s a good soul! it’s nothing earthly as I -see,” answered the woman, in a hushed tone of awe. - -“What is it, then? I insist upon knowing.” - -“Don’t, Jessup! it’s nothing earthly, I tell you, and I don’t like to -speak of it. Lord bless my soul, there it is again!” exclaimed the -woman, in a suppressed tone of horror. - -“What? where? I see nothing!” said Mr. Jessup, wringing around his neck -until his face was nearly between his shoulders. - -“It’s vanished” whispered the housekeeper, without withdrawing her gaze -from the window, while Mr. Antonio and Miss Tabs stared in amazement, -and Mr. Jessup regarded her with incredulous indignation, saying at -length: - -“Can’t you tell me what you saw, then, if you saw anything but of your -own imagination?” - -“’Twas no imagination of mine, Jerry Jessup; if you must and will know -what I have seen, I’ll tell. Since I have been sitting here at this -table, I have seen a pale, ghostly female figure flit past that window -three times!” - -Every one glanced shudderingly at the window except Jessup, who -contemptuously exclaimed: - -“It was only your own fancy, Mrs. Broadsides!” - -The housekeeper shook her head ominously. - -“It’s all along o’ leaving the shutters open. It’s awful ghostly to have -the night peeping in at you through the glass. I always imagine that I -see something at such time.” - -“Why don’t you close the shutters?” suggested Miss Tabs. - -“Because of a whim of master’s to keep all the windows open till -bed-time, most especially on stormy nights, when they may serve for -beacons to guide the belated traveler to the shelter of this roof. Lord -bless the admiral and mend his ways, so kind to all the world, so cruel -to his own dear darter,” sighed Mrs. Broadsides. - -“His daughter?” echoed Mr. Antonio. - -“Yes, his darter, my young missus, as run off with a young lieutenant in -a marching regiment, and married him all for love. She went ’long of him -everywhere, and may have died of fever in the Crimea, or been massacred -in India, for aught we’ve heard of her since her marriage; for it’s as -much as any one’s life’s worth to mention her name in master’s -presence.” - -“And is he so hard all these years that he won’t make friends with her?” - -“Make friends with her? You don’t know him. He won’t even hear her -name,” put in Jerry Jessup. - -“Wish I was his wally-de-sham. I’d ding it into his ears morning, noon -and night. I’d bring it up with his hot water and lay it down with his -slippers, and put it on with his night-cap every day of his life,” said -Miss Tabs, valiantly. - -“No you wouldn’t, for the very first time you tried it, you’d get -pitched out of the window or down the stairs, and have your neck broken. -Heaven save me, there it is again!” cried the woman, breaking off in -terror. - -All looked towards the window. Jessup wrung his neck around nearly to -the point of dislocation, exclaiming: - -“Where now? I tell you there’s nothing there. It’s all your own nerves. -Mrs. Broadsides, ma’am, you want a dose of assafiddity.” - -“It’s gone again!” whispered the woman. - -“It never was!” snapped Mr. Jessup, impatiently. - -“Yes it was. And I know _what_ it was. It was a Banshee come to warn me -of my own death, or my master’s, or my old missusses.” - -“Stuff and nonsense.” - -“It isn’t stuff, and it isn’t nonsense. It is a Banshee, if ever one -appeared to mortal eyes!” - -“Yes, _if_ ever one appeared,” sneered Mr. Jessup. - -“But I have heard of the Banshee, myself,” said Miss Tabs, coming to the -assistance of the housekeeper. - -“To be sure you have, my dear. Who in this country-side has not heard of -the Banshee that appeared to the Honorable Mrs. Elverton, of Edenlawn? -How Mr. Elverton was on the Continent, where he had been a many months, -and Mrs. Elverton was at Edenlawn, sitting up late at night, reading in -her dressing-room. The night was fine, and the curtains were undrawn, -when all of a sudden she heard a low, moaning, unearthly voice outside -of the window, and looking up, she saw a female figure, in flowing white -raiment float past the window as if it were swimming in the air, and -heard it wail forth the words—‘_Hollis Elverton is no more!_’ as it -disappeared. Well, the lady got up and made a note of the day and the -hour; and sure enough a fortnight after that, she heard of the death of -her husband at St. Petersburg, and he died the very day and hour at -which she had seen the Banshee! There! what do you make of _that_?” -inquired the housekeeper, triumphantly. - -“Why, as the Honorable Mrs. Elverton was just as hysterical as you be,” -said Mr. Jessup, doggedly. - -“But then her husband actually died at St. Petersburg at the very day -and hour that the Banshee appeared to her at Edenlawn. How do you -account for that?” - -“Just happened so, that’s all.” - -“You’re as unbelieving as Thomas—Oh, Lord have mercy upon us! Look -there; there it is again! and no Banshee neither, but the spirit of my -young mistress, with her very face and form, only looking as if she had -risen from the grave. Look, look, oh!” cried the woman, covering her -face with her hands, and shaking with terror. - -Again all looked fearfully towards the window. - -Jessup wrung his neck nearly in two in the effort to look behind his -back; and upon this occasion perseverance was rewarded. Pressed against -the outside of the window, they all saw a fair, wan young face, that -sank out of sight the instant it was detected. - -“That’s neither a Banshee nor a spirit; it’s a mortal girl!” exclaimed -Jessup, springing up, overturning his chair, and rushing out of the -room. - -The remainder of the party held their breaths in suspense until Jessup -pushed open the door and reappeared, dragging after him the pale, weary, -half-starved, dripping wet figure of a young girl, whom he pulled up -before the astonished housekeeper, saying, mockingly: - -“There—there’s your Banshee! A girl as has been caught out in the storm, -and was frightened at ringing the door-bell at such a great house as -this.” - -“The very form, the very face! I never, no, I never _did_ see such a -likeness; the express image of my young missus, only thinner, and paler, -and smaller. Come to the fire, my lass. What is your name, and how came -you out in the storm? You are not one of the village girls?” inquired -the housekeeper, drawing the chilled stranger to the bright little coal -fire that the dampness of the evening made very comfortable even at this -season. - -Then seeing in the glare of the light that the girl was wet to the skin, -she exclaimed: - -“Oh, deary me; you haven’t a dry thread on you! You must have been out -in the whole storm; come into my chamber and get a suit of dry clothes -on your back, and then you shall have some hot supper before you answer -any of my questions.” - -And taking the young stranger by the hand, the good housekeeper -conducted her into an adjoining room. - -They were gone about fifteen minutes, at the end of which Mrs. -Broadsides returned, leading her _protégée_, who was now comfortably -clad in a black silk dress, that looked as if it had been made for her. - -“Dear me, how well that fits,” said Miss Tabs. - -“Yes, it was my young missus’s. She left most of her clothes here, poor -child, when she went away, and I have taken care of them ever since. And -now, if you want to know what my darling looked like, just look at this -young gal; for there never was two peas so much alike as Miss Anna -Eleanora, and this young gal, only that this one looks like the ghost of -the other. And now, my child, sit down at the corner of the table here -by the fire, and have some of this curried chicken, while we make you a -glass of warm port-wine negus; and no one shall trouble you with any -questions until you have done supper,” said the good housekeeper, -settling her _protégée_ in the most comfortable seat. - -Another fifteen minutes sufficed to satisfy the appetite of the -stranger, who was thereupon required to gratify the curiosity of her -entertainers. - -“And now, my lass, tell us all about yourself. You are not of this -country-side, I suppose?” said Mrs. Broadsides, when they had gathered -around the fire. - -“No, ma’am, I came from London this morning by rail as far as the -station, and then set off to walk.” - -“But where were you going my child, when you were caught in the storm?” - -“To Allworth Abbey, ma’am.” - -“To ALLWORTH ABBEY!” exclaimed Mrs. Broadsides and Miss Tabs in a -breath. - -“Yes,” said the girl, looking up in surprise at the manner in which they -had received her communication. - -But this was no time to explain by introducing the tragedy of Allworth -Abbey. The curious women were for once more eager to hear than tell -news, and so Mrs. Broadsides inquired: - -“And whatever could have taken you to Allworth Abbey of all the places -in the world, my poor dear?” - -“Well, I don’t mind telling you as you are so good to me. I am an -orphan; my mother died when I was an infant, and my poor father died a -few days ago in his lodgings in London, leaving me quite destitute. So -the parish officers talked of sending me to the union, or binding me -apprentice to a mistress. I couldn’t bear the thoughts of either, so I -ran away, travelling by rail as long as my money lasted, and then -setting out to walk.” - -“But why to Allworth Abbey?” - -“Because my poor mother had a foster-sister living at service there, -who, I thought, might be kind to me.” - -“What—what was her name?” inquired Miss Tabs. - -“Tabitha Tabs. I remember it well.” - -“Why, that was _my_ name; but my mother never had but one-nurse child, -and that was Miss Anna Eleanor Brunton. Oh, my goodness, Mrs. -Broadsides, can—can—can it be as this is her darter!” exclaimed Miss -Tabs, breathlessly. - -“What is your name, young girl?” exclaimed the housekeeper, in an -agitated voice, grasping the arm and gazing eagerly into the face of the -stranger. - -“Annella Wilder—Oh-h! don’t squeeze my arm so tightly; you’ll break the -bone!” said the girl, shrinking from such a very pressing proof of -regard. - -“Annella Wilder! Annella was the pet name we used to call my darling by, -being the short for Anna Eleanora; and Wilder was the name of the young -fellow as bolted with her. And you as like her as one pea-pod is to -another, and as sure as fate you are my poor darling’s child. You are! -you are! Oh, dear! Oh, dear! oh!” cried the housekeeper, catching the -girl to her bosom, and sobbing and weeping over her. - -“And so my darling is dead! Died when you were an infant you say! And -her young husband, your father, did he ever forget her who gave up so -much for his sake? Did he ever put another woman in her place?” cried -the affectionate creature, still holding the girl to her bosom. - -“Never; he devoted himself to her memory—he mourned her as long as he -lived.” - -“Then how was it, my child, that you were left so destitute?” - -“Oh, my father, was unfortunate—he was obliged to sell out—and—he became -more and more unfortunate until he died—in destitution—and—do not ask me -any more,” said Annella, hesitatingly and bursting into tears. - -“I understand; I understand; that word ‘unfortunate’ means a great deal, -whether it is applied to man or woman. But there! don’t cry any more, my -dear. Better fortune is in store for you, I hope; for surely the admiral -will never visit the offences of the parents upon the child. There, -don’t cry any more, you are all right now, you are here,” said the -woman, wiping the tears from Annella’s eyes and re-seating her in her -chair. - -“But tell me who you are who take so kind an interest in my mother and -myself, and what place this is where I feel so much at home?” said -Annella. - -“Who am I, and what place is this? Why, my dear, is it possible that you -do not know where you are?” - -“No more than the dead.” - -“Did ever any one hear the like! And how did it happen that you came -here, then?” - -“As I told you before, I was trying to find Allworth Abbey, when I was -overtaken by the night and the storm, and while I was wandering about -like a lost child, I saw the lights of this house shine from afar and -they guided me to it.” - -“Well, Lord bless the admiral’s lights, for they have done some good at -last in guiding his own grand-daughter home!” said Mrs. Broadsides, -fervently. - -“Ma’am?” exclaimed Annella, opening her grey eyes in astonishment. - -“Now, is it creditable that you don’t yet know as you’re at the -Anchorage, the seat of your grandfather, Admiral Sir Ira Brunton?” - -“And is it possible that I am in the house of my grandfather—my stern -and terrible grandfather, who hated and discarded my father and my -mother?” exclaimed Annella, in dismay. - -“Yes, my dear, but he will not hate them any longer; he must not hate -the dead, you know; and he _must_ love the living; and he shall -acknowledge you as his grand-daughter and sole heiress, and take you to -his heart, or else turn me out of his house,” said the woman, stoutly. - -“And me, too; which I don’t think he be likely to do for a trifling -difference of opinion,” said Mr. Jessup. - -“And me!” said Miss Tabs, valiantly. - -And so likewise said Mr. Antonio. - -Annella remained in one maze of astonishment. - -A question now arose as to whether it would be better to let the admiral -know at once of the arrival of his grand-daughter, or to defer the -announcement until the morning. - -Mrs. Broadsides, who, with all her assumed heroism, was really very -timid, felt inclined to postpone the threatening hour as long as -possible. - -Miss Tabs agreed with her, especially as the admiral was now engaged -with company. - -But Mr. Jessup said the matter ought to be referred to Miss Annella -herself, and he was supported in his opinion by Mr. Antonio. And the -matter was referred accordingly. - -“Since I am in my grandfather’s house, of all others in the world, I am -not going to stay one hour without his knowledge and consent,” said -Annella. - -“And the girl is right,” said Mr. Jessup, emphatically. - -“Then I hope you’ll go and denounce her yourself, Jerry Jessup, as -you’re so bold about it,” exclaimed Mrs. Broadsides. - -“And that I’ll do this minute, too,” said Jerry, rising. - -“And mind, however master may receive the news, it may be as well to let -him know that out of this house she doesn’t go this night without my -going too!” - -“Hush, hush, woman; don’t cry out till you’re hit. Wait till I come -back,” said Jerry, leaving the room. - -The admiral was still in the drawing-room with his grandmother, his -mother, the Princess Pezzilini, and the young midshipman. The whole -party had finished tea, and were gathered near the fire, still engaged -in discussing the tragedy at Allworth Abbey, when the door opened, and -Mr. Jessup made his appearance. - -“Well, Jerry?” inquired the admiral, looking up. - -Mr. Jessup gave the naval salute to his superior officer, and answered: - -“If you please, your honor, I spied a small craft to windward, making -signals of distress.” - -“Well?” - -“I put out after her, your honor, and found her beating about in the -storm, though well nigh water-logged and ready to go down.” - -“And what then?” - -“I overhauled her, your honor, took possession, and towed her into -port.” - -“And what now?” - -“Please, your honor, I have come to report and take orders about her.” - -“What sort of a craft is she?” - -“Please, your honor, a small craft, tight-built, trim-rigged, fast -sailing in favorable weather, I should think, though now rather the -worse for the wear and tear of winds and waves.” - -“Well, haul her up along side, and let’s have a look at her,” commanded -the admiral. - -“Ay, ay, sir!” said Jerry, hastening to obey. - -“Whatever does he mean? I never can understand that man, any more than -if he spoke in Hebrew,” said Mrs. Brunton. - -“Hang the fellow! he always mistakes the drawing-room for the -quarter-deck,” said the admiral, laughing. “He means that a young person -has been caught out by the storm, and driven in here for shelter.” - -“But you will never bring a stranger into this room, Iry?” - -“Certainly, if Madame Pezzilini has no objection.” - -“Oh, certainly not,” replied the princess, with a suave courtesy. - -“Then we will see what she is like, and perhaps turn her over to the -care of Mrs. Broadsides,” concluded the veteran. - -At this moment the door opened, and Jerry hove into sight, towing in his -prize, which he announced as— - -“The Annella Wilder, London, your honor.” - -The admiral did not hear the name distinctly, but fixed his eyes upon -the young girl, who was steadily advancing towards him. And as she drew -nearer, his eyes dilated in astonishment, until, when she stood before -him, he gazed upon her in a panic of consternation, for it seemed to him -that his long-lost daughter was in his presence. - -For a minute that seemed an age, the old man and little maiden regarded -each other in silence, while all the other members of the party looked -on in surprise, and then the admiral broke forth: - -“Anna; my Lord, is it possible? I heard that you were dead long ago, -child—you and your infant daughter together. Where do you come from? You -look, indeed, as if it were from the grave! Why do you come here now? Is -it to reproach me?” - -“Grandfather,” said the young girl, sadly but fearlessly; “the Anna whom -you invoke is not here to offend you with her presence. She could not -come if she would, she would not, perhaps, if she could; fifteen years -ago she went with her broken heart to heaven. And I, her daughter, -standing here before you, came here not willingly or wittingly. The -storm without drove me, the lights within drew me here, not knowing -where I came. And now I am ready to depart, not caring where I go.” - -During this short interview, the two old ladies had risen from their -seats, and drawn near with looks of deep interest. The elder spoke: - -“Oh, Iry, she is poor Anna’s child! You will never let her go! She is my -great-great-grandchild; only think of that, Iry! She _shall_ not go, or, -if she does, I’ll go forth, with my century of years, and beg with her!” - -“Peace, peace, grandmother, be easy,” replied the admiral. - -Then turning again to Annella, he said, sternly: - -“Your father?” - -“Is in his grave,” answered the girl. - -“Thank heaven for that!” were the words that rose to the lips of the -veteran; but a glance at the face of his grand-daughter repressed their -utterance. - -“When did he die?” he asked. - -“On Thursday last,” she answered. - -“Why did he not write to me in all these years?” - -“Grandfather, if he had been happy and prosperous, he would have -written; but he was the reverse of all this, and he would not write.” - -“But _my_ blood ran in _his_ child’s veins! and if he was unhappy and -unsuccessful, he should have written to me! I am not flint!” - -“Grandfather, he was unhappy only in the loss of her whom your -unkindness hurried to the grave. And any help from your relenting hand, -that came too late for her relief, came much too late for his -acceptance! Grandfather, he loved your daughter too truly to enjoy a -benefit that she could not share.” - -The admiral groaned in the spirit, but did not reply. After a few -minutes of silence, during which all the other members of the circle -looked on in painful suspense, he inquired: - -“How came you out wandering alone in this remote country, so far from -the scene of your father’s death? Had he no friends to look after his -orphan child?” - -“Grandfather, it is a very long story; but I will tell you if you would -like to hear it.” - -“Yes, but sit down; sit down there in the little chair beside Madame -Pezzilini. And now go on,” said the admiral, throwing himself into his -own elbow-chair. - -Annella commenced, and gave a short history of her life in the camp with -her father; dwelling on his services in the Crimean war and the Indian -insurrection, glancing slightly at the circumstances that drove him to -sell his commission, and suppressing altogether the fact of that fatal -habit that caused his ruin. - -But notwithstanding the delicacy with which she treated her father’s -memory, the experienced veteran understood it all. - -Annella suppressed also the incident of the pauper funeral; but dwelt -fondly upon the benevolence of her landlady, and especially on that of -the beautiful, foreign-looking lodger, who had arrived in London only -the day before, and who seemed to have so deep a sorrow of her own. - -Something in the manner of the girl in describing her lovely -benefactress attracted the particular attention of the Princess -Pezzilini, who began with much interest to question the young girl. - -“When did you say this young lady reached London?” - -“On the morning of Wednesday.” - -“How was she dressed?” - -“In deep mourning.” - -“Will you describe her personal appearance?” - -“Oh, yes; she was so beautiful it would be a real pleasure to do so. She -was rather small and slender, but not thin. She had a clear, olive -complexion, with full, pouting, crimson lips, and large soft, dark eyes, -shaded with long black eyelashes, and arched with slender, jet black -eyebrows, and her hair was black as jet, and curled in long spiral -ringlets all around her head.” - -“Had she a little black mole over her right eye?” - -“Yes; and another at the left corner of her mouth; they were both very -pretty.” - -“It is Eudora Leaton!” said the princess, addressing the admiral. - -“There is no doubt of it, and I shall give information to the police -to-morrow,” replied the latter. - -“Sir?” inquired Annella, looking uneasily, she scarcely knew why, -towards her grandfather. - -“Nothing, my dear, only we think the young lady you mention is an -acquaintance of ours. And now, my dear, your looks betray so much -weariness, that I must order you off to bed. Grandmother, will you touch -the bell?” - -Mrs. Stilton complied; and Mr. Jessup made his appearance. - -“Send Broadsides here, Jerry,” said Mrs. Brunton. - -The housekeeper obeyed the summons. - -“Broadsides, show Miss Wilder into the suite of rooms formerly occupied -by her mother; and look out to-morrow for a discreet person to attend -her as lady’s-maid,” said Mrs. Brunton. - -The housekeeper courtesied in assent, and led off Annella, saying, as -she preceded her up-stairs: - -“I told you, my dear, that when you found yourself here you were all -right, and you see now that I spoke the truth, for you _are all right_!” - - - - - CHAPTER XIV. - THE FUGITIVE RETAKEN. - - Shuddering, she strove to speak - Once more in nature’s strong, appealing tones, - To supplicate—then came a shriek - That died in heavy moans.—_L. V. French._ - - -Meanwhile Eudora remained in strict seclusion at her obscure lodgings in -the Borough. Her voluntary close confinement within her own apartments -excited no suspicion in the guileless heart of her landlady, who -ascribed it to the recent bereavement and extreme sorrow which her deep -mourning and pallid countenance seemed truly to indicate. - -Mrs. Corder had formed her own opinion concerning her beautiful lodger. -No one had deceived the good woman, but she had quite naturally deceived -herself; and so thoroughly was she persuaded of the truth of her own -theory, that, when any chance visitor dropped in at evening to gossip, -she informed her that the new lodger was the orphan daughter of a -country clergyman, and had come to town to seek employment as a daily -governess. And if any one had asked Mrs. Corder how she obtained her -information, she would have said—and thought—that Miss Miller had told -her. - -Meanwhile Eudora passed her days in a heavy, deadly suspense and terror, -and her nights in broken sleep and fearful dreams, from which she would -start in nervous spasms. Every day her health visibly declined under -this tremendous oppression. - -The landlady ascribing her illness to inordinate grief for the death of -her parents, sought every means to soothe and entertain her. - -On the morning of the fifth day of her residence beneath the roof, the -landlady brought her a letter, saying: - -“Here now! I suppose this is to bring you some good news; an offer of a -situation perhaps in some nobleman’s family, who knows?” And the good -woman stuck her arms akimbo and stood at rest, evidently anxious to be a -participator in the “good news.” - -Eudora suspected the disguised handwriting to be that of Malcolm -Montrose, and with trembling fingers opened the letter. It was without -date or signature, and very brief, merely saying: - - “MY DEAREST ONE—All is well as yet—the hounds are off the scent. Do - not answer this letter; it might not be safe to do so. Keep close, and - wait for another communication.” - -Eudora put the letter in her bosom, and waited for an opportunity to -destroy it. - -“Then it isn’t good news,” said the sympathetic landlady, closely -inspecting Eudora’s troubled face. - -“It does not offer me a situation,” replied Eudora, evasively, and -blushing deeply at the prevarication. - -“Well, never mind, dear; you’ll have better fortune to-morrow, perhaps. -And now I am not a-going to let you mope. You must go out and take a -walk.” - -Eudora thanked the landlady, but declined the proposition, and gently -expressed her wish to be alone, whereupon the kind creature sighed and -withdrew. - -As soon as she found herself free from the watchfulness of her kind -hostess, Eudora struck a match, burned her letter on the hearth, then -threw herself into a chair, covered her face with her hands, and sank -back in the stillness of a dumb despair. - -While she sat thus the landlady suddenly broke in upon her in a state of -great excitement, exclaiming: - -“Oh, my dear Miss Miller, you _must_ excuse me; but I couldn’t help -coming to tell you, for I knew you would like to hear it—” - -“What is it, Mrs. Corder?” Eudora languidly inquired. - -“Why, that vile, wicked, infamous creature—that toad, that viper, that -rattlesnake as poisoned all her good uncle’s family—have broke loose -from the perlice and run away.” - -“Indeed,” was the only answer that Eudora could utter forth. Her throat -was choking, her heart was stopping, her blood freezing with terror. - -“Yes! but oh! they’ll catch her again, the tiger-cat! for there’s a -reward of a hundred pounds offered for her arrest, and a full -description of her person that nobody _can’t_ mistake! Here, my dear, -read it for yourself,” said Mrs. Corder, handing the newspaper to -Eudora. - -The poor girl took it in desperate anxiety to read the advertisement, -and ascertain how far the description might suit all medium-sized young -brunettes, and how nearly it might agree with her own peculiar -individuality. - -She essayed to read, but as she held the paper, her hands trembled, her -eyes filmed over, and her voice failed. - -With an appealing look she held the paper towards Mrs. Corder, who took -it, saying: - -“Well, my dear, you _are_ the nervousest I ever saw, and no wonder. But -for all that you would like to hear it. Shall I read it for you?” - -“Yes,” was the only answer that Eudora could breathe. - -The landlady seated herself, and with an air of innocent importance -opened the paper, and holding it squarely before her large person, read -as follows: - - “ONE HUNDRED POUNDS REWARD.—Absconded from Allworth Abbey, near - Abbeytown, in the County of Northumberland, on the night of Tuesday - last, Eudora Milnes Leaton, charged with having poisoned the family of - Leaton, Allworth. The fugitive is of medium height, slender, - well-rounded, graceful form, and regular features, dark complexion, - with black hair and black eyes. She wore, when she left, a full suit - of deep mourning. The above reward will be given to any person who may - apprehend and deliver up the said Eudora Milnes Leaton to justice.” - -Eudora felt that this description might suit any medium-sized young -brunette in mourning as well as herself, and therefore breathed more -freely, especially as she perceived that the unconscious landlady never -once suspected the identity of her lodger with the advertised fugitive. - -“There’s for you, my dear; now, what do you think of that? They’ll be -sure to catch her again with _that_ reward offered and _that_ -description given! She had better go and hide herself under the earth, -for if she shows herself above ground, she is sure to be caught! Anybody -would know her from that description the minute they clapped their eyes -on her! I should, I’m sure, for I think I see her now, with her sharp, -wicked black eyes, and sly leer and vicious looks!” said the landlady, -gazing straight into the face of Eudora without the slightest suspicion -of her identity with the fugitive; for good Mrs. Corder had an ideal -portrait of the supposed criminal in her mind’s eye that formed a -complete blind to her discovery of Eudora. - -“I hope the prisoner will be found and the truth brought to light,” said -Miss Leaton, fervently. - -“And I hope so, too; and now, my dear, I will leave the paper for your -amusement while I go down and see what Sally is about,” said the -landlady, leaving the room. - -Eudora, as soon as she found herself alone, picked up the paper, and -once more read the imperfect description of her own person. - -“How fortunate for me that they did not think of the two little moles on -my face! Even my innocent landlady must have detected me by them had -they been mentioned,” thought Eudora to herself. Yet still her heart was -filled with dismay, and she felt an oppression of the lungs and a -difficulty of breathing, that induced her to rise and open the door for -a freer circulation of air. - -As she did this, her attention was arrested by a knock at the private -door down stairs. - -As she was in that condition of peril when every sound struck terror to -her heart, she paused and listened. - -She heard the landlady go to the door and open it, saying, in a tone of -surprise and displeasure: - -“Well, whatever can be your business here with me or my house or -family?” - -“We come with a warrant for the arrest of Miss Eudora Leaton, charged -with having poisoned her uncle’s family, and supposed to be now lying -concealed in your house,” replied a voice that Eudora, in an agony of -terror, recognized as that of Sims, the detective policeman, who had had -her in custody at Allworth Abbey. Though nearly dying, she leaned far -over the railings to hear farther. - -“Eudora Leaton in my house, indeed! You must have taken leave of your -senses, man! I’ll sue you for slander! Pray, is my house a harbor for -poisoners?” exclaimed the landlady, indignantly, placing her arms -akimbo, and filling up the door with her burly person. - -“Of course not, mum; nobody says that it is, or means that it shall be, -and nobody accuses you of wilfully concealing the fugitive—” - -“They’d better not!” interposed the landlady. - -“Well, they _don’t_ but you have a young lady lodging here who arrived -last Wednesday morning—a dark young lady, dressed in black?” - -“Yes, but there are hundreds upon hundreds of dark young ladies dressed -in black in London, and they aint all poisoners—God forbid! And this one -with me aint Eudora Leaton, nor no such demon; on the contrary, she is -Miss Miller, and an angel, that’s what she is!” - -“But for all that, mum, you must let us see this Miss Miller; you can -have no objection to that?” - -“Yes, but I _has_ an objection; I has a very particular objection to any -party of perlice intruding into a modest young lady’s private apartments -in _my_ house. And so you had better go about your business,” said the -landlady, still stopping the way with her large form. - -“We are sorry to trouble you, Mrs. Corder, but it is absolutely -necessary for us to see this lodger,” insisted the detective. - -“But as my lodger happens to be a dark young lady in black, you may take -her up by mistake, and that would kill the poor young creature.” - -“No danger, Mrs. Corder; we are both well acquainted with the personal -appearance of Miss Eudora Leaton, having held her in custody for a whole -day and night before her escape. It is only necessary for us to see this -lodger for one moment, in order to know whether she is Eudora Leaton or -not. If she is, we must take her at once; if she is not, you will be -instantly relieved of our presence. And now I hope you will not longer -hinder us from the discharge of our duty.” - -“Oh, certainly not—certainly not! Search! search by all manner of means, -if you can’t take an honest woman’s word for it!” said the landlady, -sarcastically. “Only for decency’s sake, you must let me go before you, -and tell Miss Miller before you burst in upon her privacy.” - -“Very well, mum; but we must follow close behind you to prevent -accidents. Lead the way, then,” replied Sims. - -Eudora heard this conclusion, and turned with the wild instinct of -flying or hiding, she knew not how or where. - -The landlady led the way up-stairs, and rapped at Eudora’s door. There -was no answer. Then the policeman quickly pushed himself in front of the -landlady, and suddenly opened the door. - -Eudora stood in the middle of the floor, with her hands clasped and -extended in mute appeal, her face blanched with terror, and her eyes -strained in anguish upon the intruders. - -“It is herself,” said Sims, advancing into the room. - -“I knew it before I saw her,” added his companion, following him. - -“It’s not! you’re both on you clean mad to say so, only because she -happens to have dark hair and eyes like that Eudora devil! I suppose -you’d even be after taking up my Sally on suspicion, only she happens to -be fair complected,” exclaimed the landlady, vehemently. - -“The young lady herself cannot deny her own identity. Are you not Miss -Leaton?” inquired Detective Sims, addressing the panic-stricken girl. - -“No!” screamed the landlady, before her lodger could reply; “no, I tell -you she is Miss Miller!” - -“I spoke to you, miss; is not your name Eudora Leaton?” inquired Sims, -confidently. - -“It is; I am, indeed, poor Eudora Leaton!” said the miserable girl, in a -dying voice, dropping her head upon her bosom, and letting her clasped -hands fall asunder helplessly by her side. - -“Then please to hold out your wrists, miss,” said the officer, drawing -from his pocket a pair of light steel handcuffs connected by a short, -bright steel chain. - -Eudora mechanically obeyed, without the highest suspicion of what was -about to be done. - -“Sorry to have to clasp these ornaments on your wrists, miss; but when a -prisoner displays such a wonderful talent for escape as you have, why, -we must take proper precautions. Hold your hands up a little higher, if -you please, miss—there!” said Sims, snapping the handcuffs upon her -delicate wrists; “there, now, I dare say, as your waiting-maid never -clasped your gold bracelets when you were going to a party quicker than -I have these. And these, though they are of steel, are as light and as -bright as possible, and steel is very fashionable now; and as for the -chain that connects them, it is for all the world like the handle of an -elegant reticule. You see I selected the pattern of the ornament with a -view to the delicacy of the wearer,” concluded the man, carefully -adjusting the fetters. - -“And now, mum,” he added, turning to the landlady, “will you get Miss -Leaton’s bonnet and shawl, and so forth, and put them on her, while my -comrade goes out and calls a cab?” - -The landlady, since the confession of Eudora, had been standing the very -image of dumb consternation. - -The request of the policeman broke the spell of silence that bound her, -and she burst into a passion of tears, sobbing and exclaiming: - -“Well, who’d a thought it? I wouldn’t—no! I wouldn’t a believed it if an -angel from heaven had come down and told me! and I can scarce believe it -even now when I look into her innocent face! Oh, my dear! say it was all -a mistake! say as how you are _not_ Eudora Leaton, and _not_ a poisoner, -or you’ll break the mother’s heart in my bosom!” she cried, extending -her arms with yearning tenderness towards the miserable girl. - -“Oh, Mrs. Corder! I am indeed Eudora Leaton, but no poisoner; as the -Lord in heaven sees and hears me, no poisoner! Your pure and honest -heart must read and understand me rightly! Oh, come, look into my eyes, -deep down into my soul, and see if it is stained with such an atrocious -crime!” said Eudora, clasping her fettered hands, and raising her -beautiful eyes to the face of the landlady. - -“No, indeed!” exclaimed the latter; “since you are Eudora Leaton, you -are wrongfully accused! I’d stake my life upon it, you are wrongfully -accused! I believe you to be as innocent of that deed as my own Sally, -that I do!” - -“Oh, thank you! thank you for that! for you believe only what God knows -to be true! I am innocent!” wept Eudora. - -“I know you be, my poor child! Oh, Mr. Perlice, look at her! just look -at her sweet face and soft eyes, and tell me if it is possible for _her_ -to be guilty of what she is accused with?” said the landlady, taking the -detective by his arm, and turning him towards the prisoner. - -“The testimony, mum, the testimony!” said that functionary, coolly. - -“Oh, the testimony!” The landlady shut her lips to prevent the escape of -a word that would not have become the mouth of an honest woman. - -“Fax is fax, mum! And now, as we want to catch the three o’clock train, -I wish you would show your kindness to your lodger by putting her things -on her.” - -“I won’t! You shan’t take her away, you cruel man!” cried the landlady, -roaring with grief. - -“Do, Mrs. Corder, get my bonnet and shawl; we must not resist the -warrant, you know,” said Eudora, in an expiring voice, as, unable longer -to support her sinking frame, she dropped into the nearest chair. - -“But I _will_ resist! It’s cruel! it’s monstrous! it’s infamous to drag -you off in this way!” sobbed the landlady. - -“I’ll tell you what, mum, unless you get what the young lady requires, -and help her to prepare for her journey, I shall have to go into her -chamber and be her waiting-maid myself, which might not be so pleasant, -you know, for I expect Rutt here every minute with the cab.” - -At this moment, indeed, the other policeman entered to say that the -carriage was at the door. - -“Come, come, bestir yourself, my good woman, or shall I go?” said Sims, -hurrying towards the chamber door. - -“No,” said Mrs. Corder, losing her temper, forgetting her -respectability, descending into the depths of Billingsgate, and fishing -up its blackest mud of vituperation to fling at the policemen. - -She resisted, abused, and threatened them at such a rate that, had they -not been very forbearing, besides having a much more important matter in -hand, they might reasonably have taken her in charge. - -When the landlady had fairly screamed herself out of breath, so that she -was obliged to stop and pant, Eudora took advantage of the momentary -silence to lay her manacled hands upon the arm of the angry woman, and -to falter: - -“Dear, good friend, all this is well meant, but it does me harm instead -of good. We cannot possibly resist lawful authority; and so, if you -really desire to serve me, do that for me which I should not like a -policeman to do, and which I cannot do for myself.” - -“Oh, poor, fatherless, motherless child! Oh, poor, dear little fettered -wrists!” cried the landlady, sobbing and weeping over them. - -“Come, mum, come! time’s up!” said Sims. - -He was answered by another shower of tears and abuse, as Mrs. Corder -retreated into the bed-room. - -She soon reappeared with Eudora’s outer garments, which she carefully -arranged upon the person of their owner, folding the shawl so as to -conceal the degrading fetters. - -“And now, where be you a-going to take my poor darling? Not to Newgate, -I hope?” - -“Oh, no, mum, we must take her back to Abbeytown, where she will have a -fair trial and full justice, that you may depend upon, so don’t be -alarmed,” said Sims, with more good nature than could have been expected -of him under the circumstances. - -When Eudora was ready she sank into the arms of her rough but honest -friend, who embraced her fervently, praying: - -“Oh, may the Lord deliver you from all your enemies and all your -troubles, my poor, helpless darling! and may the old Nick himself—” - -“Hush, hush!” said Eudora, stopping her words with a kiss; “let me go -with the sound of blessings, not of curses, ringing on my ears! -Good-bye, dear friend! May God reward you for all your kindness to me!” - -And Eudora withdrew from her arms. - -The landlady sank sobbing into a chair. The young prisoner, half -fainting, was led away between the two policemen. - -They took her down-stairs, and placed her in the cab which was -immediately driven towards the King’s-cross Railway Station. - -They arrived just in time to catch the desired train. Eudora was hurried -into a coupé, where she sat guarded on the right and left by the two -policemen. - -It was a miserable journey of about six hours. The policemen were -reasonably kind to her, and whenever the train stopped for refreshments, -they offered her food, wine, tea and coffee. But she refused all meat -and drink, and sat in a stupor of exhaustion and despair. - -It was after nine o’clock when the train arrived at Abbeytown. It was -quite dark, but the station was well lighted, and the usual mob of -guards, cabmen, and idlers was collected to see the train come in. - -There were but few passengers for Abbeytown, so that when the policemen -stepped out of the coupé, leading their prisoner between them—and when -Sims stood by, guarding her, while Rutt went to call a cab—they were -exposed to the observation of the whole crowd, who gathered around, -quickly identified the party, and began to whisper audibly that the -notorious Eudora Leaton, the poisoner of her uncle’s family, was there -in custody of the police, and to elbow, push, and crowd each other in -their anxiety to see her face. - -Eudora, nearly fainting with distress, put up her hands to draw her veil -closer about her face, and in so doing exposed her fettered wrists. - -“Handcuffed, too, by all that’s blue! What a desperate ’un she must be, -to be sure,” said a rude man, pushing near, and trying to look under her -veil. - -“Stand back, will you?” shouted Sims, angrily. - -“Oh, we mustn’t look at her, mustn’t we? Well, then, I reckon the day’ll -come as we’ll get a full view of her for nothing. Calcraft’s patients -don’t wear weils to hide their blushes.” - -Eudora shuddered at this rude speech, when luckily the other officer -came up with the cab, and she was hurried into it, out of the insulting -scrutiny of the mob. - -Among those who had gazed with even more interest than curiosity upon -the hapless girl, was a tall, thin, mustachioed foreigner, wrapped in a -large cloak, and having a travelling-cap pulled down low over his -piercing eyes. He had come down alone in a first-class carriage, and now -stood waiting upon the platform. - -When the cab had rolled out of sight, and the train had started, and the -bustle of the arrival and departure was over, the stranger turned to an -_employée_ at the station, and said: - -“Who is that young girl that arrived in charge of the police?” - -“That, sir? why, a most notorious criminal, sir, as has just been taken -in London; by name Miss Leaton, sir; more’s the pity, for it’s a noble -one to end in shame and ruin.” - -“Miss Leaton!—not of Allworth Abbey!—not the daughter of Lord Leaton?” -questioned the stranger in the strongest agitation. - -“Oh, Lord, no, sir; not the daughter of Lord Leaton, but his niece. -Lord, sir, haven’t you heard about it? I thought the story had gone all -over England.” - -“I have but just arrived in the country, and know nothing of the affair, -but I am interested in hearing the particulars, if you will do me the -favor of relating them.” - -“Oh, yes, sir, certainly, with great pleasure,” said the man. - -And it was indeed with _very_ great pleasure that he commenced and -related to a perfectly fresh hearer the oft-repeated awful tragedy of -Allworth Abbey. - -The stranger listened with the deepest interest. At the conclusion of -the narrative, he said: - -“The circumstances, indeed, seem to point out this young Eudora Leaton -as the criminal; but from the glimpse I caught of her lovely face, she -is just the last person in the world I should suspect of crime.” - -“Oh, sir, we mustn’t judge by appearances. Who looked more innocent nor -William Palmer? He had just the most sweetest and benevolentness face as -ever was seen.” - -“I know nothing of the man of whom you speak; but the face of this young -girl is certainly not that of a poisoner. And so I should like you to -name over to me every individual of the drawing-room circle at Allworth -Abbey at the time of Lord Leaton’s sudden death.” - -“Yes, sir; that is easily done, for there were very few—Lord and Lady -Leaton; their only child, Miss Leaton; their niece, Miss Eudora; and -their guest, the Princess Pezzilini.” - -“Humph! And the domestic establishment, can you call its members over by -name?” - -“Lord, yes, sir! ever since that dreadful affair every individual member -of that household is well beknown to everybody,” replied the man, who -immediately began and gave a list of all the maid and men servants in or -about Allworth Abbey. - -“Humph,” said the stranger again; and then, after a few moments spent in -deep thought, he thanked the narrator for his information, put a -crown-piece in his hand, and requested him to call a cab. - -The man touched his hat, hurried away, and soon returned with the cab. - -“To the Leaton Arms,” said the stranger, as he entered the cab, and -threw himself heavily back among the cushions. - -Meanwhile Eudora Leaton, in charge of the two policemen, was carried -into the town. - -It was considered too late to take her before a magistrate, or even -lodge her in the county gaol, which had been closed for hours. - -The policemen therefore conveyed her to a rude but strong station, or -lock-up house, where drunkards, brawlers, thieves, and other disturbers -of the night were confined until morning. - -Eudora was thrust into a large stone room, with grated windows placed -high up towards the ceiling, and rude oaken benches ranged along the -walls. This apartment was without fire, beds, or separate cells. - -It was occupied by about half a dozen abandoned women and various -children, some of whom lay extended along the benches in the stupid -sleep of intoxication, while others walked restlessly about, engaged in -desultory conversation. - -As soon as Eudora was brought into the room they ceased their talk to -stare at her, as though she had been a vision from another world. - -Truly, she was a strange visitant of such a place as that. - -In a moment, however, they seemed to have fixed upon her identity, and -began an eager whispering concerning her supposed crimes and probable -fate. - -As soon as the policemen had gone, and the strong oaken door was locked -and barred upon her, and she found herself alone among these wretched -outcasts, fear and loathing seized her soul, and she retreated to the -remotest corner of the hall, where she crouched down upon the bench, and -covered her face with her veil. - -But Eudora had to learn in her misery that human sympathies still lived -in the seared hearts of those poor women, dead though they seemed to all -higher feelings. - -While shrinking in horror from the sight and hearing of these lost -creatures, Eudora heard one whisper to another: - -“Go to her, Nance, you’re the youngest of the lot, and maybe she’ll not -be frightened of you. Go to her, there’s a good lass; see, she aint used -to being in a place like this.” - -“I dunnot like to go, Poll. She’s a lady, and I dunnot like to.” - -“But she is in trouble with the rest of us, Nance, and she’s a stranger -to the place, with no one to speak to. Go to her, there’s a good lass.” - -“Well, if you’ll go with me and speak first.” - -“Me! look at me, with my torn gown and my black eye; I should scare the -soul out of the likes of her,” said Poll, sighing. - -“Bosh! she wouldn’t see ’em; ’sides, if all’s true as is said of _her_, -_she_ aint easy scared. Howsoever, and whatsoever she _has_ done, I am -sorry for her, seeing as she is in about the deepest trouble as any -woman _could_ be in! so let’s both go and comfort her.” - -One touch of sympathy as well as nature makes all the world of kin. - -Eudora’s heart was touched; but though purity cannot do otherwise than -shrink from the contact of impurity, and though Eudora still shuddered -as these women approached her, yet she put aside her veil and looked -gratefully towards them. - -“Come, lass, don’t be downcast; keep up a good heart in your bosom. -There’s many a one locked up here, and comes afore the beak, as is never -sent up to the ’sizes; and many and many tried at the ’sizes as are -never conwicted, and more conwicted as are never exercuted. So you see, -my poor dear, as there are ten chances to one in your favor.” - -“And I am not guilty; that also should be in my favor,” said poor -Eudora, glad of any sympathy. - -“To be sure you arn’t, my dear! You arn’t guilty, even supposing you -_did_ poison your uncle’s family! We arn’t any on us guilty of anything -in particular, no matter what we do. It’s SOCIETY as is guilty of -everything, as I myself heard well proved by an philanthrophysing gemman -as spoke to the people on Fledgemoor Common,” said the enlightened Poll. - -“But I did _not_ poison my uncle’s family. Oh! my God! how can anyone -think I could do such a thing,” said Eudora, shuddering. - -“Well, dear, I don’t ask you to confess, which would be unreasonable; -but I _do_ tell you that it makes no difference to me; I pities you all -the same whether you did poison ’em or not. For, maybe, you couldn’t -help it; and maybe they _deserved_ poisoning, ’cause why? some people -are more agrowoking nor rats and mice, as everyone allows it to be -lawful to poison. And maybe they trampled on you being of an orphan -niece. And leastways—it aint _you_, it’s society as is to blame for it -all, as the philanthrophysing gemman said at Fledgemoor Common. So, my -darling, you just keep up your heart. And here, take a drop of comfort -to help you to do so. Here is some rale ‘mountain dew’ as will get up -your spirits just about right. Take a sip,” said Poll, diving into the -depths of a capacious pocket and drawing forth a flask, which she -unstopped and offered to Eudora. - -But the fumes of the gin were so repulsive to the latter that she waved -it away, saying: - -“I thank you; you are very kind, indeed; but I do not require anything.” - -“Well, if you won’t take the gin, you must lie down and rest anyhow; for -you look just about ready to faint away. We’ll make you the best bed as -we can in this miserable place. Here, Nance, lend me your shawl; and -lend me yours, Peg; we must be good to a poor girl as is in a thousand -times deeper trouble nor we are ourselves, ’cause our lives is not in -danger as her’s be,” said Poll, stripping the shawl from her own -shoulders and folding and laying it on the rude bench, and rolling -Nance’s shawl into a pillow and retaining Peg’s for a blanket. - -“Now, my darling, take off your bonnet, and loosen your clothes, and -spread your pocket handkerchief over this rum pillow, and try to take -some rest, and you’ll be all the better able to face the beaks -to-morrow.” - -“I thank you; you are very, very good to me; and I know that the best -thing I can do is to lie down as you advise me,” said Eudora, with much -emotion, for she had scarcely hoped to meet such tender sympathy from -such rude natures. - -And she took off her bonnet, unhooked the bodice of her dress, and laid -her weary frame down on the little bed that their kindness had prepared -for her. - -Poll covered her carefully with Peg’s shawl, and then bidding her -good-night, drew off her companions to the farthest end of the room, -where they conversed in low whispers, for fear of disturbing “the poor -young lady.” - -Left to herself, Eudora composed her mind to prayer; and as the prayers -of innocence always bring peace, notwithstanding all the shame, grief -and terror of her position, the poor girl sank into a strange calm, and -thence into a deep sleep. - - - - - CHAPTER XV. - IN PRISON. - - Oh, God! that one might see the book of fate, - And read the revolution of the times— - Make mountains level, and the continent, - Weary of solid firmness, melt itself - Into the sea! and other times to see - The beachy girdle of the ocean - Too wide for Neptune’s hips.—_Shakspeare._ - - -Clearly broke the morning through the grated windows of the lock-up -house. The beams of the rising sun slanting through the bars, shown upon -the wretched inmates, some extended along the benches, some squatted -upon the floor but all in a heavy sleep. - -Eudora, lying covered up carefully in her remote corner of the room, out -of the direct rays of the sun, also continued to sleep soundly. - -An hour or two passed without anything disturbing the quiet of the -prison, until at length the falling of the bars, opening of the door, -and entrance of the policemen, awoke the sleepers, who commenced an -unanimous clamor for food, for drink, and above all, for release. - -Roused by the noise, Eudora started up and gazed wildly around, not -comprehending her situation; but soon memory, with all its terrors, -awoke, and nearly turned her into stone. She gazed upon her manacled -hands, her prison walls, and her wretched companions, and her blood -nearly froze in her veins. - -The policemen had come to take the other women and the children before -the magistrate. The three females who had befriended her the night -before now came to her to reclaim their shawls, and with many kind -wishes, took leave. - -“Keep up your spirits, lass! don’t let the beaks see you down in the -mouth! Lawk, it is only the _first_ time going as is awful. By the time -you’ve been hauled up afore the beak as often as I has, you won’t mind -it more’n I do. Will she, Nance?” - -“Not a bit of it,” said the girl addressed. - -Eudora shuddered throughout her frame at this horrible style of -consolation. And yet so real is the link that binds together the whole -brotherhood and sisterhood of man and woman, and so intense in times of -trouble is the craving of the human heart for human sympathy, that it -was with feelings of longing and regret Eudora saw these wretched women -depart. - -She was left quite alone for an hour; at the end of which the detective -Sims brought her some coffee and bread, of which he kindly advised her -to partake. - -“How long shall I have to remain here?” inquired the poor girl. - -“Your examination before the magistrates is fixed for noon. It can’t -take place before, because of the witnesses having to be brought -together.” - -“Thank you. Will you set down the coffee, and be kind enough to procure -me a pitcher of water?” - -The officer nodded, and went and brought the required refreshment, and -then retired and barred the door upon the solitary prisoner. - -And as soon as she was again left alone, Eudora, over whose habits of -neatness no misfortune could prevail, took combs, brushes, and a towel -from her travelling-bag, and with the aid of the jug of water, bathed -her face, combed her hair, and arranged her dress as well as with her -manacled hands she could. Then she drank the coffee and tried to compose -her mind for the severe ordeal before her. - -She had not long to wait. At a quarter to twelve the bars once more fell -with a clang, the door was opened, and the two officers entered to -conduct her before the magistrates. With her fettered hands she managed -to put on her bonnet, but could not contrive to arrange her shawl; but -Sims performed this service for her with gentleness and delicacy, -folding the shawl so as to conceal the manacles. - -Then, closely veiled, she was led out between the two policemen, and -conducted across the street to the Townhall, in a front room of which -the magistrates held their sessions. - -A rude crowd of men, women and boys was collected in front of the -building, waiting to get a sight of her face as she passed. But the -policemen kindly hurried her through this crowd into the hall. - -It was a large stone room, divided across the middle of the floor by an -iron railing. Within this railing, behind a long table, sat three -magistrates; the presiding Justice, Sir Ira Brunton, occupied the -central position, while on his right sat Squire Humphreys, and on his -left Squire Upton. At one extremity of the table sat the clerk, and at -the opposite end stood the group of witnesses, consisting of Dr. -Watkins, Dr. Hall, the Princess Pezzilini, two chemists, a policeman, -and the domestic servants of Allworth Abbey. - -Immediately before the table stood Malcolm Montrose, looking pale, -anxious, and heart-broken. On seeing the entrance of Eudora guarded, he -hurried through the little gate of the railings towards her, saying, in -a low and hurried tone: - -“Oh, Eudora! It is but an hour since I heard of your arrest—only when -the sheriff’s-officer arrived at Allworth to summon the witnesses; and I -hurried hither immediately to see what I could do for you.” - -“Nothing, nothing, you can do nothing for me, dear friend; my case is so -desperate that none but God can help me.” - -“But oh, Eudora——” - -“Sir, we cannot allow any conversation with the prisoner,” said Sims, -hurrying his charge on to the immediate presence of the magistrates. - -“Place a chair for her, officer; she is unable to stand,” said Squire -Upton, looking at the terrified and half-fainting girl with feelings -that might have been compassion, but for the horror her supposed crime -inspired. - -Sims placed a chair directly in front of the table before the -magistrates, and Eudora dropped rather than set down in it. - -Sims then laid the warrant upon the table before their worships, and -retreated behind the chair of his prisoner. - -Sir Ira Brunton adjusted his spectacles, took up the warrant, looked -over it, and then addressing the accused, said, coldly: - -“Will you please to throw aside your veil, Miss Leaton?” - -Eudora, with trembling fingers, obeyed, and revealed a face, so deathly -in its pallor, that those who looked upon it shrank back and uttered -exclamations of pity, for they thought the girl must be dying. - -“Miss Leaton,” pursued Sir Ira Brunton, “the warrant that I hold here -charges you with the murder, by the administration of poison, of the -late Lord and Lady Leaton and their daughter, the Hon. Agatha Leaton. I -must say that I grieve exceedingly to see one of your age and sex and -rank stand before us charged with so heinous a crime.” - -The deadly pallor of Eudora’s cheeks were suddenly flushed with a hectic -spot, as she faltered forth: - -“I am guiltless; oh, sir, you who have known me ever since I came, an -orphan, in this strange land, should know that I am.” - -“God grant that it may prove so,” said the magistrate, sternly. - -And the investigation immediately commenced. First, the minutes of the -coroner’s inquest were read; and then the witnesses were examined in -turn. - -The housekeeper, Mrs. Vose, was called, and with many tears, and much -reluctance, gave in her testimony: - -“That Miss Eudora Leaton was the niece of Lord Leaton, and after Miss -Agatha, the next heiress to the estate. Miss Eudora had nursed Lord -Leaton through his fatal illness, preparing all his delicate food and -drink with her own hands. She prepared the sleeping-draught of which he -drank ten minutes before his sudden death. Miss Eudora also nursed Miss -Agatha through her last illness, which corresponded in all its symptoms -to that of the late Lord Leaton. Miss Eudora watched beside Miss Agatha -on the last night of her life, and prepared the tamarind-water of which -she drank just before her death. Lady Leaton drank of the same beverage -just before her sudden demise.” - -Squire Upton inquired: - -“Was the jug containing this beverage left out of the prisoner’s keeping -from the time of her preparing it to the time of Miss Agatha Leaton’s -death?” - -“I think not. Miss Eudora prepared the drink in the housekeeper’s room, -and took it up to Miss Agatha’s chamber, where she (Miss Eudora) watched -through the night,” replied Mrs. Vose. - -Several others among the domestic servants were examined, and each one, -in a greater or less degree, corroborated the testimony of the -housekeeper. - -The next witness examined was the family physician, Dr. Watkins, who -testified that the symptoms of the sudden accessions of illness, which -successively terminated in the death of Lord Leaton, Lady Leaton, and -Miss Leaton, were those produced by the poison of St. Ignatius’ -Bean;—that traces of this poison were discovered in the autopsy of the -dead bodies and in the analysis of the beverage prepared by Miss Eudora -Leaton, and of which they drank just previous to their deaths;—and that -a quantity of the same fatal drug was found in Miss Eudora Leaton’s box. - -The testimony of the doctor was corroborated by two physicians who had -assisted in the autopsy of the bodies and the analysis of the beverage, -and by the policeman who had executed the warrant and discovered the -poison in Eudora’s possession. - -The last witness examined was the Princess Pezzilini, who, with the -exception of the scientific evidence offered by the physicians, -corroborated the whole of the foregoing testimony. - -The evidence being all collected, the prisoner was asked if she had any -explanation to give before the magistrates should decide upon her case. - -Slowly rising, and in a very faint voice, she answered: - -“None that will do any good, I fear. I did, indeed, nurse my uncle and -my cousin through their last illnesses—” - -“Prisoner, you are seriously compromising yourself by making these -admissions. You must be careful not to commit yourself again,” said -Squire Upton. - -“Sir, if I speak at all, I can only speak the truth, and I cannot -believe that the truth can hurt me. I repeat, then, your worships, that -I did nurse my uncle and cousin through their last illness. I did -prepare with my own hands all the food and drink of which they partook—” - -“Prisoner, prisoner,” said Squire Upton, in a tone of great sympathy, -for—despite the conclusive evidence against her, it was impossible to -look into her innocent eyes without feeling a doubt of her supposed -guilt, and wishing to give her the benefit of that doubt—“prisoner, I -must again earnestly warn you that you are fatally criminating yourself, -a thing that the law does not require you to do. Justice affords even to -the most guilty the opportunity of acquittal, which the criminal is not -bound to destroy.” - -“Sir, I am not a criminal; and if speaking the truth is to destroy me, -it must do so. I did prepare their food and drink, as I did everything -else for their relief and comfort, because I loved them so much that I -would have given my life, if its sacrifice could have saved theirs. I -put no injurious ingredient in anything that I made for them. And as for -that deadly poison of St. Ignatius’ Bean, of which it is said they died, -and which was found in my box, I do not know how it came there. I never, -certainly, had it in my possession, never knew anything of its -properties, never even heard of its existence before! And as I have -spoken truly, so may the Lord deliver my life from this great peril!” - -She concluded in a very low voice, and at the close of her little speech -sank trembling into her chair again. Her simple defence, with its fatal -admissions, was of course worse than useless; and her unsupported denial -of the poisoning had not a feather’s weight to counterbalance the -crushing mass of evidence against her. - -“Humph! I see but one course for us to pursue, and that is to send her -to trial. What do you say, Mr. Humphreys? What do you say, Mr. Upton?” -inquired Sir Ira Brunton, looking to the right and left upon his -associate magistrates. - -“I regret to be obliged to coincide with you,” said Mr. Humphreys. - -“It is very sad, very, very sad; but I see no possible alternative,” -said Squire Upton, looking with deep compassion upon the poor young -girl. - -“Fill out the mittimus, Wallace,” ordered Sir Ira Brunton. - -The clerk immediately filled out the commitment of Eudora Leaton, and -placed it in the hands of detective Sims, with the order to take away -his prisoner at once. - -At this command a wild affright blanched the face of Eudora, who, in her -utter ignorance of the magistrates’ prerogative, clasped her hands, and -raised her dilated eyes, in an agony of supplication, saying: - -“Oh, sirs, I am innocent! God knows I am! Have pity on me!” - -“My child,” said the kind-hearted Squire Upton, who more than -half-doubted her imputed guilt, “this is not final, you know. He -pronounced no judgment upon your guilt or innocence, we only send you to -take your trial before a higher court, where you may be fully acquitted. -Meanwhile, no doubt your friends will procure you counsel from the -highest legal talent in the kingdom, and this talent will devote itself -to the task of clearing away these circumstances that appear against -you; and if you are really innocent, as I hope that you are, take faith -and patience to your heart, and pray and trust to God for their success -and your deliverance.” - -Eudora listened to these words with eager, breathless interest; but, oh, -they afforded her but little hope. She bowed in silent acknowledgment of -the magistrates’ kindness, and turned in resigned despair towards her -custodians. - -Malcolm Montrose, with anguish stamped like death upon his brow, came -forward, and, in a choking voice, said: - -“Gentlemen, if any amount of bail would suffice to set her at liberty—” - -“Mr. Montrose, the Queen of England could not bail out a prisoner -charged with the crime of which she stands committed,” said Sir Ira -Brunton, sternly. - -Ah! Malcolm knew this as well as the magistrates did; he had only spoken -in the transient madness of grief and desperation. Now he turned to the -prisoner, and said: - -“Eudora, throw yourself upon the mercy of heaven, since there is so -little left on earth. Oh, pray to God as I shall pray for you, and try -to bear up under this heaviest affliction through these darkest of days. -I will leave for London to-night, and retain the best counsel that can -be procured. I will bring them to you to-morrow. Oh, try to endure your -life until then.” - -“Mr. Montrose,” said Sir Ira Brunton, “the prisoner must be at once -removed; we are waiting to examine other cases.” - -“Good-bye until to-morrow, Eudora. Before you reach your prison walls, I -shall be speeding towards London to bring down your counsel. Heaven be -with you, most innocent and most injured girl.” - -And pressing her hand fervently, he relinquished it, and hurried away, -to throw himself into the next up-train. - -Eudora was led out between the two officers, placed in a cab, and driven -towards the gaol. - -The prison—situated on the outskirts of the town—was a great, -grim-looking, dark, gray stone building, pierced by narrow grated -windows, and surrounded by high stone walls. - -Poor Eudora’s stricken heart collapsed and sank within her as the cab -drew up before this formidable-looking stronghold. - -The policemen alighted, handed their prisoner out, and rang at the -grated gate in the wall, which was immediately unlocked and opened by -the turnkey on duty there. - -The terrified, half-fainting girl was led into a close courtyard, where -the very wind of heaven, that bloweth where it listeth, was scarcely -free to move, and across it, towards the main entrance of the prison, a -low, narrow, iron-bound oaken door, approached by six steep stone steps -in the thickness of the wall. - -Here again the policemen rang, and the door was opened by the keeper on -duty, who admitted the whole party into a gloomy-looking stone hall, -where a turnkey received and silently conducted them to a side-door on -the right leading into the gaoler’s office. - -Here the sinking girl was permitted to sit down while the gaoler -received the warrant for her confinement, entered her name upon the -prison books, gave a receipt for her person, and discharged the -policemen, who immediately left. - -When they were gone, the gaoler looked with the utmost interest and -sorrow upon the unhappy girl left in his custody; and well he might, for -it was the father of Eudora whose kind efforts had procured his -appointment to the office which he now held. - -He went to a small cupboard in the wall, and poured out a glass of -sherry, which he brought to her, and with paternal kindness compelled -her to drink. - -The generous wine certainly called back the ebbing tide of her life, and -when Mr. Anderson saw this, he said: - -“Do not be too much cast down, Miss Leaton. Hope for the best. Meantime, -while you are left in my charge, I will try to make your confinement as -easy as I can, consistently with my duty and your safe keeping.” - -“I thank you,” breathed Eudora, in a low voice, and with a slightly -surprised look; for the poor child’s abstract idea of gaolers had been -that they were terrible, avenging demons, having indeed the shape of -men, but being set aside from common human nature by reason of their -odious office. And to see in this dreaded monster a benevolent little -man, who spoke gently and acted kindly, was a new revelation. - -“And now I will take you to your cell, where at least you may lie down -and take the rest that you seem to need so much. I will make you as -comfortable as circumstances will admit; and as you are not here for -punishment, but only to await your trial, you may be allowed many -privileges that are denied to those who are confined for offences.” - -“I thank you,” again sighed the poor girl, whose tortured brain could -shape no other form of reply, and whose aching heart could take no -interest in the minor comforts or discomforts of her situation, while -the appalling calamity of her approaching trial and probable fate stared -her in the face. - -But she arose and followed the gaoler, who led her back into the hall, -up a flight of steep stone stairs, and along a narrow corridor flanked -each side by grated doors. - -About midway down the length of this corridor, he paused and unlocked a -door on the right hand, and led his prisoner into a stone cell, very -small but very clean, having a grated window at the back, and furnished -with a cot-bed, and a wooden stand and chair. - -“I place you here,” said Mr. Anderson, “because the window looks down -upon the prison garden and out over the heath, so that your eyes may -travel though your feet may not. And now sit down, if you please, while -I take off those handcuffs.” - -Eudora sank into the only chair, and held up her hands while the gaoler -relieved her of those galling fetters, which, long after they had been -removed, left livid circles around those delicate wrists to show where -they had pressed. - -“And now I will go and send one of the female turnkeys to bring you what -you need. And if there is anything that will—I cannot say add to your -comfort, but—detract from your _dis_comfort, send word by her to me, -and, if possible, you shall be accommodated with what you want,” said -Anderson, leaving the cell and locking the door. - -Eudora took off her bonnet and shawl, cast herself upon the narrow bed, -closed her eyes, threw her arms up over her head—it was almost with a -sense of pleasure that she felt them free again—and abandoned herself to -the natural attitude of the prostration of grief. - -She had scarcely lain thus for five minutes when the door was again -unlocked, and a woman, coarse in person, but civil in demeanor, entered -the cell, bringing a basin, pitcher of water, and towel, all of which -she placed upon the stand. - -Hearing this woman moving about the cell, Eudora, without changing her -attitude, listlessly opened her eyes. - -The woman then pointed to the conveniences she had brought, and said: - -“Mr. Anderson wishes to know if there is anything else you would like.” - -Eudora shook her head in silence, and the woman retreated, and once more -locked the prisoner in. - -Two or three hours passed, in which Eudora, lying still upon her narrow -prison bed in the dull anguish of despair, felt as if her heart was -slowly and painfully dying, but without the hope of ultimate death. - -Everyone who has suffered the extremity of suspense, grief, or despair, -knows the dread sensation of this dying life or living death. It is that -which even in youth, in health, and in a few hours, has power to wrinkle -the brow, whiten the hair, and disorganize the heart. - -It was quite dark, when the female turnkey, whose name was Barton, -entered the cell, bringing Eudora’s supper on a tray, and saying: - -“This was sent you from Mr. Anderson’s own table, miss; do try and eat a -bit.” - -Eudora shook her head in silence; but the woman was kindly persistent, -and the poor girl, by nature very docile, lifted herself up and ate a -small bit of mutton-chop, and drank a little port wine. - -“And now, miss, if you’ve brought your night clothes along with you, I -would like to help you to undress, and see you comfortably in bed before -I leave you, for you do not look so very over strong.” - -In this instance also Eudora meekly yielded to the guidance of Mrs. -Barton, took a night-gown from the travelling-bag, and permitted the -good woman to help her to undress and get into bed. - -And then Mrs. Barton hung up Eudora’s dress, and bidding her be of good -cheer, and wishing her good-night, left the cell, and locked her in. - -And as soon as the poor girl found herself again alone, she closed her -eyes, clasped her hands, and raised her heart in prayer to God for -strength, comfort, and deliverance. - - - - - CHAPTER XVI. - THE MYSTERIES OF EDENLAWN. - - She deemed him dead, in a foreign land; - Did her smile come back with its glory bland, - Lighting her face as in other years, - Ere shame and sorrow had taught her tears? - - He was dead, and the secret of shame and gloom - Lay buried deep in his distant tomb! - No more should she shudder to hear his name, - With a chilling heart and a brow of flame.—_C. A. Warfield._ - - -If Allworth Abbey was the most ancient and gloomy, and if the Anchorage -was the most commanding and cheerful, assuredly Edenlawn was the most -beautiful and delightful estate in the neighborhood of Abbeytown. - -The three estates formed a right angle, of which Allworth Abbey was the -eastern, Edenlawn the southern, and the Anchorage the western points. - -Edenlawn was equi-distant, about three miles from the two. - -The mansion was an elegant modern edifice of white stone, in the Grecian -order of architecture, crowning the summit of a green and wooded hill -that ascended gradually from the banks of the lovely little lake Eden. A -wide vista had been opened between the trees from the white front of the -mansion down to the clear waters of the lake. This vista was laid out in -terraces, with stone steps leading down the centre, from level to level, -from the house to the lake. It was adorned with parterres of beautiful -flowers, groves of rare shrubs, and groups of fine statues. - -On each side of these ornamented grounds, and behind the house, stood -the ancient woods, where the fine old forest-trees were kept well -trimmed and free from undergrowth by the zeal of old Davy Denny, the -head-gardener, whose care of the place was a labor of earnest love. - -And this was well, else, for all the interest taken in it by the -proprietress, the Honorable Mrs. Elverton, this paradise might have -fallen into desolation, or been transformed to a Gehenna. - -For this beautiful Edenlawn, though a comparatively new place, was a -house with a very dark history. - -It was some years before the time of which we now write that the -Honorable Hollis Elverton, only son of Baron Elverton of Torg Castle, in -Yorkshire, while staying in Paris, married the beautiful and haughty -Athenie de la Compte, daughter of that celebrated General de la Compte -who held so high a place in the esteem of the ex-King Louis Phillippe -and in the councils of the nation. - -Athenie de la Compte was a tall and dark brunette, with raven-black hair -and flashing black eyes, and with an imperious temper and a commanding -presence. - -Immediately after their marriage the young couple set out for a -lengthened tour on the Continent, and came to England only at the end of -twelvemonths. - -After a short season spent in London, where the imperial beauty of Mrs. -Elverton created an immense sensation, at the close of the summer the -young husband brought his youthful wife home to his beautiful villa of -Edenlawn, which had been built, furnished, and adorned by Lord Elverton -expressly for the residence of his son and daughter-in-law. - -A few days after their settlement at home they were joined by a select -party of invited guests, who came down from town on a visit of a few -weeks. - -Mrs. Elverton then issued cards for a large evening party to all the -neighboring nobility and gentry. The party was a great success, and -formed the initiative of a series of neighborhood festivities. - -It was in the midst of all this gaiety that the thunderbolt fell that -struck the proud Athenie to the dust and spread a desert round her. - -On a certain evening Mr. and Mrs. Elverton, and the friends who were -staying with them, had returned late from a dinner-party given at the -Anchorage. The visitors had withdrawn to their several apartments for -the night; but Mr. and Mrs. Elverton, as was their daily custom, -remained for a few minutes behind them in the drawing-room to discuss -the events of the day before retiring to rest. - -While, with the buoyancy of youth, love and joy, they were sitting -talking and laughing together, a footman entered the room and announced -a stranger who imperatively demanded to see Mr. Elverton, and would take -no denial, although Charles had explained that it was too late for his -master to be disturbed. - -Mr. Elverton though the most courteous of gentlemen, could not be said -to have yielded so much to courtesy as to curiosity to know who this -importunate stranger might be, when he ordered Charles to show the -unseasonable visitor into the library, whither he himself immediately -proceeded. - -The stranger was a woman of majestic presence, whose tall, commanding -figure was wrapped in a long black cloak; and whose unknown features -were concealed beneath a thick black veil. Thus much only the servants -saw of her as Charles showed her into the library, whither she was -instantly followed by Mr. Elverton. - -Charles, in the conscientious discharge of the principal duty of his -office, applied his ear to the keyhole; but his virtue was not rewarded -by any satisfactory result. He only heard, a low exclamation of -astonishment from his master, a muttered reply from the stranger, and -then the sound of their steps retreating towards a distant part of the -room, where the words of their conversation were quite inaudible. - -The ingenuity and perseverance of Mr. Charles was really worthy of a -better cause and a greater success. He shut his eyes, plugged the -orifice of his left ear with his little finger, and concentrated his -five senses into the hearing of his right ear, which he plastered to the -keyhole. - -Alas! he could make out not a single syllable of that mysterious -interview; and the few sounds that he heard only tortured his -curiosity—these sounds were occasionally a deep, half-smothered groan -from his master, and a sharp, sarcastic laugh from the stranger. - -This secret interview lasted for about an hour, at the end of which -Charles heard the footsteps coming down the room towards the door, and -deemed it proper to withdraw from his post of observation. But Mr. -Charles’ limbs were so stiff and numb from long kneeling, that it was no -easy matter to rise, while at the same time there was imminent danger of -his being discovered in the act of listening when his master should open -the door. - -With a last desperate effort he struggled upon his feet; and then, as -fortune crowns us when we least expect her to do so, he had the -satisfaction of overhearing something. It was the voice of his master, -saying, in a tone of anguish: - -“You are a fiend! a fiend! H— never cast forth a blacker one to blast -this fair earth!” - -And the moment after Mr. Elverton pulled open the door, and hurried -forth—alone! He crossed the hall, entered the drawing-room and shut the -door after him. - -Charles stared after his master, and then looked to the right and to the -left, before and behind, above and below, and everywhere else, to see -whither the stranger had vanished, but in vain, for the earth seemed to -have swallowed her. - -Then he entered the library, and turned on the full light of the gas, -and searched every nook and cranny, still in vain. Finally, he came to -the conclusion that the stranger had been let out through one of the -French windows that opened from the library upon the lawn. - -And having settled that part of the mystery to his satisfaction, Charles -turned off the gas, shut up the library, and came back to the hall, just -in time to hear a wild shriek and a very heavy fall from the -drawing-room and to see Mr. Elverton rush forth and run up-stairs. - -In astonishment and terror, Charles hurried into the drawing-room, where -to his farther consternation, he found Mrs. Elverton extended upon the -floor in a dead swoon. He hastened to summon the housekeeper and the -lady’s-maid, who came in great alarm to the assistance of their -mistress. - -Mrs. Elverton was carried to her room, where every means was used to -restore her to consciousness. But when she came to her senses it was -only to fall into the most fearful ravings, in which was darkly shadowed -forth a calamity so direful, a grief so deep, a shame so intense, as -raised the hair from the heads of the listeners with horror. - -The housekeeper ordered everyone from the room, that none should hear -these awful revelations. She also sent to summon Mr. Elverton to the -bedside of his wife, but the master of the house was nowhere to be -found. In her desperation she dispatched Charles for the medical -attendant of the family; but it was near morning before Dr. Watkins -could reach Edenlawn. - -On his arrival he repaired immediately to the chamber of the suffering -lady, but on hearing the appalling nature of her ravings, he warned the -housekeeper to permit no one but herself to approach Mrs. Elverton until -the latter should recover her senses. - -During that morning the illness of the lady assumed another phase, and -before noon an infant daughter was prematurely ushered into life. - -But Mr. Elverton was not there to bless his first-born; and though -messengers were dispatched in all directions to seek him, yet no clue -could be found to the whereabouts of the missing master of the house. - -Since the birth of her child Mrs. Elverton had fallen into no more -ravings, but lay in a sort of dull despair. To rouse her from this -state, the infant, a fine and healthy one, beautifully dressed, was -carried to her. But the great black eyes of the mother dilated with -horror at the sight of her child, and shuddering with excessive emotion, -she turned away. - -Seeing how terribly the mother was agitated by the presence of the -child, the doctor ordered it to be carried to the nursery, where a nurse -was engaged to take charge of it. - -Meanwhile the visitors assembled at Edenlawn had learned, from the -confusion of the household, the illness of the mistress, and the absence -of the master, that some great event, some crushing calamity, some -ill-understood horror, had suddenly fallen upon the family. Learning -from the physician that Mrs. Elverton was in no condition even to -receive their adieus, they left with him their parting compliments for -her, and set out for town. - -The convalescence of Mrs. Elverton was very long protracted, but though, -during the ravings of her delirium, she had shrieked forth the names of -her husband and child in connection with some unimagined horror, yet, -from the moment of her return to reason, she never once recurred to the -existence of either. Her attendants wondered that she never inquired -after her husband; but her physician warned them not to force the -subject upon her attention. The babe was doing well in the nursery, but -Mr. Elverton had not yet returned, nor had any clue been found to his -disappearance. - -It was a period of three months’ duration before Mrs. Elverton was -sufficiently recovered from her severe illness to make her appearance in -the drawing-room, and, oh! how changed from the haughty and beautiful -woman, who, some little time before, had been brought, a loved and happy -bride, to Edenlawn! - -The majestic form was indeed the same, but every vestige of color had -fled from the classic face, leaving it white as the chiselled marble it -resembled. The imperious brow was painfully contracted, the proud eyes -were darkly veiled, the scornful lips were bitterly compressed, and the -whole countenance was deeply stamped with the ineffaceable marks of an -incurable despair. No one who had seen her three months previous could -look upon her without feeling that some unutterable misfortune had -blasted her life. - -Her friends and neighbors, who, during her illness, had sent regularly -to inquire after her progress, now called to pay their compliments upon -her convalescence. But Mrs. Elverton declined to receive any visitors, -and commissioned the physician to make her excuses. She refused even to -receive a pastoral call from the clergyman of the parish; and though a -zealous Protestant, exact in all the forms of her faith, she shunned the -Christian rite of churching, and absented herself entirely from public -worship. And even when months had passed, and the venerable _bonne_, -whom she had brought with her from Paris, ventured to urge upon her the -duty of having the infant baptized, she shuddered, and to the horror of -Madame Julien, replied: - -“_Baptize her!_ the baptismal waters, if sprinkled on _her_ forehead, -would hiss and fly off in steam, as if thrown upon red-hot iron.” - -About this time Baron Elverton, summoned in haste from his official -duties in London, arrived at Edenlawn on a hurried visit to his -daughter-in-law. He was closeted with her for an hour in the library, -and at the end of the interview he—the case-hardened old judge of a -thousand criminal trials—came forth alone, with his face as pale as -death, and with blank horror stamped like madness on his brow. Without -waiting to see his grand-daughter, he ordered a carriage to take him at -once to the railway station, whence he set out the same hour for London. -He never came back to Edenlawn; but those who knew him well said that -within a fortnight after his flying visit there the hair of Baron -Elverton turned white as snow. - -Months passed into years, and still the mystery of Edenlawn remained -unsolved. No news was heard of Mr. Elverton. No explanation was offered -by Mrs. Elverton. The unbaptized infant grew and thrived in health and -beauty as well as if his Grace the Archbishop of Canterbury had -sprinkled her innocent brow; and she became the pet, the darling, and -the idol of the household, although her wretched mother still continued -to regard her as a creature thrice accursed. She was a healthy and a -happy child, and consequently beautiful and good. - -“_So_ good, doctor, so very good,” was the constant report of Madame -Julien, or Madelon, as the old _bonne_ was more familiarly called. - -“So good is she; so very good? Well, then, as she has no other name, let -us call her good—or Alma, which is the same thing,” said the doctor, one -morning. - -And thus the infant, to whom her own mother strangely denied the rights -of baptism, received the well-omened name of Alma. - -The infancy of the little heiress passed in the nursery until she had -attained the age of seven years, when an accomplished governess was -engaged to superintend her education, and she was removed to the -school-room. - -But this migration brought Alma no nearer to her mother, who continued -to shun her presence. - -Indeed, the greatest interest ever shown by Mrs. Elverton in her -daughter, was upon the occasion of the latter being attacked with -scarlet-fever, when the anxiety of the lady became intense; and such -anxiety as it was! an anxiety that made everyone shudder! anxiety, in -short—not that the child should live, but that she should _die_! - -It curdled the blood of the boldest to see, that while the life of the -little girl was in imminent peril, the face of the lady was lighted up -with a wild, maniac hope. But one morning Dr. Watkins, who had been very -devoted in his attentions to his little patient, after paying his usual -visit to the bedside of Alma, entered the presence of Mrs. Elverton, and -with his countenance radiant with satisfaction, said: - -“I am happy to announce to you, madam, that our little Alma is out of -danger. She will get well.” - -To the consternation of the good doctor, the lady dropped her clasped -hands upon her lap, and while the old expression of incurable sorrow -came back to her face, replied, in a voice of deep despair: - -“I had hoped it might have been otherwise, but Heaven’s holy will be -done!” - -It was when Alma was about ten years of age that Mrs. Elverton received -the only news of her husband since the day of his strange disappearance. -This was contained in an annonymous letter from St. Petersburg, -announcing his decease in that city. Mrs. Elverton immediately wrote to -the British Ministry at that Court, to ascertain the facts of the case; -but after the most careful investigation, the utmost extent of -information she obtained was this, that a stranger, an Englishman, of -the name of Elverton, had died at St. Petersburg. He had left no papers -to afford a clue to his identity; his linen and boxes were marked “H. -Elverton.” And at the time that this inquiry was set on foot the body of -the stranger had been too long buried to afford the slightest -possibility of its being identified even if disinterred; and under these -circumstances the sanctity of the grave had not been violated. - -Mrs. Elverton never discovered the writer of the annonymous letter. She -did not consider the intelligence she had received of sufficient -reliability to warrant her in publishing the death of Mr. Elverton, or -in placing her family in mourning. Yet those most familiar with the -lady’s moods thought that in her secret heart she believed in the death -of her husband, and derived satisfaction from the belief, for it was -observed that from the day she first received the intelligence—true or -false—her countenance, though retaining all its profound melancholy, -lost its unnatural expression of horror and despair. - -Still, she took no delight in the society of her innocent daughter; -still she attended no place of public worship; received no company and -paid no visits, except visits of condolence to the houses of affliction, -or of charity to the abodes of poverty. - -And so passed the years of Alma’s childhood. The young girl, if -unfortunate in her mother, was blessed in her governess—a woman of a -Christian heart, a cultivated, mind, and accomplished manners—who -conscientiously devoted herself to the temporal and eternal welfare of -her young charge. - -It was to this lady that Alma owed not only all her worldly education, -but all her religious instruction. It was through her governess that -Alma was prepared for the Christian rites of baptism and confirmation, -both of which she received when she was about fifteen years of age. - -But after this Alma lost her friend, companion, and governess. - -The curate to whom Miss Moore had been betrothed for eight years at -length obtained a living, and claimed the long-promised hand of his -bride, who took leave of her friends at Edenlawn, and went to make the -happiness of a humble parsonage in Yorkshire. - - - - - CHAPTER XVII. - THE STRANGE INTERVIEW. - - “And now they are standing face to face; - Hath a dream come over that sylvan place? - One of those visions ghastly and wild, - That makes her shrink like a frightened child? - - “For a while she stood as a bird is said - To meet the gaze of the serpent dread, - Pale and still for a time she stood - In the midst of that woodland solitude.” - - -Alma grew up as beautiful as one of Raphael’s picture angels; but her -beauty was of a directly opposite style to that of her handsome mother. -Alma resembled the patrician women of her father’s family. Her form was -of fairy-like proportions, small, slender, delicate, yet well-rounded -and very graceful. Her features were of the purest Grecian type, her -complexion was exquisitely fair, with the faintest rose-tint flushing -cheeks and lips. Her hair was of a pale gold color; her eyebrows and -eyelashes, of a darker hue, shaded deep blue eyes full of pensive -thought. Hers was a beauty that might have gladdened a family circle and -adorned society. But alas for Alma! Her young life passed in a worse -than conventual seclusion. - -Scarcely any form of existence in this world could be so lonely and -monotonous as that of this fair girl at Edenlawn—Edenlawn, a paradise to -look at, a purgatory to live in! - -After the departure of her governess, Alma was literally solitary. Her -mother, in the blind selfishness of a cherished grief, dwelt apart in -her own private suite of rooms, which she never left except at the call -of charity. Alma had neither brother, sister, friend, nor neighbor; she -was utterly companionless, and her life, therefore, more lonely than -perhaps that of any other young creature in this world. - -The children of the poorest parents have companions among their equals; -the inmates of orphan asylums are herded together in great numbers; the -cloistered nuns form large communities among themselves; even the -convict prisoners work together in great gangs. In a word, the most -wretched in this world were, in many respects, happier than Alma -Elverton, the young and beautiful heiress-apparent of Edenlawn, Torg -Castle, and the Barony of Elverton; for they at least enjoyed human -sympathy and companionship, while she had no friend—not one—not a single -creature of her own kind to speak with. - -It is true there were laborers on the estate and servants in the house; -but what society could the young girl find in them? - -And there was her mother, retired within the citadel of her own -mysterious and selfish sorrows; but what companionship could Alma find -in her? - -All young girls, as they develop into womanhood, yearn from their secret -souls for a more perfect sympathy than they usually meet from their own -family circles. This is the real cause of romantic school-girl -friendships, and, alas! too frequently of other less harmless -attachments. - -In large and busy households, of many sisters and brothers, this -aspiration is very much modified and rendered quite endurable. But the -more lonely and idle the life of a young girl is doomed to be, the more -intense is this secret yearning for sympathy. And if she happens to be -of a poetic temperament also, the longing of her heart becomes the -monomania of her mind. - -Alma, with no one to converse with, no work to do, and no visits to -receive or to pay, became an aspiring dreamer of beautiful dreams, -impossible to be realized in this world of stern realities; for “love, -still love!” was the burden of those dreams. And even as it takes a -feast to satisfy the hungry, so it would have required the whole circle -of human love—father’s, mother’s, sister’s, brother’s, friend’s, and -lover’s—to have satisfied the craving of Alma’s starving heart. And she -had none, not one atom of love, to keep that heart from perishing! - -What do physicians mean by an atrophy of the heart? We all know what an -atrophy of the stomach is—simply starvation for want of food. Is not an -atrophy of the heart also starvation for the lack of love? He who said, -“Feed my lambs,” said also, “Love one another.” And perhaps as many are -perishing in this world for lack of love as for the want of food. - -Alma’s was an extreme case of this sort of starvation. And small as her -experience was, she had seen, heard, and read enough to discover that -her own life was very different from all other lives around her. At -church, every Sunday, she saw happy family parties gathered together in -their family pews. After the service, in the churchyard, she saw friends -and neighbors greeting each other with affection and delight. She knew -that, as the grand-daughter of the celebrated Baron Elverton, and as the -heiress-apparent of his titles and estates, she was entitled to fully as -much consideration as any other young lady in the county. Why did she -not receive it? - -From casual words and chance allusions, rather than from any detailed -narrative or voluntary communication from the servants, Alma had gleaned -as much of the domestic history as was known to the servants themselves. -And she dreamed, wondered, and speculated upon the subject of the -mystery that enveloped her family. - -Her father! What was it that, on the night before her birth, had driven -him in an agony of horror from his home forever? - -Her mother! What was it that, from the hour of Alma’s birth, had frozen -that beautiful and ardent woman into the cold, hard statue that she now -seemed? - -Herself! What was it that set her apart, lonely and unloved, from all -the human race? - -Alma could have loved her mother, and been happy in her mother’s love; -but the cold and repellant atmosphere that surrounded the lady chilled -and repulsed the maiden. - -But Alma loved her unknown father with a love passing the love of woman, -and all the mystery that hung over his sudden flight, his long exile, -and his uncertain fate, only served to strengthen, deepen, and intensify -this love. - -Adjoining the library was a small study that had once belonged to her -father, but which her mother was never known to enter. Here hung a full -length portrait of her father, painted in London soon after his -marriage. It represented a man in the prime of his youth, of a tall and -finely-proportioned form, Grecian features, fair complexion, -falcon-fierce blue eyes, and golden brown hair—a man of whom Alma seemed -a small feminine copy. - -Into this study Alma removed her work-table, her easel, paint-box, and -books. And here, seated in front of the beloved portrait, Alma liked -best to employ her mornings in needle-work, in drawing, reading, or -dreaming of her unknown father. Her afternoons were passed in wandering -by the margin of fair Eden’s waters below the villa, or in roaming -through the old woods behind the mansion, and ever dreaming of her -unknown father, and yearning for his presence and his love. - -Alma was very punctual in her attendance upon public worship, not only -from religious principle—though that of itself would have been a -sufficient motive to her—but also from the absolute necessity of at -least looking upon the human beings with whom she could hold no other -intercourse. - -After the departure of her governess, she alone occupied the great -family pew of the Elvertons, until Lady Leaton, who was then recently -widowed, felt compassion for the lonely girl, and availing herself of -the privilege given by a slight acquaintance with the Honorable Mrs. -Elverton, invited Alma to sit with her family. There seemed to be no -possible objection to this plan, and the solitary girl was only too glad -to accept the kind invitation and sit with a party of young creatures of -her own age and rank. This party consisted now of Agatha and Eudora -Leaton, and Malcolm and Norham Montrose. - -Alma informed her mother of this courtesy on the part of Lady Leaton. - -Mrs. Elverton made no absolute objection, but gravely shook her head and -said: - -“I have almost ceased to wage a vain war with destiny; yet, girl, I -would warn you against one error that to you would be fatal! There are -two young gentlemen on a visit to that family; it is their attentions -that I would have you shun as you would shun eternal perdition! Beware -of the Messrs. Montrose! Beware of all men! for, Alma, love and marriage -are not for you!” - -Alma grew pale as death at the awful words and manner of her mother, for -she felt that the warning came too late, as warnings generally do. - -Alma had been introduced to every member of Lady Leaton’s party, and -among the rest, to Captain Norham Montrose, who was at once deeply -impressed by the fresh and delicate beauty of the fair young girl, and -strongly attracted by the splendid prospects of the rich young heiress. - -And Alma, with all her lonely heart and soul yearning and aching for -companionship and sympathy, became too easily fascinated by the -love-tuned voice and love-tempered gaze of the handsome young hussar. - -A few weeks, therefore, irretrievably decided the destiny of Alma—she -loved, and loved for ever! - -To have gained the passionate love of a creature so good and beautiful, -with a heart so fresh and pure, was a triumph such as had never before -fallen to the lot of the fascinating young officer. And what at first -had been to him a pursuit half of admiration, half speculation, became -at length a mad passion, an infatuation, a delirium! He could scarcely -be said to live out of Alma’s presence. The world to him soon came to be -divided only into two parts—where she was, and where she was not; and -time into two eras—when she was present, and when she was absent. He saw -her only at church on Sundays, and the six days that intervened between -were to him “spaces between stars.” - -To boldly ask the hand of this heiress of her grandfather and her -mother, was nothing less than madness on the part of a young officer -with only his pay. And yet, instigated as much by his overweening pride -as by his headlong passion, Captain Montrose wrote to Lord Elverton and -to Mrs. Elverton, asking their permission to pay his addresses to Miss -Elverton at Edenlawn. From Lord Elverton he received a courteous but -decided refusal—from Mrs. Elverton a sharp and peremptory denial. - -And after this poor Alma’s only social solace was taken away from her, -and she was forbidden to go to church. - -This prohibition, as might have been expected, did more harm than good; -for whereas, before it was issued, the young lovers met only once a week -at church in the presence of others, they now met almost every day alone -in the woods behind Edenlawn. These meetings commenced not by -appointment, but rather by accident. Alma, as has been already said, was -in the daily habit of walking by the margin of the lake below Edenlawn, -or in the woods behind the house. - -Norham, missing her from her seat at church, and forbidden to call upon -her at her mother’s house, and longing for her society as the dying long -for life, walked to Edenlawn, and rambled through the woods, only to be -near the dwelling that contained his idol. In these rambles he met Alma. -But an angel might have been present at these meetings for any -indiscretion on the part of the young lovers. - -Norham did indeed use all the eloquence of passion to persuade Alma to -fly with him to Scotland. But dreary as was the home life of the unhappy -girl, she was so far firm to her filial duty as to resist all his -persuasions. - -“No, no, Norham,” she would answer; “my heart reproaches me bitterly -enough for walking with you here, and I should not do it, perhaps, only -I feel that if I did not see you sometimes I should go mad with -loneliness. But, Norham, I will not farther wrong my mother. Wait until -I am of age, and have the right to dispose of my hand; then, Norham, I -will place it in yours.” - -And no arguments, entreaties, or prayers on the part of her lover -availed anything against the conscientious resolution of Alma. And even -when at length his leave of absence expired, and he was ordered to join -his regiment, which was stationed in Scotland, he took advantage of this -fortuitous combination of circumstances to urge upon his beloved Alma -the consideration of the deep pain of separation, and the facilities for -their union offered by the locality of his service, she remained true to -her convictions of duty, and had the firmness to bid him adieu and see -him depart. - -To young creatures surrounded by sisters, brothers, and cousins, -relatives, friends, and neighbors, the self-denial of this lonely girl -will scarcely be appreciated. - -From the time of her lover’s departure for Scotland she saw no more of -him until the day of the double funeral at Allworth Abbey. - -We have already said that it was only in the times of their affliction -that the Honorable Mrs. Elverton ever visited her neighbors. Thus -recluse as she was, she had ordered her mourning coach, and with Alma -seated by her side, had attended the funeral solemnities at Allworth -Abbey. - -In the course of that day Alma had exchanged a glance and a bow with -Norham. And the next afternoon, _instinct_ rather than understanding led -her out to take a walk in the woods behind Edenlawn. - -It was a lovely summer’s afternoon, and the low descending sun was -striking his level yellow rays through the interlacings of the -forest-trees, edging each leaf and twig, with a golden flame. - -Alma wandered on, and in that mental struggle between duty and -inclination, or rather between conscience and necessity, that occupies -one half of our inner lives. - -She was happy in the hope of seeing Norham, and miserable in the fear of -doing wrong. This is a paradox of daily occurrence. - -While she walked on in the dulcemarah, the bitter sweet of this -forbidden hope, she heard the fallen leaves and twigs break beneath a -firm footstep behind her. - -Her breath stopped, her heart fluttered, her cheek crimsoned. She paused -for the coming up of the footsteps, but she did not turn her head. - -“I have the honor of speaking to Miss Elverton, I presume.” - -The voice of the speaker was deep, rich, and inexpressibly mournful. - -Alma started, turned round, and dropped her eyes, while a deep blush -mantled her face. - -The speaker was a tall, finely-formed, fair-complexioned, and very -handsome man, of about forty years of age. - -While addressing Alma he held his hat entirely off his head, and stood -with a courtly grace that the girl had never seen equalled. - -She was naturally surprised and even terrified at the unexpected -apparition of a stranger in that lonely place and at that late hour, but -aside from these natural emotions, there was something in the aspect of -the man that thrilled her with a feeling which was neither surprise nor -terror, but something infinitely deeper than either. - -“I have the honor of addressing Miss Elverton, I presume?” repeated the -stranger, with the same gracious courtesy of tone and manner. - -“Yes, sir,” breathed the girl, with her heart throbbing quickly. - -“Miss Elverton, does your mother still live?” inquired the deep voice of -the stranger. - -The throbbing of Alma’s heart nearly suffocated her. Her breath came -quickly and gaspingly. She threw her arm around a tree for support, and -leaned her head against the rough bark, while she stole another look at -the stranger. - -Yes, there was the same noble head, with its bright locks of golden -brown waving round the broad, white forehead; the same dark blue eyes -with the falcon glance; the same Grecian nose, short, proud upper lip, -and rounded chin; the same face, only a little older, that daily looked -down upon her from the portrait in the study. As Alma realized this -truth, she felt as though her last hour of life had come, and that she -was dying in a dream. - -“Does your mother still live?” repeated the stranger. - -“My mother still lives, if breathing means living,” answered Alma, in an -expiring voice, and trembling in every limb. - -The eyes of the stranger were fixed upon her—were reading her very soul. -At length he spoke. - -“Girl, your eyes never beheld me before, and yet—does not your instinct -recognize me?” - -“Oh, Heaven, my heart!” gasped the girl, leaning, pale as death, against -the tree. - -“Yes, your heart acknowledges him whom your eyes never before saw—” - -“My father—” - -“Hush—hush—no word of that sort—” - -“Oh, my father—” - -“Hush, hush, no word like that, I say!” repeated Hollis Elverton, in a -sepulchral voice. - -But his daughter, pale as death, trembled like a leaf, and nearly -fainting with excessive agitation, had entirely lost her -self-possession. - -She either did not hear or did not understand his strange words. - -Extending her arms towards him with a look of imploring affection, and -in a voice of thrilling passion, she cried: - -“Father! oh father! will you not embrace your child?” - -The tall figure of the man shook as a tree shaken by the wind, but he -averted his face, and threw his hand towards her with a repelling -gesture. - -She dropped her arms with a look of shame, sorrow and wonder, murmuring: - -“Never since I lived have I been pressed to my mother’s bosom, or -received a mother’s kiss, or known a mother’s love. And the father for -whose presence my heart has longed through all the years of my lonely -youth—the father whom my love has followed through all the years of his -long exile—now, in the first moments of our meeting, repulses his child -and turns away! Oh, father!” she exclaimed, in passionate earnestness, -“what have I done that both my parents should hate me!” - -“You have done nothing wrong, nor do we hate you, poor girl!” replied -Elverton, in an agitated voice. - -“_What am I_, then, that those who gave me life should turn shudderingly -away from me as from a monster accursed?” - -“Child, child, cease your wild questionings! There are mysteries in this -world that may never be revealed until that last dread day of doom, when -all that is hidden shall be made clear!” - -After this there was silence between them for a few minutes, during -which they gazed upon each other’s faces with mournful, questioning -interest. Then Hollis Elverton, in a gentle voice, inquired: - -“What name have they given you, child?” - -“My mother called me by no name, but the good doctor gave me that of -Alma.” - -“Then you did not receive the rites of Christian baptism?” - -“Not in infancy—not until I was old enough to act for myself in that -respect; then I presented myself at the altar, and received at the same -time the sacraments of baptism and confirmation.” - -“And your mother?” - -“She made no objection, but gave me no encouragement. She was neutral in -the matter; but, father, did I not do right?” - -Hollis Elverton groaned, but made no reply. And again silence fell -between them, while they studied each other with the same painful -interest. At length she broke the spell by asking, in a tearful voice: - -“Father, will you not accompany me to the house, and see my mother?” - -“Never!” exclaimed Hollis Elverton, while a spasm of unutterable anguish -convulsed his fine face. - -“Alas, sir, if not to see her, what motive has brought you back to -England?” - -“Two of the strongest that can ever govern human action—the love of one -I love, the hate of one I hate! I come to watch over and save an angel -girl from utter ruin, and to hunt a demon woman to her doom!” - -“Your words are strange and alarming, my father.” - -“And I can give you no explanation of them now; I am even here in -secret. I must see you only in secret, and you must give me your word of -honor never to mention this meeting, or even mention the fact of my -return to England.” - -“Not even to my mother?” - -“Not even to her; least of all to her!” - -“Alas, alas, my father, do you hate her so?” - -“_Hate her?_—hate your mother?—hate Athenie?—hate my—oh, Heaven, -Alma!—no, I do not hate her; on the contrary—” - -Here his voice broke down, and raising his cloak, he veiled his agitated -face in its folds. - -“Alas, alas, my father! what horror was it that so suddenly burst -asunder all ties of affection between you? Father—father, answer -me!—tell me that it was not her fault—not my mother’s fault!” - -He dropped the fold of his cloak from his face, and looking for the -first time angrily upon his daughter, demanded sternly: - -“Why should you dare to ask if your mother was in fault?” - -“Alas, I know not. I beg your pardon and hers. My short life has been -made a desert by this mystery, father, and yet for myself I have never -once complained, but when I know that her life is one prolonged agony, -and now see the agony stamped upon your brow, I become half crazy, and -think—I know not what.” - -“I will answer your question, unhappy girl; and assure you, in the -presence of high Heaven, that our violent parting was not caused by your -mother’s fault. A purer, sweeter, nobler woman than your mother never -lived,” said Hollis Elverton, earnestly. - -“Oh, God, I thank thee!—I thank thee—I thank thee for that!” cried Alma, -in a thrilling voice that betrayed how heavy had been the burden of -doubt that rested on her mind, and how ineffable was the sense of relief -now that it was lifted off. - -“You are satisfied?” inquired Elverton. - -“For her, oh, yes; but oh, my father, tell me—this separation was not -your fault either?” she cried, clasping her hands, and gazing with -imploring eyes into his face. - -“No, nor my fault either, Alma; I swear it to you, by all my hopes of -Heaven! We loved each other as man and woman seldom love in this world,” -replied Elverton, in a hollow voice; “we severed, and until the judgment -day it may never be known why.” - -“You loved each other so devotedly; you married publicly with the -blessings of all your friends; you came hither to your beautiful home, -and in one month, in the very perfection of your happiness, your union -was shattered as by a thunderbolt from Heaven. You parted; oh, my -father, was that well?” - -“It was well!” he answered, solemnly. - -She looked into the stern sorrow of his face, and read there that, in -the simple words of his reply, he had uttered some awful truth. Again -her heart yearned towards her father with inextinguishable love. She -extended her arms and advanced towards him with imploring looks. But he -waved her off, saying, in pitying tones: - -“Come, no nearer, unhappy girl! Between you and me there is a great gulf -fixed. Hark! Some one approaches! I must leave you now! Good-night—nay, -stop one moment! I must see you again at this hour to-morrow. In the -meantime, drop no hint of my presence in England.” - -“None; I will keep your secret, my father,” replied Alma, as Hollis -Elverton, waving adieu, disappeared in the coverts of the woods. - - - - - CHAPTER XVIII. - FATHER AND DAUGHTER. - - “Now father and child have met at last, - Met—as they never had met before; - Between them the spectre of the past - Stands—a barrier for evermore.” - - -Pleased, pained and perplexed at once, Alma stood transfixed where -Elverton had left her. - -She had seen her father! her father, whose sudden flight, mysterious -wanderings, and unknown fate, had been the great subject of wonder, -speculation and conjecture to her own self, to the family and to the -community. - -She had seen her father, actually seen him in the flesh, and spoken with -him face to face! There in that spot he had stood before her, -intercepting the last rays of the setting sun as it sank below the -horizon. They had not embraced, or kissed, or even taken each other’s -hands—they had met as souls may meet on the confines of another world. -And now he was gone like a vanished spirit. - -She had met her father, and though the shock of that meeting, with its -conflicting emotions of great surprise, deep joy, and bitter -disappointment, had impressed her senses as forcibly as any actual event -could possibly impress any human being, yet now the whole affair seemed -to her so like a dream that she almost doubted its reality. - -The meeting so sudden and unexpected; the interview so short and -unsatisfactory; the consequences so uncertain and alarming; these -subjects engrossed her thoughts, absorbed her senses, and riveted her to -the spot, so that she did not move until the brushwood near her broke -sharply beneath the tread of the intruder whose distant appearance had -driven away her father. - -Then she started as from sleep, looked up, and flushed with joy, for she -thought the new comer would be Norham Montrose. - -Alack! he was only old Davy Denny, the head-gardener, returning from one -of his occasional inspections of the woods. - -The old man cast a curious, anxious, sorrowful glance at his young lady -as he touched his hat in passing her. - -Alma blushed at meeting that glance, which said, as plainly as eyes -could speak: - -“Please, Miss Elverton, it is too late for you to be out walking alone -in the woods, and if I only dared to speak, I’d up and tell you so.” - -And the old servant went slowly, sadly, and reluctantly up towards the -mansion-house. - -Alma felt no disposition to follow his footsteps, but turned and -wandered still farther down the slope of the hill into the narrow valley -below, where the woods were thickest. - -She had nearly reached the foot of the hill, when the figure of a man -suddenly crossed her path. - -Looking up with a start, she recognized Hollis Elverton. - -“My father! back!” she exclaimed. - -“Yes, Alma, back; I have not been far from you since we parted. I left -you intending to return to my present retreat. But from the covert of -the trees that concealed me I saw old David Denny pass, and saw you, -instead of going home, as I expected you to do, and as you should have -done, child, turn and ramble down the hill. I then took a shorter path -to meet you here, to complete the interview that was interrupted, and -under the shadow of the coming night see you safe within the lawn of -your own dwelling,” said Hollis Elverton gravely. - -“Oh, my dear father! how glad I am that I did not go home. Oh, if you -knew how happy it makes me to see you again, even after this short -interval, you would indeed love me a little,” said his daughter, -fervently. - -“Peace, girl, peace! No more of that, if you would ever look upon my -face again! I have sought you, Alma, with a purpose. Sit down, while I -unfold it to you. Sit down, I say, since you cannot stand,” said Mr. -Elverton, pointing to the trunk of a felled tree that lay across their -path, and upon which Alma immediately sank. - -Mr. Elverton stood at a short distance, with his arms folded, leaning -against an oak. - -“You know something of this wholesale poisoning at Allworth Abbey?” he -began. - -“Oh, yes, sir,” answered Alma, shuddering. - -“How much do you know?” - -“As much as has been made public through the coroner’s inquest.” - -“And that—is nothing—worse than nothing, since it is a tissue of false -deductions! What opinion have you formed from the facts elicited by the -coroner’s inquest?” - -“Sir, I can not form any.” - -“What do you think of the guilt or innocence of the accused girl, Eudora -Leaton?” - -“Oh, sir, I dare not think of that at all, the subject is so painful to -me—” - -“You think her guilty then?” - -“I would to Heaven that I could believe her innocent, for I loved her. -Oh, my father, she always looked kindly toward me, and in my loneliness -I loved her,” said Alma, in a broken voice. - -“Believe her innocent, then, for she is so,” said Hollis Elverton, with -solemn earnestness. - -“Oh, my dear father! Is this really true? Is my poor Eudora innocent? -Oh, prove that her soul is guiltless of this great crime, and I shall -not break my heart—no—not even if she dies for it!” cried Alma, starting -up, seizing his hand, and gazing eagerly into his face. - -It was the first time their hands had met; and Hollis Elverton -shudderingly shook off her grasp, as he answered: - -“Yes, it is true.” - -“Are you sure of it?” - -“As sure of it as I can be of anything on earth.” - -“How do you know it? What do you know of it?” - -“I know that Eudora Leaton is innocent, and I know who is guilty.” - -“Oh, my father! can you prove this? will you prove this?” - -“Ah! Alma, moral certainty is not legal evidence! I repeat, I know -Eudora Leaton to be innocent, and I know who is guilty; but I have no -means as yet to prove the guilt of the one or the innocence of the -other. But, Alma, you are the well-wisher of the accused girl?” - -“Oh, yes; oh, yes.” - -“And you will take my word for her innocence?” - -“Oh, yes! it is easy to have faith in what we wish to believe.” - -“Then you must become my agent in doing all that may be done for this -most innocent, injured, and unhappy girl.” - -“Willingly, my father.” - -“Listen, then:—Although Eudora Leaton is heiress to one of the largest -estates in this county, yet, being a minor, and a ward in chancery, I -doubt she is without ready money to retain proper counsel for her -defence; and her only friend, her affianced husband, Mr. Malcolm -Montrose, is, I fear, as poor as herself, having nothing but a small -income from his Highland place. And it is highly desirable that she -should have the very best counsel to be procured for money; for it is -said that the Attorney-General himself will come from London to conduct -this very important case. Therefore, Alma, as I have a vital interest in -the acquittal of this innocent girl, and the conviction, if possible, of -the guilty person, I must entrust you with this money. Take it, and find -means to-morrow to place it either in the hands of Malcolm Montrose, or -in those of Eudora Leaton; and say to either with whom you may leave it, -that it is furnished by a friend who believes in her innocence, and that -it is intended to be devoted to her defence,” said Hollis Elverton, -placing bank-notes for a very large amount in Alma’s hands. - -“I will take it to Miss Leaton herself, dear father; I can do so very -well, as no one ever inquires how I spend my days.” - -“Poor girl! so much greater the need that you should learn to govern -yourself, since there is none to govern you. But do my errand to Eudora -Leaton. Tell her to keep up her spirits, hope for the best, and trust in -God! Tell her that she has her own consciousness of innocence to support -her, one unknown friend working for her, and a just Providence watching -over her!” - -“I will faithfully deliver your message, my father.” - -“But not as coming from me! Remember, girl, you are never to breathe my -name, or hint my existence to anyone whomsoever! All the world but you -believe me dead; leave them in that illusion.” - -“Dear father, pardon me, but the illusion is yours. The world does not -believe you dead. There was a report of your death, and an annonymous -letter reached us from St. Petersburg announcing the supposed fact; but -after the most careful investigation, my mother came to the conclusion -that it was some one else of the same or a similar name, and——.” - -“She was happier for the hope that it might be true, however, as I -intended that she should be,” said Hollis Elverton, gravely. - -Alma did not reply to this strange observation. She could not bear to -acknowledge that her mother had been happier for this hope. - -“But the _ruse_ did not fully succeed, since it did not convince her of -my decease; since the death of H. Elverton, the American stranger, who -died at St. Petersburg did not pass quite current with her for mine. -Nevertheless, she is the better for the hope that, after all, it may be -mine. Leave her to the enjoyment of that saving hope, which must -strengthen every year until it becomes a certainty?” - -“Oh, my father,” said Alma, bowing her burning face upon her hands, -while the tears stole through her fingers, “these cruel words pierce my -heart like daggers. You say you loved each other as man and woman seldom -love, and that you severed without a fault on either side. Oh, why then, -even if you must be parted, why should you wish her to believe you -dead—and why should she be happier in that belief? Would _you_ be -happier if she were dead?” - -“I should; for it would be well, Alma.” - -“And if I, also, were dead?” - -“It would be better, still, Alma!” - -“And if you were?” - -“Best of all!” - -“Oh, this is fearful! I remember, too, overhearing it said that, when in -childhood, I was ill, and in great danger, my mother’s mournful face was -lighted up as by a wild hope; but that when I recovered and got well, it -sank back to its habitual look of dull despair! Oh, this is dreadful! -Why is it that the life of each one of us is a curse to the others, or -that the death of either would be a blessing to the rest?” cried Alma, -wildly. - -“Because a living sorrow is far harder to bear than a dead one! because -we are each of us a living sorrow to the others?” said Hollis Elverton, -gloomily. - -“Oh! this is terrible! But why is it best that we _all_ should die—I in -my youth, you and her in your prime of life, prematurely as though we -were not fit to cumber the earth?” - -“Because we _are not_ fit to cumber the earth—the dust should hide us!” -cried Hollis Elverton, with such a sudden change of voice and manner, -such a savage energy of tone and gesture, such a fierce gathering of the -brows, glare of the eyes, and writhing of the lips, that his daughter, -looking up at him, suddenly shrieked aloud, and covered her face with -her hands, for she feared she was in the presence of a madman, if not -even in the power of a demoniac. - -“Alma,” he continued, sternly and pitilessly, in despite of her -condition, “this horrifies you; yet, though the words should kill you, I -repeat them—it is better that we should die, and return to dust!” - -“He wishes indeed to kill me when he uses such awful words,” thought the -shuddering girl, as she shrank more and more into herself, and cowered -nearer and nearer to the ground. - -“Alma, there is a misfortune so unnatural that it has been forever -nameless in all languages; so degrading that it infects with a worse -than moral leprosy all connected with it; so fatal, that nothing but the -death of the victim can cure it; nothing but the resolution of the body -into its original elements, and its resurrection in another form of -being, and into another sphere of life can regenerate it! Alma, such a -dire misfortune was mine, and hers, and yours!” - -“Oh, this is horrible—most horrible! But what is it, then? Give the -fatality some name,” cried Alma, distractedly. - -“I told you it was nameless, but not cureless; for death is the certain -remedy. Therefore, die, Alma, die!” - -“Father, I am called a Christian, though most unworthy of the name; and -nothing on earth would induce me to cast away my Maker’s gift of life.” - -“Nor do I mean that, either! For though hoping, longing, praying for our -deaths, I would not lay sacrilegious hands on my life, hers, or yours; -for murder and suicide are crimes of the deepest dye, and I would not -burden my soul with even a venial sin; yet, Alma, die if you can!” - -“Oh, Heaven! I do not know what you mean, my father.” - -“Why, this. If ever you are ill again, do not call in a physician, do -not take medicine, do not use any means to keep off the death that may -come to you naturally, easily, kindly, as an angel of mercy. Promise me -this.” - -“No, my father, I cannot. For not only does my conscience forbid me to -destroy my own life, but it commands me to do all I can to preserve it; -and I would no more be guilty of negative than of positive suicide,” -said Alma, firmly, though mournfully. - -“Then life, worse than death, must be on your head! You are warned! But -remember, you who prize this earthly life so highly, do not deprive your -mother of the comfort she finds in the supposition of my death by the -remotest hint of my existence,” reiterated Hollis Elverton, earnestly. - -“Father, you have my promise, and you may rely upon it. But, sir, there -is one of whom neither you nor I have yet spoken, one whom we should -both consider—one, indeed, who is much to be pitied in his widowed, -childless and desolate old age. I mean your aged parent, my grandfather, -Lord Elverton. Surely he at least would rejoice to hear that his only -son still lives! and if necessary, he would keep your counsel as -faithfully as I shall. Will you not communicate with him and comfort his -aged heart with the news of your continued life?” - -“NEVER!” broke forth Hollis Elverton, in a fury, that again frightened -his gentle daughter almost into a swoon. “I have no father; I know -nothing of your grandfather! and never, in this world, in Hades, or in -Heaven, will I see, speak to, or acknowledge Lord Elverton again! Never! -so save me, Heaven, in my utmost strait!” - -“Oh, sir, he is your father! do not speak of him so bitterly!” faltered -Alma. - -“Girl! I told you a few moments since that there were misfortunes so -monstrous as to be nameless; so shameful as to be contagious; so fatal -as to be cureless except by death! and now I add to that, there are sins -so great as to burst asunder all ties of kindred, destroy all the -sympathies of humanity, and invalidate all obligations of duty! Ask me -no more questions, for I find that you are willing the very spirit from -my bosom! but answer me this: since the fatal night that drove me from -my home forever, has that old man ever ventured to cross the threshold -of Edenlawn?” - -“But once, my father; but once, as I truly believe. I have never seen -him there, but I heard that, within a few weeks after your flight and my -birth, he came to Edenlawn late one afternoon, and was closeted with my -mother in the library for an hour, at the end of which he came out, and -without taking any refreshment—” - -“Ha! a morsel swallowed in that house must have choked him!” interrupted -Elverton. - -“Or even looking at his poor little grand-daughter—” - -“The sight of her must have blasted him, as that of the Medusa’s head -was said to blast those who dared to look upon it,” again burst forth -Elverton. - -“He hastened from the house, which he has never entered since.” - -“For he had better walk on red-hot plough-shares than tread the -paving-stones of those halls!” exclaimed Elverton, fiercely. - -Then, after a few minutes’ silence, he inquired: - -“What have you heard of him since?” - -“Nothing, my father, except this significant fact, that, within one -fortnight after his fatal visit, his nut-brown hair turned as white as -snow!” - -“No doubt, no doubt, but will his scarlet sin ever be so white?—can time -or sorrow or repentance bleach that?” muttered Elverton, speaking rather -to himself than to his daughter. - -Alma did not at once reply; a feeling of deep humiliation kept her -silent for awhile, and then a sense of religious duty urged her at last -to say: - -“I know not of what sin you speak, my father: but this I have—Scripture -warrant for believing that, though the sin be ‘as scarlet,’ it may be -made, by repentance, as ‘white as snow.’” - -“Let him settle it with Heaven then, as he must ere very long! but as -for _me_—let me never see his face again! Come, child, our interview is -over. Arise and walk on; I will follow you until I see you in sight of -the north gate, and then leave you,” said Hollis Elverton, stepping -aside to give her the path and then going after her. - -They went up the narrow wooded path in silence. When they reached the -top of the hill, and came in sight of the north gate, Mr. Elverton -paused, and said: - -“I need go no further; hurry home; but meet me here an hour earlier than -this to-morrow evening. Good-night.” - -“Good-night, my father,” said Alma, extending her hands imploringly -towards him. - -But he shook his head, waved his hand, plunged into the wood, and was -soon lost to her view. - -She looked wistfully after him for a little while, and then turned -slowly, and with downcast eyes, to walk towards the house. - -The full moon was shining broadly on her path, when suddenly its light -was intercepted. - -Alma raised her eyes to see the tall, dark figure of Captain Montrose -standing before her, with folded arms, frowning brows, and scornful -lips. - -We have observed before this that Norham Montrose, in mould of form and -cast of features, was the very counterpart of his elder brother, but in -every other respect he was as different from him as the night from the -day. Malcolm, it may be remembered, was as fair as a Dane, with light -hair, blue eyes, and a sanguine complexion; he was also frank, generous, -and confiding. Norham, on the contrary, was as dark as a Spaniard, with -raven-black hair and burning black eyes; he was, besides, reserved, -jealous, and suspicious. - -Alma, conscious of these darker traits in his character, fearing their -effects upon himself and her, yet loving him despite of danger, shivered -with the presentiment of coming evil when she saw him standing before -her so silent, still, and stern. - -“Norham,” she faltered faintly. - -“I beg your pardon, Miss Elverton; I hope I have not prematurely -interrupted a pleasant _tête-a-tête_,” he replied, sarcastically, his -black eyes flashing and his proud lip curling. - -Alma understood all now. He had seen her father walking with her in the -wood, and had mistaken Hollis Elverton for a favored suitor. And Alma, -bound by her promise, dared not explain the circumstance, and under such -conditions could not hope to reassure her jealous lover. A consciousness -of her false position bowed her fair head upon her bosom, dyed her -delicate cheek with blushes, and invested her whole manner with the -appearance of conscious guilt. Her heart sank within her bosom, and she -could not reply. - -He looked at her for a moment in scorn and anger—the fierce scorn and -anger of wounded love and jealousy, and then saying—“I will no longer -intrude upon your privacy, Miss Elverton; good evening,” he lifted his -hat, turned upon his heel, and strode away. - -“Stay, stay, Norham; do not leave me in a fatal error!” cried Alma, -breaking the spell that had bound her faculties, and springing forward. - -He paused and looked wistfully towards her for a moment, then strode -back to her side, and answered, still very haughtily: - -“I beg your pardon, Miss Elverton, if I have wronged you even in my -thoughts, but our mutual relations assuredly warrant me in feeling some -surprise and displeasure at finding you in these woods, walking with a -strange man as you have so often walked with me, and certainly justify -me in demanding some explanation of so strange a proceeding on your -part.” - -“And because I have been so indiscreet as to wander here with you, do -you really suppose that I could be so faultless as to walk here with -another?” said Alma, in a mournful voice. - -“I have assuredly very good reason to think so,” replied Norham, -sarcastically. - -“Yes, it is true; by coming here to meet you I have given you good -reason for thinking me capable of any degree of indiscretion,” said -Alma, with sorrowful self-humiliation. - -“Miss Elverton, I meant not that, as you know very well; I meant not to -reproach you with your innocent rambles with me, your betrothed husband, -who would die rather than offer you any offence. ‘The good reason’ which -I have for thinking that you favor others is the evidence of my own -senses. I _saw_ you, Miss Elverton, walking here in close conversation -with a stranger; and your answer appears to me very like a mere evasion -of the explanation I must still demand,” he said, haughtily, keeping his -stern eyes fixed upon her face with the look of a man having authority -to arraign her conduct. - -What explanation could poor Alma give? How could she answer his doubts? -How soothe his jealousy? She dropped her clasped hands, and moaned with -distress. - -“I wait your answer, Miss Elverton.” - -Alma wrung her hands and remained silent. - -“When I was about to withdraw from your presence you recalled me; if not -to volunteer the explanation that I seek, will you be kind enough to say -for what other purpose?” - -“Oh, Norham, be patient! do not misconceive me! I called you back to say -to you that—that—” - -“Well?” - -“I came to the woods this afternoon in the hope of seeing you and -speaking with you after so long an absence.” - -“And met instead the lover that consoled you during my absence; but of -whom perhaps you are tired now—that was very awkward while you were -expecting to see me. Pray, Miss Elverton, have you given him also the -promise of your hand as soon as you shall be of age and free to bestow -it?” sneered the man. - -“Oh, Norham! Norham! do not be so unjust to me! The person that I met -this afternoon is no lover of mine; quite, quite the contrary! He is one -who never could, under any possible circumstances, become one.” - -“And yet you were in very close confabulation when I first observed you. -It really looked to me like an interview between very intimate friends.” - -“And yet, indeed, I never set eyes on that person in all my life -before.” - -“You never set eyes on him before?” repeated Norham Montrose, in -astonishment. - -“On my word, on my honor, on my _soul_, no!” replied Alma, with vehement -earnestness. - -“Who was he then?” inquired Norham Montrose, as the dark scowl of -jealousy vanished from his brow. - -Alma hesitated, reflected a moment, and then answered: - -“He was an elderly gentleman, not familiar with this part of the -country, I believe.” - -“What was his name?” - -“I did not ask his name, of course; and neither do I think that he told -me; nay, indeed, I am sure that he did not.” - -“Or if he did, you have forgotten it, perhaps. But what was he, then?” - -“I did not ask him that question either, nor did he volunteer the -information.” - -“But from your own observation, what did you make of him?” - -“An elderly gentleman, who seemed to be recently arrived in this -neighborhood.” - -“And that was all?” - -Alma bowed. - -“Some tourist come to the North for the summer months, and rambling over -these hills in search of the picturesque,” concluded Norham, in a tone -of complete satisfaction. - -Alma dropped her head, blushed deeply, and burst into tears of shame. - -She had not spoken one word of falsehood, and yet her truthful replies -had been so carefully worded as to deceive her lover, and Alma could not -endure the thought of deception. - -Norham Montrose mistook the cause of her emotion, and quick to repent as -he had been to offend, he looked at her sweet suffering face for a -moment, then approached, and dropped gently on his knee before her, and -taking her hand, murmured: - -“Dear Alma, I cannot bend too low to sue for your forgiveness; I have -wronged and offended you by my mad jealousy. I have been unjust, -unmanly. I am deeply grieved and mortified to think of it now. Alma, -will you pardon me?” - -“Dear Norham, I have nothing to pardon in you; but much, very much to -thank and love you for. Please rise,” she answered, in a gentle voice, -as she closed her hand upon his, and tried to lift him up. - -“I have been rude and violent to you, my gentle one.” - -“Only for a few moments, while for months and months you have been kind -and loving.” - -“But I have wounded your delicacy, wrung your heart!” - -“Well, when I have received so much good from you, shall I not receive a -little necessary evil too? Can I have the rose of Love without its -inevitable thorn of Jealousy? Pray rise.” - -“Gentlest of all gentle girls, I do indeed believe that it would be -easier to wound than offend you, and far easier to wrong than to -estrange your heart,” said Norham, rising to his feet, and pressing her -hand to his lips. - -“It would indeed be most difficult for you to offend me, and quite -impossible to estrange me. For even if you were to cease to love me—” - -She paused, and a deep blush overspread her face. - -“My own heart must first cease to beat—nay, my own soul to exist, ere I -cease to love you, Alma; for my love seems the most immortal element in -my immortality! Do you not believe me?” said Norham, fervently. - -“Yes, I do. And trust in me also, Norham; nor for _my_ sake, for, as I -said before, I am willing to take the pain with the joy, but for your -own, dear Norham, for it must be so distressing to suspect one that you -love. And oh, Norham! consider how little cause you have to doubt me. I -am not as other young ladies who have many friends and relatives to love -them. I have but you only in the wide, wide world! Did I ever tell you -before, Norham, that I never in my life received a caress, a word, or a -glance of affection from any human creature until I met you? My very -soul seemed perishing in its solitude, when your sympathy and affection -came to me as the dew and the sunshine to a fading flower. You loved me -and won my love! You gave me new life! Oh, is it likely, is it even -possible, that my heart should ever swerve in its allegiance to its -life-giver?” - -“I will never doubt you again! I was a wretch to have doubted you then! -Dear one, I have been so occupied with my own selfish jealousy, that I -have not even inquired—how have you been during the months of my long -absence?” - -“Just as always. Life passes with me in such monotony, that the changes -of the weather are all that I know.” - -“While others, your nearest neighbors, have experienced such fearful -vicissitudes of fortune that their daily lives have passed more like the -successive acts in some dark tragedy, than scenes in a real existence! -My uncle’s family at Allworth Abbey! Oh, heaven, Alma! what a fatality -was there! The whole family swept from the face of the earth in a few -short months!” - -“Alas, yes; Oh, Norham, you must know how deeply I sympathize with you -in this great sorrow! I should have said so before, but your own -personal trouble engaged all my attention.” - -“My abominable jealousy, you should say; but let that pass. Alma, I was -not as intimate as my brother Malcolm was with my uncle’s family; and if -they had all gone off in a natural way, by a visitation of Providence, -as it is called, I should not have grieved more for them than men -usually grieve for uncles, aunts and cousins. But to think that they -should have been destroyed by a fiend in the shape of a girl—” said -Norham, shuddering. - -“Ah! to whom do you refer?” inquired Alma. - -“To whom, but to that serpent whom they warmed at their hearth-stone -until she had life enough to sting them to death! To whom but to that -Indian cobra, Eudora Leaton? Eudora Leaton, a name destined to become -notorious with those of Borgia, Brinvilliers and Lafarge!” - -“You feel certain of her guilt, then?” - -“Certain? Yes! Would it were not so! would that there were a rational -doubt of it! For if there were I should dare to hope that, though the -old House should become extinct, it need not die in blood and shame!” -said Norham Montrose, bitterly. - -“Then why not entertain that hope! There is nothing but circumstantial -evidence against Eudora Leaton, and such evidence is proverbially -fallacious.” - -“It cannot be in this case. The evidence is complete, conclusive, -convicting! No one can doubt that the issue of her trial will be -condemnation to death. And all that I have left to hope is, that the -last Leaton of Allworth will have the grace to die by her own hand in -the prison, rather than become a spectacle to the gaping crowd.” - -“But, Norham, _I_ do not think that she is guilty, and I pray and hope -and trust that she may be proved innocent, as from my soul I believe her -to be!” - -“That is because you cannot conceive iniquity like hers, as Heaven -forbid you should, sweet saint! And now, dear Alma, you must leave me, -and go home immediately. In my selfish love, I have wronged you in -keeping you out so late. And now, to atone for that injury, I must tell -you something that, in your innocence, you would never find out -yourself—something that will effectually arm you against me—” - -“Then do not tell me at all! For if it is anything innocence could not -of itself discover, be sure it is not worth discovering. And as to its -arming me against you, dear Norham, I cannot consider you an enemy, and -therefore do not wish to be armed.” - -“Yet, nevertheless, I will arm you with this knowledge of the world, -which you may use, abuse, or neglect at your pleasure. Listen, then, -dear Alma. Even these meetings that you accord me are so heterodox to -all conventionality, that were they known they would seriously -compromise your good name, and nothing, Alma, but our full sincerity of -purpose to marry, as soon as you shall become of age, could justify -these interviews. But, Alma, not even our betrothal will warrant you in -remaining out here with me after sunset. Alma, I tell you this, that -your own mother should have told you, because, dear one, I would not -take the very least advantage of your inexperience. Therefore, dear -Alma, never in future yield even to my persuasions to detain you out -here after sunset. Thus, you see, while my better spirit is in the -ascendant, I would warn you, arm you even against myself!” - -“You are the soul of honor! If I had not known it before, I should know -it now! Good-night,” said Alma, in a low voice. - -“One more caution in parting, love! It is not usual, or even safe, for -young ladies to talk with strangers whom they may casually meet in their -walks. Therefore, Alma, I must pray you that the scene of this afternoon -may never be repeated, and entreat you to promise me never again to fall -into conversation with any stranger whom you may meet in your rambles.” - -Norham Montrose paused and waited for her answer. - -Alma hesitated for a moment, and then replied: - -“I promise you, Norham, never to hold conversation with any one in my -walks except yourself, or some blood relation of my own, or some servant -of our family. I think that my promise covers the whole ground!” - -“It does, it does, dear Alma. Good-night. Meet me here to-morrow -afternoon, somewhat earlier than this—two hours earlier—at about six -o’clock. Until then, good-bye, dearest Alma.” - -And before she could reply, or object to the hour named, he raised her -hand to his lips, bowed, and disappeared in the depths of the woods. - -She remained for an instant transfixed with consternation at the thought -that he had unconsciously appointed for their next interview the very -spot and the very hour at which she had promised to meet her father. - -Her first impulse was to fly after Norham, call him back, and name -another afternoon, but the fear of again arousing his jealous suspicions -restrained her. A little reflection also convinced her that, though she -might defer the meeting, she could not prevent Norham from haunting the -wood to be near her. How to deliver herself from this dilemma, how to -escape from the dangers that threatened her, Alma understood not. - -If she rendered herself at the appointed time and place she would find -herself confronted with her father and her lover. - -If she broke her appointment and remained at home, Hollis Elverton and -Norham Montrose, coming thither at the same time to seek her, would be -confronted with each other. - -What, in any case, would be the result Alma feared to think. - -Full of distress and perplexity, she turned her steps homeward. - -She entered the house just as the hall-clock was striking eight. - -“Mees Alma, I been seeking for you all over ze house. Miladie, your -movver, desire you come to her direct,” said old Madelon, meeting Miss -Elverton at the foot of the great staircase. - -“My mother! my mother sent for me! Are you very sure of this, Madelon?” -inquired Alma, in great surprise, for she had never in her life before -been summoned to her mother’s presence. - -“Vat sood make me no sure? Miladie tell me, ‘Madelon, send Mees Elverton -to me soon as she come in from her valk in de garden,’” said the old -woman. - -“Very well, Madelon; I will go to my mother directly,” replied Alma, as, -lost in astonishment, she hurried up the stairs towards those private -apartments into which she had never in her life been admitted, and where -she had never dared to intrude. - -She paused before the door, and knocked softly. - -The deep, rich, vibrating voice of the lady bade her enter. - -Alma opened the door, crossed the enchanted threshold, and stood within -the heretofore prohibited apartments. - -The room in which she found herself was one of the most lofty and -spacious in the mansion. It was the front one of a magnificent suite of -apartments, that had been splendidly fitted up for the first reception -of Mrs. Elverton as a bride. It was situated directly over the -drawing-room, and had a large bay window that commanded a view of the -terraced lawn and the beautiful lake. But that window was now closed, -and the room was lighted up for the night. It was sumptuously furnished. -A Turkey carpet of the most brilliant colors covered the floor. The -chiffoniers, stands, tables, chairs, and even all the frames and -woodwork were of rosewood and gold, giving the _tout ensemble_ a -peculiarly rich effect. The coverings of the chairs, footstools and -sofas were all of crimson satin and gold. - -The curtains at the windows were also of crimson satin and gold, with -inner hangings of fine lace. The walls were lined with splendid mirrors, -reaching from ceiling to floor, and multiplying a hundred-fold the -scenery of the room. The whole was brilliantly lighted up by a -chandelier that hung from the centre of the ceiling. - -In the midst of all this glitter of light and glow of color, in a -luxurious chair, beside an elegant table, sat a lady, who, under any -circumstances, or from any spectator, must at once have riveted the -closest attention. - -She was apparently about thirty-five years of age, of tall, -justly-proportioned, stately figure, around which flowed the rich folds -of a crimson velvet robe. Her features were of the purest classic type. -Her complexion was deadly pale, in contrast with her large, dark eyes, -jet-black eyebrows, and raven-black hair, that lay in heavy shining -bands upon her marble cheeks. - -“Come hither, Alma,” she said, in that rich, deep, luscious voice which -ever thrilled the bosom of all who heard it. - -Alma approached and stood before her mother. Her heart beat fast; she -eagerly hoped for some demonstration of affection on the part of the -lady. Vain hope! - -Mrs. Elverton took from the table beside her a sealed packet, and -holding it in her hand while she spoke, she said: - -“Alma, I have sent for you to entrust you with a secret mission, to -which I think you will be faithful.” - -“Oh, mamma, how happy you make me by trusting me! Oh, yes, I would be -faithful unto death in any matter you should confide in me!” said Alma -fervently. - -“Enough. I believe you. To come to the point. I have just heard that -that unhappy girl has been re-arrested and committed to prison. I have -the strongest reasons for believing her to be innocent, though in great -peril. These, my private reasons, it is not necessary to divulge, since -they would have no weight with judge or jury. But I have the deepest -interest in the acquittal of that girl, and in the discovery, if -possible, of the real criminal. I fear that though a wealthy heiress, -Eudora Leaton is without available funds to engage the best counsel, -which is always very expensive. Therefore, Alma, I wish you, to-morrow -morning, to take the close carriage, drive over to the prison, and place -this packet in Eudora Leaton’s hands. Tell her it is to be used in her -defence, and is sent by one who has as deep a stake in her trial as she -has herself. But do not tell her from whom it came. Do you understand -me?” said the lady, placing the package in the hands of her daughter. - -“Yes mamma, and I will faithfully do your errand.” - -“Go, then.” - -“Mamma, will you not embrace me for this once in our lives?” pleaded -Alma, holding out her arms. - -“Go! go! go! go, girl, and leave me. Is this the advantage you would -take of the very first visit I permit you to my presence?” exclaimed the -lady, excitedly. - -“Mamma, pardon me, I go; good-night,” said Alma, resignedly, as she -withdrew from the splendid misery of her mother’s private apartments. - -She retired to her own chamber, full of wonder that her parents should -be unconsciously so unanimous in their anxiety for Eudora Leaton’s -acquittal, and that she should be the confidant of this unsuspected -unanimity. - - - - - CHAPTER XIX. - “TRUST IN HEAVEN.” - - “Dearest hopes and joys may perish— - Lost in an hour; - All the love the heart can cherish - May lose its power! - But when the storms gather o’er thee - Do not despair, - Heaven can ever joy restore thee - Still pure and fair.” - - -Early in the morning Eudora arose from her sleepless bed. With the aid -of the rude basin and jug of water and coarse towel that had been placed -on the rough deal stand by Mrs. Barton the night previous, Eudora made -her simple toilet. - -And next, with the love of order and neatness which characterizes every -true woman under all the circumstances of life, she made up the little -bed and arranged the narrow cell. But oh! with what a heavy, aching -heart, and what an ever present sense of the awful danger before her! - -Finally, she knelt and offered up her usual morning prayers, and then -sat down, in forced idleness, to endure the dull pain of merely living -on. - -She had not sat long thus, before the little square opening at the top -of her door was darkened by the face of the female warder, and the next -instant Mrs. Barton unlocked the door and entered the cell, saying: - -“I peeped in first to see if you were asleep, for if you had been, Miss, -it isn’t I as would ha’ disturbed you; seeing as sleep is such a -blessing to them as is in trouble, it is a’most a sin to wake ’em. But -laws, Miss, you needn’t ha’ took the pains to do the cell yourself, -’cause I could ha’ done it.” - -“I thank you, it cost me little pains; besides, occupation is almost as -great a blessing as sleep to persons in my unhappy circumstances,” -replied Eudora. - -“And that’s true, too; I know by myself! for well I remember when my two -poor sailor-lads were lost in the Great Western steamship as went down -with all on board—and I a lone widder-woman—I should ha’ just gone -raving mad, if so be I hadn’t been obliged to work so hard all day that -I slept sound all night. And so, between hard work and sound sleep, I -lived through it.” - -“Is your post such a hard one?” inquired the poor young prisoner, taking -an immediate interest in the kind-hearted, childless widow. - -“Laws, no, Miss, but I wasn’t here then, no, nor for a year afterwards. -Bless you, Miss, I was in the laundry line o’ business; but being of one -of your grandfather, the _old_ Lord Leaton’s tenants, your father, Mr. -Charles, took pity on me, and spoke to Mr. Anderson, as was under -obligations to him, to give me this place. It isn’t no ways hard on -_me_, whatsoever it may be to them as I have to ’tend to. But it’s been -a teaching to me, Miss, for since here I’ve been, I’ve seen other people -in so much deeper sorrow than any that mere death can cause, that I ha’ -been ashamed to grieve out of reason for my own troubles, and I ha’ -thought, i’ the name o’ the Lord, it wer’ perhaps all for the best, for -if my poor fatherless lads had lived, they might ha’ been led wrong and -brought here, and that would ha’ killed me outright!—I beg your pardon, -Miss!” said the woman, suddenly stopping and reddening at the thought of -the unkindness of speech into which her thoughts had hurried her, “I beg -your pardon, for I know that some come here without deserving it.” - -“And I came here without any fault of mine! Oh, believe it! You knew and -honored my father! Oh, for his sake believe that his only child did -not—could not—commit the dreadful crimes falsely charged upon her!” said -Eudora, earnestly, clasping her hands, and throwing her glance, full of -impassioned truthfulness, up to the woman’s face. - -“And ’spite of the evidence, I don’t think you did, Miss; for being of -your father’s daughter, it don’t stand to reason as you could.” - -“It was all because I was the sole attendant of—” - -“Miss, Miss, you mustn’t talk of your business to me nor to anyone else, -except your lawyer, for fear o’ letting out something as might be -brought against you on your trial,” interrupted Mrs. Barton. - -“What, not to you, who were my father’s friend, and are mine?” asked -Eudora, in surprise. - -“No, Miss, ’cause how do I know! they might even pull me up for a -witness; best be cautious.” - -“But I am guiltless, and being so, how can I say anything to injure my -cause?” - -“I dunnot know, Miss; but they do tell as how you let out many things -afore the Squire as had better been kept in.” - -“I spoke only the truth of what I had done; and I had done only what was -right. The whole world was welcome to know it, and I do not see how it -could hurt me.” - -“Yes, Miss, but then the best of truth do get so turned upside down and -wrong side out by them lawyers, as you couldn’t tell it from the worst -of falsehoods; and so, if so be you can’t say anything to clear -yourself, best keep a still tongue in your head. But depend upon this, -Miss—as Sarah Barton will do everything she lawfully can do to help and -comfort your father’s daughter.” - -“I thank you from a full heart! Oh, my dear father! little did you -think, in providing for a poor widow, you were raising up a friend for -your unhappy daughter in her bitterest extremity!” exclaimed Eudora, -with emotion, as she grasped the hard hand of the woman. - -“The ways of Providence are strange,” said the good woman, musingly. - -“They are,” echoed poor Eudora, thinking of the strange fate that had -cast her into prison. - -“And now, Miss, as the gov’ner’s family are about to sit down to -breakfast, I will go and bring yours from his own table, same as I -brought your supper.” - -“Are all the prisoners supplied from the governor’s table?” - -“Lawk, no, Miss! quite the reverse! You didn’t happen to think the -prisoners all got lamb chop and port wine for their supper, such as I -brought you last night?” - -“Why, no, and that was the reason why I asked you. But do all the women, -then?” - -“Lawk, no, Miss! quite the reverse, as I said before.” - -“Then, why am I so supplied?” - -“Why, Miss, you see, it’s a—it’s another affair altogether with you.” - -“Then understand that I want no privilege that is not shared by the -humblest of my fellow prisoners—no favor, in short.” - -“Well, Miss, for the matter of that, it is not an unlawful privilege, -seeing as how the gov’ner sartinly has the right to send meals from his -own table to any one he likes—and as for favor, Miss, it’s a favor for -you to accept any lawful services as he is free to render you, seeing as -how he is under such everlasting obligations to you and your’n as he can -never repay.” - -“Not to me—not to me—I never saw or heard of the man before I was -brought hither.” - -“Well, to your honored father, then! And though the old saying says that -‘favor is no inheritance,’ I say it ought to be! And so the best service -as Mr. Anderson can do you won’t be too much for your father’s -daughter.” - -“Think as you will about that; but I had rather not fare better than my -fellow-sufferers.” - -“Neither will you, Miss, though you should have better than the best as -the gov’ner’s house could afford.” - -“I do not understand you,” said Eudora, in surprise. - -“Harry, come up! I’ll explain!” answered the woman. “You must know that -the best Master Anderson can send you is not half so good as what you -have been used to; and the worst prison fare as is sent to the others is -a deal better than ever they’ve had outside. Consequently, all things -considered, you fare worse, and not better than the rest,” said Mrs. -Barton, triumphantly. - -“Your ingenious sophistry does not convince me.” - -“Then I’ll tell you what must—the gov’ner’s orders; and he—under the -higher authorities, you know—is paramount here. He commands me to serve -you from the best upon his own table, and I must obey.” - -“Just as you please; I thank you both; but it really makes no difference -to me what I eat or drink,” said Eudora, dejectedly. - -“Reckon it would, though, if you knew what sort of food we sarve out to -the others,” thought Mrs. Barton as she left the cell and locked the -door after her. - -The grating of that lock! How it always jarred upon the nerves of the -sensitive girl! After an absence of about fifteen minutes, Mrs. Barton -returned, bearing a tray upon which was neatly arranged a breakfast of -coffee, toast, ham, and poached eggs. - -Nature! wise mother!—you never suffer any degree of mental anguish to -utterly destroy the appetite of the young. A minute before the entrance -of the tray the hapless girl thought she could not eat; but a minute -after, the savory smell of the well-chosen breakfast assailed her -senses, creating hunger, notwithstanding all her grief, anxiety, and -terror. The gossip of the good-natured Mrs. Barton seasoned the repast; -and at the end of half an hour our poor Eudora had made a good and -refreshing meal, for which she felt all the better. - -“And now, then, what can I bring you to pass away the time with, until -some of your friends call?” said Mrs. Barton. - -“A pocket Bible if you please; nothing more.” - -“But lor’, Miss, that’s very solemn sort of study for week-a-days; -hadn’t you better have something funny, as would liven you up like?” - -“There are times when no book but _the one_ can be read,” said Eudora. - -“Very well, Miss; to be sure you shall have it,” replied the woman, -taking the tray and retiring. - -An hour afterward, while Eudora was engaged in seeking to draw comfort -and strength from the pages of the blessed volume, the cell door was -opened and a veiled lady was ushered in by Miss Barton, who immediately -re-locked the door and withdrew. - -Eudora arose in surprise to receive this unexpected visitor. - -The lady threw aside her veil, and revealed the features of Alma -Elverton. - -“Miss Elverton! Is it possible! You here?” exclaimed Eudora, in -astonishment. - -“Yes, dear; but why do you speak to me so formally? Why do you not call -me Alma, as you used to do?” inquired the visitor, taking the hand and -kissing the cheek of the prisoner. - -“Why? Oh, that was so long ago!” sighed Eudora. - -“But two weeks.” - -“No longer? It seems an age; but then so many things have happened -since.” - -“None that can estrange us, I hope, Eudora?” - -“You think me innocent, then?” - -“Yes,” replied the visitor, seating herself on the side of the cot-bed. - -“And so you come to see me. Oh, that is very good in you.” - -“I come also to serve you. I come as the messenger of two friends, who -wish for the present to remain unknown, but who feel such a personal -interest in your acquittal that they send you this sum of money, and beg -that you will accept it as a loan, to be devoted to the purpose of -feeing counsel for your defence,” said Alma, placing the roll of -bank-notes in her hand. - -“But this is very strange,” remarked Eudora, hesitating to retain the -money. - -“And is not your presence in this place very strange? And is not -everything that has happened to you for the last two weeks equally -strange?” - -“Oh, yes, yes; so strange that it sometimes seems to me to be unreal; as -though I were dead and sleeping in my grave, and dreaming this dreadful -dream,” replied Eudora, with a shudder. - -“Then take one incident of the dream with another.” - -“But this money? I may never be able to repay it.” - -“Then repayment will never be demanded. Those who have sent you the -funds direct me to say that they have a personal and strictly selfish -interest in your acquittal as well as in the apprehension of the real -criminal.” - -“Thank Heaven that there are some, at least, who believe me free from -this great sin!” - -“There are many; but as the mere belief in your innocence would do you -but little good with judge or jury, it is necessary that they assist you -in every practical way.” - -“But who are those friends that have sent me this assistance?” - -“I must not tell more than I have already told—that they are those who -have a deep interest in the acquittal of the innocent and the -crimination of the guilty.” - -“But what sort of an interest?” - -“I may not tell you more than that it is of so selfish a nature as to -justify you in accepting all the assistance they can render you for -their own sakes without feeling under any obligation to them whatever.” - -“That will be difficult—indeed, impossible; for I must feel very, very -grateful to these unknown benefactors,” said Eudora, no longer refusing -the gift, but accepting it with mixed feelings of gratitude and -humiliation. - -Alma would have remained longer, but the footsteps of several persons -were heard approaching, and the door was unlocked, and Mr. Montrose, -accompanied by a strange gentleman, was ushered in by the gaoler. - -Alma hastily kissed Eudora, bade her be of good cheer, dropped her thick -veil over her face, and hurried from the cell, to return home, and keep -her dangerous appointment with her father. - -“Miss Leaton, I have brought down Mr. Fenton, who is here to consult -with us upon your case,” said Mr. Montrose, presenting the lawyer. - -The lawyer bowed, and the lady courtesied, just as if the introduction -had taken place in the drawing-room. - -Eudora took her seat upon the side of the cot, and offered the stranger -the only chair, which he took. Malcolm Montrose seated himself upon the -little table, and the consultation began. - -“This is Wednesday. The assizes open on Monday. Can you procure us a -copy of the docket, my good friend?” said Mr. Fenton, addressing the -governor, who lingered at the door. - -“I think I can, sir,” replied that officer, hurrying away for the -purpose. He returned in a short time, bringing with him the required -document, which he placed in the hands of the lawyer. - -“‘Queen _versus_ Goffe, poaching;’ ‘Queen _versus_ Hetton, assault, &c.’ -‘Queen—um—um—um,’” read the lawyer, running his eyes down the list, -until he came to a line where he exclaimed: - -“Here we are the seventh case on the docket—‘Queen _versus_ Leaton.’ The -cases that precede ours are trifling, and will soon be disposed of. Ours -will come on, I should judge, about Wednesday morning—this day week; so -there is plenty of time to prepare the defence. Have you a copy of the -evidence given at the coroner’s inquest?” said the lawyer, turning to -Mr. Montrose. - -Malcolm drew from his pocket two papers, and handing them to Mr. Fenton, -said: - -“Here, in this first paper, is the report of the inquest that sat upon -the body of Lord Leaton, and in this second the report of the one that -sat upon those of Lady Leaton and Miss Leaton.” - -“Yes,” said the lawyer, taking them, and settling himself to their -careful perusal. - -In the course of his reading he marked three or four points, and at its -close he turned to his fair client, and said: - -“You are aware, I hope, Miss Leaton, that you should be perfectly frank -with me, and that you can be so with perfect safety. In a word, it is -absolutely indispensable that a client should be as candid with her -counsel as a patient is with her physician.” - -“Yes, I am aware of that; but really I have nothing to tell you, but -that I am wholly innocent of the dreadful crimes they impute to me.” - -“I have made several notes here upon items of evidence that may be used -in our defence, and about which I wish to question you. In the first -place, then, in the evidence given by Lady Leaton before the first -coroner’s inquest, her ladyship testified that on the same night of her -husband’s sudden death, while the sleeping-draught stood on the stand -beside his bed, she being in her adjoining dressing-room, with the -communicating door open between them, heard the rustle of a woman’s silk -dress moving about, and saw the shadow of a woman’s form gliding along -the wall of her husband’s chamber. In the second place, the testimony of -the late Agatha Leaton proves that this unknown intruder could not have -been yourself, as you were at that very hour engaged in reading to her -in her own private apartment. Consequently, the midnight intruder who -stole secretly into Lord Leaton’s room, and dropped the fatal drug into -the sleeping-draught, must have been some other woman. Suspicion seems -to have fallen on no one else; but have not you, in your private -thought, some idea as to who this midnight poisoner really was?” - -“Not the remotest in the world,” replied Eudora, in astonishment at the -question. - -“Humph—take time—reflect.” - -“I have reflected, sir, but without effect.” - -“Again, then,” said the lawyer, referring to his notes; “in your own -evidence given before the second inquest you testify that on the night -of your cousin’s sudden death, while watching beside her sick-bed, you -lost yourself in light slumber for a moment, but was almost immediately -awakened by the impression of some strange presence in the room, and -that, in the momentary interval between sleeping and waking, you saw, or -dreamed you saw, a dark-robed female figure glide through the room and -disappear in the communicating one; but that on arousing yourself, and -searching that room and the adjoining one, you found no trace of an -intruder. Now, what I wish to ask you is, whether you believe that you -really saw anyone in the sick-chamber at that hour or not?” - -“I was so shocked and terrified, and grieved by the sudden death of my -cousin, that I could not then speak definitely as to whether I really -saw or only dreamed of that figure in the room; because the scene passed -on the instant of my waking up, and while my faculties were bewildered -by slumber. But since that night, every time I have thought of that -strange incident in my watch, I have become more and more firmly -convinced that what I saw was reality.” - -“In a word, that there was a woman in Miss Leaton’s room that night?” - -“Yes, I earnestly believe that there was.” - -“And that this woman dropped the poison into the cooling drink prepared -for Miss Leaton?” - -“Indeed I fear so; for when I saw the figure it was gliding away from -the mantelpiece where the jug of tamarind-water stood, towards the door -that opened into my own little room.” - -“And might not that woman have put the poison into your drawers? And may -we not in that way account for its presence there?” - -Eudora started violently, and turned deadly pale. The idea of such a -depth of wickedness never before had been presented to her mind; and now -it seemed to crush the very soul from her body. - -“Because my theory of the case is, that the secret poisoner took -measures effectually to conceal her own crime and to fix it upon you. -And that is also the scheme of our defence.” - -“Oh, Heaven of heavens! can a human being—can a _demon_ be so -atrociously wicked!” gasped Eudora, in a suffocating voice. - -“Yes; a woman can be so. But reflect, and tell me, have you no possible -suspicion as to who this woman might have been?” - -“No; I have not the remotest idea.” - -“Well; in the first place, it must have been the same woman whose shadow -was seen by Lady Leaton on the wall of Lord Leaton’s chamber on the -night of his sudden death.” - -“You think, then, that Lady Leaton’s impression of having seen such a -figure was correct?” - -“I think so. Now, reflect once more, and tell me if you have no clue to -the identity of this woman?” - -“Can nothing be done to ascertain who that woman is, if really guilty, -and fix the guilt upon her?” inquired Malcolm. - -“Yes, much. But the first and most important thing to be done is to keep -perfectly silent regarding our suspicions, so that she may not be put -upon her guard. The next thing is to engage the services of two or three -experienced detectives, but that will be expensive.” - -Malcolm’s face clouded at the remembrance of his limited resources. - -But Eudora placed her roll of bank-notes in the lawyer’s hands, and -said: - -“Pray take from that parcel as much as may be needed for this service, -and hand over the remainder to Mr. Montrose.” - -The lawyer drew out two fifty pound notes, and handed the balance to the -astonished Malcolm. - -As that was not the proper time to tell the story of this mysterious -loan, Eudora merely looked at Malcolm and smiled, for now she _could_ -smile, as the presence of the lawyer who came to defend her cheered her -spirits and raised her hopes, even as the face of the physician who -appears to cure animates and revives the sinking and dying patient. - -The consultation was continued a little longer, and then the lawyer -gathered up his documents and withdrew to prepare his defence. - -On taking leave, Malcolm found an opportunity of lingering behind for a -moment to look the question that he would not ask. - -“Yes, the money was brought me by Alma Elverton, whom you must have -noticed here as you came in, though she immediately lowered her veil, -and withdrew,” said Eudora, replying to this mute inquiry just as -directly as though it had been made in words. - -“I noticed a lady pass out, but did not recognize her as Miss Elverton. -And so it was Alma who lent us the money?” - -“No; she was acting as the agent of those whose names she was forbidden -to mention, but who professed to have a personal and even selfish -interest in the acquittal of the innocent and the crimination of the -guilty. Was I right to accept this loan?” - -“Perfectly. It was a godsend! but we must find out, if possible, who are -your benefactors. The knowledge may be of the greatest use in your -defence. And here is another piece of service to be rendered by our -detectives,” said Malcolm. Then, knowing that he must not linger longer, -he pressed the hand of his betrothed, and said: - -“Farewell for the present, my dear Eudora. I will return and visit you -as often as I may be permitted to do so. In the meanwhile, may God be -with you.” - -And so saying, he released her hand, and followed the lawyer from the -cell. - - - - - CHAPTER XX. - THE FEARFUL SECRET. - - “Our actions travel and are veiled; and yet - We sometimes catch a fearful glimpse of one - When out of sight its march hath well nigh gone, - An unveiled thing which we can ne’er forget! - All sins it gathers up into its course, - As they do grow with it, and its force, - One day with busy speed that thing shall come, - Recoiling on the heart that was its home.” - - -It was late in the afternoon when Alma Elverton, returning from the -prison, reached Edenlawn. - -Not daring to present herself unsummoned before her stern mother, she -went direct to her own chamber, threw off her bonnet and mantle, and -then rang for her attendant. - -Old Madelon, in her hight French _bonne’s_ cap made her appearance. - -“Will you go to my mamma, Madelon, and tell her that I have returned -from my ride, and ask her to say whether I shall come to her?” said -Alma. - -“I vill go, Meess Elverton, but miladie is—is more—vat sall I say?” said -the _bonne_, hesitating. - -“Disturbed, sorrowful?” suggested Alma. - -“No, _severe_. Miladie is more severe to-day as ever. I no like to go to -her, but I vill go.” - -“Do, good Madelon; she will be pleased to hear that I have returned,” -said Alma, gently. - -“I know not, Meess Alma, I know not,” said old Madelon, shaking her head -as she left the room. - -Alma, full of anxiety upon many subjects, threw herself into an -arm-chair to await the coming of the _bonne_. - -Nearly an hour passed before the return of Madelon, who entered, saying: - -“You must pardon me for staying so long time, Meess Alma; but it was no -mine fault, miladie vas keep me.” - -“And has she sent for me at last?” - -“No, no, Meess Alma; she say you mus’ dine, and then come to her, and no -before.” - -Alma made a gesture of impatience. It was now late; time was flying -fast. The hour at which she had promised to meet her unhappy father was -quickly approaching, and, fraught with danger, as it might be, she was -resolved to keep her appointment. - -“I am not hungry; I do not wish to dine at all. Why cannot I go to my -mother at once?” - -“Miladie’s commands—Meess Alma must rest, and must eat, and then come.” - -“But if I am neither tired nor hungry. Can I not go to mamma now?” - -“No, miladie is engaged. Miladie writes letters. She will see Meess Alma -later. She will send when she wants her child.” - -“Go on then, Madelon, I can go through the form of dinner, at least,” -said Alma, looking anxiously at her watch. - -It was five o’clock, and she had promised to meet her father at six. -There was an hour left. There might yet be time to keep her appointment. -She hoped to dispatch her meal, hurry through her interview with her -mother, and then hasten to the wood. - -She followed old Madelon down into the dining-room, where a delicate -little repast had been prepared for her. She ate a piece of chicken and -a jelly, and was picking a bunch of grapes when the lady’s bell rang for -Madelon, who hastened to answer it, but soon returned with a message -summoning Alma to her mother’s apartments. - -Alma immediately hurried thither. She found the beautiful, majestic, -pale-faced lady seated in the luxurious chair beside the elegant table -in the midst of the gloom and glow of that crimson and golden room. That -still woman was the picture of which the boudoir was but the back ground -and frame. - -As her daughter entered, the lady lifted her languid eyes from the book -she was reading, and silently motioned Alma to take the chair on the -other side of the table. - -The young girl obeyed, and waited for her mother to speak. But the -lady’s large eyes had again fallen upon her book, and in a few moments -she seemed to have forgotten the presence of her daughter. - -Alma stole a glance at her watch. It was half-past five. Her heart -throbbed with anxiety. She ventured to break the silence by saying: - -“I did your errand faithfully and successfully, dear mother.” - -“I will speak to you about that presently, Alma,” said the lady, turning -a leaf of her book, and relapsing into silence. - -Alma fell into thought. She had private anxieties enough of her own to -engage her mind. She was extremely desirous to keep her appointment with -her unhappy father. She was extremely fearful, also, of a rencounter -between her father and her betrothed. She therefore felt the urgent -necessity of being herself early on the ground to meet the first comer, -whether that should be her father or her betrothed. If it should be the -former, she would draw him quickly off in some other direction to avoid -a meeting with Captain Montrose. If the latter, she would merely greet -him and dismiss him, to shun a rencounter with Mr. Elverton. All these -plans were fraught with danger, but they were the best that she could -improvise for the exigency. Meanwhile, how quickly the precious minutes -flew while she sat waiting her mother’s leisure. - -The elegant little ormolu clock on the chimney-piece struck six. - -Alma started and looked up. The hour had come. - -“Mamma, I wish to take an evening walk. If you will permit me, I will -go, and return when you have leisure to attend to me,” said the young -girl, desperately. - -“Are you so impatient, Alma? Well, then, I will hear you now,” said the -lady, closing her book and laying it down. - -“No, mamma, I am not impatient. Indeed, I should prefer taking my usual -walk first, and then come to you again,” replied the young girl, while a -deep blush suffused her cheeks. - -“You have had a long drive—enough of fresh air and exercise for one day. -You may forego your walk; nay, you _must_ do so.” - -Alma’s color went and came rapidly. - -The lady continued: - -“I have finished my book, and am quite ready to attend you; so now tell -me, how did you find your friend?” - -This turned the current of Alma’s thoughts, and she answered: - -“Fearfully changed, mamma—so thin, so pale, so care-worn, you would -never have known her.” - -“She accepted the loan without reluctance?” asked the lady. - -“No, mamma, there was much hesitation; but I used the arguments with -which you had provided me, and I assured her that those who sent her the -money had a personal interest in her acquittal that made it quite right -they should bear their share in the cost of her defence.” - -“You were right; but how did she meet this explanation?” - -“With the confiding faith of a grateful child—only anxious to know the -names of her benefactors, that she might mention them in her prayers.” - -“Why do you say _benefactors_, when there was but _me_?” inquired the -lady. - -“Mamma, when we speak of anyone in the third person, without wishing -even to divulge their sex, we say ‘they,’ because we have no third -person singular of the common gender. And because I used the pronoun -‘they,’ she fancied there was more than one, and spoke of her -benefactors,” answered Alma, blushing deeply at the necessary -reservation. - -“Well, but you did not give the name?” - -“No, mamma.” - -“Did she speak of her approaching trial? Is she frightened? Has she -hopes? Speak; tell me more about her.” - -In reply to this adjuration, Alma related in detail the full account of -her visit to Eudora. And while Alma described the anguish to which the -poor imprisoned girl was a prey, the lady, long past shedding tears of -sympathy, could only drop her head upon her hands, and groan as one -suffering under some heavy burthen of remorse. - -As Alma, forgetting her own embarrassment in the deep sorrows of Eudora, -was still engaged in describing the prison interview, the clock struck -seven. - -She started, clasped her hands, and gazed appealingly towards her -mother. - -“Well, it is too late now, Alma, to keep your appointment. Even if -Captain Montrose has waited a whole hour over his time, it is not likely -that he will wait half an hour longer, which is the length of time it -would take you to reach the trysting-ground,” said the lady, coldly. - -“Mamma!” exclaimed the dismayed girl, distressed at this discovery of -her interview with her lover, and frightened lest that discovery should -have also extended to her meeting with her father. Upon this latter -point, however, the next words of Mrs. Elverton reassured her. - -“Yes, poor child, I know all about it; you went to the wood yesterday to -meet Norham Montrose.” - -“But, mamma—” - -“Nay, poor girl, I do not blame you for the past, but I give you leave -to blame _me_, both for the past and the future, if ever you meet your -lover again.” - -“Oh, mamma!” sobbed Alma, drawing near, and sinking at her mother’s -feet. - -But Mrs. Elverton, with a shudder of repulsion, rolled her chair back, -and said: - -“Alma, resume your seat. Keep as far from me as you can, keep so as to -remain in ear-shot only, while I speak to you.” - -Tremblingly Alma arose and receded to her chair, where she sat with -pallid cheeks, clasped hands, and wistful eyes still fixed upon the -stern, white face of that strange mother. - -“Alma,” said the lady, coldly, “I do not mean to deal in mysteries. I -learned this morning from the old gardener, Denny—who begged an -interview with me for the purpose of making a communication which he -deemed it his duty to make—that you had an interview with Captain -Montrose in the woods behind the house last evening. At least he met you -loitering there, and a few minutes later met Captain Montrose going -towards you. He inferred that there was an interview and an appointment. -Alma, was the old man right?” - -“Mamma,” said Alma, seeking to hide her fiery blushes with both hands. -“Yes, he told you the truth; but oh, mamma, hear my defence—” - -“Not now—not until I have done speaking. I dismissed the old man, with -thanks for his fidelity, and with an injunction to silence, which I am -sure that he will observe for your sake; for be assured, Alma, that such -interviews seriously compromise the fair fame of a young girl.” - -“Mamma! Oh! let me explain—” again interrupted Alma, who seemed unable -to bear for an instant the implied reproach in her mother’s words. - -“Not yet; not yet, Alma; hear me out. After thinking over the old man’s -story, I came to the conclusion that the interview of yesterday might -have been accidental—” - -“It was, indeed, partly so, mamma.” - -“And that it might or might not have resulted in an appointment for this -evening. I did not wish to accuse you wrongfully, so I resolved to -detain you in this room and observe your manner. And, Alma, your own -restlessness and anxiety have revealed to me that you _had_ made such an -appointment with Captain Montrose this evening. Is it not so?” - -“Yes, mamma, yes; but hear me and forgive me.” - -“Presently—presently; but let me tell you first that the days of romance -and poetry, of troubadours and knights, and damsels-errant have passed -ages and ages ago. You cannot bring romance into your real life, except -at the cost of your fair fame. And I would not have a single evanescent -cloud pass before that which should be as bright as a clear summer -day—for it is the only bright thing in your life, Alma!” - -“And my fair fame shall continue bright, mamma! Oh! trust me and believe -it!” said Alma, earnestly. - -“Not if these interviews are repeated,” replied the lady, coldly. - -“Mamma, an angel might have been present at our meetings without offence -to its heavenly nature,” insisted Alma, fervently. - -“And yet not even an angel’s testimony would be taken for that.” - -“Oh, mamma!” - -“Nay, I do not doubt your word, girl, nor blame you much; but I do very -severely censure the conduct of Captain Montrose, who, as a man of the -world, knew well how seriously he compromised you,” said Mrs. Elverton, -sternly. - -“Mamma! mamma! he is not to be censured!” exclaimed Alma, warmly. - -“Not for persuading an inexperienced young girl, of high rank, to give -him interviews in the woods? What do you mean?” - -“Mamma, hear me! Captain Montrose wished nothing better than your -sanction to pay his addresses openly to your daughter. He wrote to you -and wrote to my grandfather, earnestly entreating such sanction; and his -overtures were rejected by both!” - -“And properly so!” - -“And why, mamma? Oh! why? He is certainly a gentleman of ancient family -of unblemished character, and of good position! Why were his proposals -so curtly rejected? At least, dear mamma, you owe it to me to give a -reason!” pleaded Alma. - -“It should be a reason sufficient to satisfy you, Alma, that neither -Lord Elverton nor myself chose to favor his addresses.” - -“But it is not, mamma! My beating heart cannot be answered so!” said -Alma, earnestly. - -“Then I have no other answer to give you, Miss Elverton!” said the lady, -freezingly. - -“Oh, mother, mother, do not speak to me so coldly; if you knew how sad -my life is you would not do it! But, mother, let me talk to you a little -of Norham,” prayed Alma. - -“In my youth, and in my country, young ladies never talked of their -lovers, but blushed when others named them. I know not, however, but -that a few years of time and a few miles of space may alter customs,” -said Mrs. Elverton, ironically. - -“I know not, mamma; but if anywhere young women blush to hear their -lovers named, it must be because they are happy in their loves; for if -it were otherwise it seems to me that their cheeks would pale, not -redden.” - -“And yours should blanch to marble, girl, at the name of love or -marriage!” said the lady, in a low, stern, sad voice. - -Her words escaped the ears of Alma, who, leaning forward, clasping her -hands, and fixing her eyes earnestly upon the pale face of her mother, -said: - -“Mamma, mamma, _will_ you let me speak to you from my heart this once?” - -The lady did not reply, and her daughter continued: - -“Oh, let me speak to you freely, my mother! To whom can I speak, if not -to you? Oh, hear me!—for who will hear me if not you? Whom have I in the -world but you? And, mother, who have you in the world but me? Between -what two in the universe should there be confidence if not between -us?—so separated as we seem from all the earth, so isolated, so lonely? -Mother, may I speak to you, at least for once, from my heart?” - -“Speak on, Alma; I hear you!” - -“Mamma, I wish to account for these few, very few, and mostly chance -meetings with Norham in the woods. And to do so I must commence at the -commencement, and speak of the utter—utter loneliness of my life—the -loneliness like living death that has been my lot from the moment of my -birth, I think, to the present hour.” - -“One would naturally suppose that a condition which had commenced with -your birth, Alma, and continued to the present time—since you could have -known no other—must have become a second nature.” - -“One would think so, perhaps: and yet again, perhaps, such a second -nature, formed by unnatural circumstances, could not be so forced upon -the first original nature created by God. You may take the chrysalis, -and shut it under an inverted glass, and so long as it remains a -chrysalis it will be happy in its way; but when it developes into a -butterfly, and spreads its wings, must it not pine, and suffocate, and -die for want of space, and exercise, and air?” - -“What mean you, Alma?” - -“Mamma, when I was a child, I was happy dressing my dolls and playing -with my pets; when I was a school-girl I was contented pursuing my -studies and talking with my governess; but all these things have passed -away with childhood and girlhood. I am a woman now, with all a woman’s -craving for human society, sympathy, and affection. Oh, if I speak -plainly, I cannot help it! I feel every hour in the day, and every -minute in the hour, that there is something fearfully wrong _here_ and -_here_!” said Alma, placing her hand upon her head and heart. “And, -mamma, believe me, that I feel, if this dreadful hunger of the heart and -mind is not satisfied, idiotcy or death must be the result. Mamma, I was -happier during the hour that I passed with poor Eudora in her -prison-cell, than I have ever been in all the years that I have passed -in this splendid living tomb. And why, mamma—why? Only because in that -wretched prison-cell I was at least _en rapport_ with another human -creature!” - -“Alma, come to the point—what is it you wish me to do?” - -“Mamma bear with me a little while. I was about to say that it was this -utter, utter loneliness of life and heart, that laid me so open to the -advances of almost any person, man, woman, or child, who might have -crossed my path—for the starving will eat husks rather than perish; but -Providence sent across my path a noble-minded man, my equal in birth, -intellect, and position. He esteemed me, and won my esteem. He asked the -sanction of my parents to his addresses, and his overtures were rejected -by them. He loved me, and so he haunted the neighborhood of my home only -to be near me. From childhood I have been accustomed to walk in those -woods where he often accidentally met me. Yesterday I walked as usual in -those woods. I will not deceive you, mamma, or say that I did not -secretly hope he might be walking there also. He was; and we met. We had -not spoken together for a very long time, and it was then so late in the -evening that our interview was necessarily very short. And so we agreed -to meet again this afternoon—to meet as betrothed lovers, who are to -marry as soon as they both obtain their majority; for, mamma, there must -come a time, when, if I live, I shall be free, by the laws of God and -man, to give my hand where my heart has long been given—and I have -promised, when that time shall come, to be the wife of Norham Montrose, -and, mamma, I mean to keep my promise! There, mamma, I have told you -all.” - -It was impossible that that white-faced woman could have become whiter, -but now a livid grayness crept over her features that also seemed to -harden into stone. It was in a low, level, ominous monotone that she -repeated: - -“You have told me all—now what is it you wish me to do?” - -“Oh, mamma, pity me, take me to your heart, give me your confidence, -make me happy—it will take but a little to do that! Recall Norham -Montrose; give him your sanction to visit me here in your house—here -under your eye!” prayed Alma, with clasped hands and beseeching eyes. - -“I am glad that you have spoken so plainly, girl, for now I can answer -you; and you must take that answer to be as final and immutable as -though the words were sealed by the most solemn and binding oaths. And -my answer is this—that you must never see Captain Montrose again!” - -“Oh, mamma, mamma, tell me at least why you object to him. Is it his -birth, his position, or his character?” exclaimed Alma, earnestly. - -“It is neither. His birth, position, and character might fairly entitle -him to wed any young lady in the land.” - -“Is there, then, any family feud between his House and mine, such as -sometimes divide——” - -“Lovers?—a Montague and Capulet folly? No! His family and yours have -always been the best friends. In short, Alma, neither Lord Elverton nor -myself, nor any of our friends have the least personal objection -whatever either to Captain Montrose himself or to any of his family. I -can assure you of that, if it can give you any satisfaction.” - -“Oh, it does—it does, mamma! God bless you for that tribute to Norham’s -worth! Oh, mamma, you have told me what the objection is _not_—oh, tell -me what it _is_! I might find a way—” - -“Alma,” interrupted the lady, in a deep, low, stern voice, “many months -ago I warned you that love and marriage were not for you; many months -ago I warned you, if you would escape the heaviest curse that could hurl -a soul to perdition, to avoid the friendship of woman, and the love of -man—DID I not?” - -“Yes, you did—you did! but _why_, WHY, my mother?” demanded Alma, with -her hands still tightly clasped and extended, and her eyes still fixed -upon the face of her mother. - -“Alma,” commenced the lady, in a voice of almost awful solemnity, “if I -might be permitted to do so, I would willingly spare you the anguish of -hearing the words that I must speak; but destiny is stronger than I -am—stronger than all are!” - -“Say on, my mother. Oh, say on! If there is anything I ought to know, -let me hear it—never mind the pain!” prayed Alma, with her clasped -hands. - -“But, oh! must it be my tongue that tells you at last, Alma, that your -parents’ marriage proved the most awful calamity that could have crushed -any two human beings! That your birth was a curse to Hollis Elverton—a -curse to me, and deeper still, a curse to you! That _your_ love lighting -upon any human being would be the darkest misfortune that could fall -upon them! That _your_ marriage with any man would be the direst -catastrophe that could blight him—” - -Her dreadful words were interrupted by a wild, half-suppressed shriek -from Alma, who buried her face in her open hands for a moment, and then -raising her head, cried: - -“Mother, I must be marble!—yes, marble! I cannot be flesh and blood as -others, or your words would kill me!” - -“And you are not flesh and blood as others! but something set apart, -accursed, that must not join heart or hand with any other human being!” - -“But why, _why_, WHY, my mother? that is what I wish to know, what I -_ought_ to know, what I _will_ know! for when you pronounce a sentence -that may consign me at eighteen years of age to the long-living death of -an existence without love, without friendship, without sympathy, without -communion with my kind, I ought, I _must_, I WILL know the reason -_why_!” cried Alma, with wild and startling energy. - -“Poor wretch!” muttered the lady, with something like pity vibrating in -the cold monotone of her voice, and disturbing the strong rigidity of -her features—“poor wretch! you rush blindly upon your fate just as I -did! Aye, your very words were once mine! Alma, when, eighteen years -ago, Hollis Elverton rushed into my presence, and, in frenzied despair, -told me that we must part then, there, and forever, I, too, in the -extremity of my anguish and terror, demanded and wrung from him the -_why_—the WHY that doomed me to that living death of widowhood.” - -“And he told you. My father kept no secret from the wife of his bosom,” -said the young girl. - -“He told me. Alma, there are things that kill the soul in the body and -turn the body into stone! He told me—he whispered one dreadful word in -my ear that struck me down at his feet as a thunderbolt strikes a statue -to the ground! When I recovered my consciousness he was gone, and I knew -that he could not, ought not, must not ever return!” - -“And yet he loved you, my mother?” whispered Alma, in the half hushed -tone of awe. - -“Yes,” muttered the lady. - -“And yet you loved him?” - -“Yes.” - -“And your marriage was happy up to that fatal evening?” - -“Perfectly happy.” - -“And yet—and yet——” - -“And yet we parted—yes, as ships at sea that meet and strike in the fog -and fly asunder—wrecks doomed to go down to destruction! So we married, -and so we severed.” - -“Was it right?” - -“It was right.” - -“Oh, mother, what made it right? What could make it right that you and -my father, who loved each other so devotedly, who were so worthy of each -other, too, and whose marriage was so happy in itself, and so highly -approved by all, should separate so suddenly—so utterly and -everlastingly.” - -The lady did not reply, but turned away her face to avoid the searching -eyes of her daughter. - -“Oh, Heaven!” cried Alma, “there could have been but one reason—some -previous engagement, or bond, or, or——” - -She could not bring herself to utter the other word, but dropped her -face in her hands, while her bosom rose and fell with those convulsive, -tearless sobs that seem to “press the life from out young hearts.” - -“I know what you would say, Alma; but you are mistaken, poor, unhappy -girl! There was no previous engagement, bond or love, far less marriage, -either on Hollis Elverton’s side or mine, with any third person whose -existence could invalidate our marriage. Hollis Elverton was a bachelor -and I a girl when we married, nor had either of us ever loved until we -met and loved each other. No, Alma, it was no previous marriage that -burst ours asunder,” said the lady, as some memory of unusually -exquisite pain convulsed her statue-like form. - -“Then, in the name of heaven, earth and hades, _what_ was it?” exclaimed -Alma, with starting vehemence. - -“I have told you enough—enough to decide your fate. I must not tell you -more!” - -“Yes, and without any reason assigned, you have pronounced a sentence of -excommunication and outlawry against me; a sentence that cuts me off -from the comforts of religion and the intercourse of society; a sentence -that dooms me to a fate worse, infinitely worse than death. But, mother, -without a reason that shall convince my own judgment, and satisfy my own -conscience, I cannot, and ought not, to accept that sentence or submit -to that fate!” said Alma, with gentle firmness. - -“Rash girl, what do you mean by that?” - -“I mean, mamma, that, though I may obey your hard commands while I am a -minor, even though obedience may destroy my life or reason, as it may, -but when I am free, mamma, as every one ought to be at some period of -their life, I must redeem my plighted troth by bestowing my hand upon -that Norham Montrose to whom even you acknowledge that you have no -personal objection whatever. This is all I mean, mamma.” - -“But in the interval you will meet him and converse with him often?” - -“No, mother, I will not seek to see him; I will even try to avoid him.” - -“But if he should throw himself in your way, or happen to meet you and -speak to you, you would answer him—you would converse with him?” - -“I wish I could promise you that I would not, mamma; but oh, I could not -keep such a promise, believe me I could not,” said Alma, convulsed with -sobs. - -“I do believe you; and that belief forces me at length to speak that -word—that word which must sever you at once and forever from him and -from all others—that word which may sink into your heart and corrode -your life until you are as bloodless as I am; or, that may kill you at -once—strike you down dead before me! Be it so; better you should die -than live to marry,” said the lady, rising and approaching her daughter, -while the grayness of death again overspread her pallid face. - -Alma, with a dreadful sickness of the heart, waited to hear some fatal -communication. - -Mrs. Elverton bent down and whispered in her ear. - -Alma sprang to her feet, gazed with dilated eyes and blanched cheeks in -bewildering despair upon her mother’s face, as though unable to receive -at once the full horror of her words, and then drew her hands wildly to -her head, reeled forward and fell senseless to the floor. - - - - - CHAPTER XXI. - THE TRIAL. - - Her veil was backward thrown; - Relieving tears refused to flow, - All drank by her great thirsty woe, - She seemed transformed to stone. - Save that at times her white lips quivered, - And her young limbs like aspen shivered, - And burst a low, sad moan!—_Nicholas Michell._ - - -And how did Eudora pass the few anxious days of imprisonment preceding -her trial? - -Oh, Heaven! how much the human heart may bear, and yet live on! Who can -compute the amount of sorrow, humiliation and terror that formed the -great weight of anguish that pressed her young heart almost to death? - -Deep, poignant grief for the loss of her nearest and dearest kindred; -burning shame at the infamous charge under which she suffered, and -shuddering horrors at the awful doom that darkly lowered over her. - -Either of these passionate emotions singly was enough to have crushed -her heart or crazed her brain. All of them at once she was fated to -endure. - -Often, as with closed eyes and laboring lungs she lay upon the narrow -bed of her prison-cell, she thought that her fainting heart must stop, -and her gasping breath cease forever. Often she hoped that they might. -And thus, indeed, her light of life might have been smothered beneath -its weight of anguish, but for the tender care of those few devoted -friends who cherished the dying flame. - -Malcolm Montrose, Counsellor Fenton, Mr. Anderson and Mrs. Barton, all -endeavored in every possible way to comfort, cheer, sustain and -strengthen Eudora. - -She was seldom left alone for half an hour during the day. - -The devoted love of her betrothed gave her consolation; the confident -manner of her advocate inspired her with hope; the zealous friendship of -the governor filled her with gratitude, and the constant attention of -her wardress left her little time for brooding melancholy. - -And thus passed the days that brought the fatal Monday for the opening -of the assizes. - -That Monday on which those assizes were held will long be remembered in -Abbeytown. - -The most intense interest was felt by people in all ranks of society, in -all parts of the country, in the approaching trial of a young, -beautiful, and high-born girl, for the atrocious crime of poisoning. - -All persons who could possibly leave their homes, came to Abbeytown to -abide during the holding of the assizes, for the purpose of being -present at the trial. - -As early as the Saturday previous, the hotels, lodging-houses, and even -private dwellings, began to fill with an ever-increasing crowd of -visitors. - -On Sunday the town was quite full. On Monday, though the multitude -continued to pour in, not one disengaged room or bed was to be procured -for love or money within its boundaries. - -Ingle, the young law-clerk that had come up from London in attendance -upon Mr. Fenton, declared that Abbeytown during these assizes, looked -like Epsom in the race week. - -Lord Chief Baron Elverton was on the circuit that year. - -About nine o’clock in the morning, the hour of the judges’ arrival -having been duly notified by telegraph, the high sheriff, with his -constabulary staff, proceeded to the railway station to meet and escort -their lordships to the town. - -They drove from the station to the Leaton Arms, where the best suites of -apartments had been pre-engaged for their accommodation, and where a -public breakfast awaited them. - -At about twelve at noon the whole party went in procession to the -court-house, and opened the commission. - -The whole of that afternoon was occupied with the preliminary business -of the session. - -The second day was employed in trying those common rural cases of -poaching, riot, and petty larceny that took precedence upon the docket -of the one great trial. These were all disposed of before the -adjournment of the court on Tuesday evening. - -And thus on Wednesday morning it was confidently expected that, as soon -as the court should meet, the case of the “Crown _vs._ Eudora Leaton,” -charged with poisoning, would be called. - -The same lawyers’ clerk, whose talents lay rather in drawing comparisons -than briefs, declared that if the town at the opening of the assizes -resembled Epsom in the race week, it now bore a striking likeness to -that famous little village on the Derby-day. - -Abbeytown was indeed full to repletion. Every house, every street, every -thoroughfare was crowded to suffocation. Every avenue approaching the -court-house was blocked up by carriages, horses, and foot-passengers. - -Every person seemed to have come with the wild idea of being able to -catch a glimpse of the notorious prisoner as she was conveyed from the -gaol to the court-house, or even with the mad hope of getting a seat in -the halls of justice to witness the trial. Of course most were -disappointed; for the narrow court-room could not comfortably -accommodate much more than one hundred souls, or, compactly crowded, -more than two hundred; though upon this particular occasion nearly three -hundred persons were said to have been squeezed between its four walls. -The aristocracy, gentry, and yeomanry of the country were represented -among the spectators that filled to suffocation that court-room. - -In one part of the hall, to the right of the bench, were assembled the -whole family from the Anchorage; for not only the Admiral, Sir Ira -Brunton, his nephew, the young lieutenant, his grand-daughter, Annella, -his guest, the Italian princess, but even his ancestresses, the two -ancient dames, were present, drawn thither by the intense interest of -the approaching trial. - -In the very deepest shadow of a corner behind this group stood apart a -tall man, whose form was enveloped in a long, dark cloak, and whose face -was shaded by a deep sombrero hat. - -At some little distance, sulky, silent and alone, stood Norham Montrose. - -And all there were so closely pressed in by the crowd, that they could -neither move, converse, nor scarcely breathe. The whole assembly seemed -so intensely anxious for the commencement of the trial, that they hardly -once removed their eyes from the door by which the prisoner was expected -to be brought into court. At half-past nine the judges appeared. - -As soon as the Lord Chief Baron Elverton and the associate judges took -their seats, the eyes of the whole assembly were directed towards the -bench. - -Indeed, the central figure there, the presiding judge, Lord Chief Baron -Elverton, was, by his imposing presence, no less than his august office -and his mysterious family history, calculated to attract and rivet -attention. - -He was now but sixty years of age, though looking seventy-five or -eighty. His once large, massive, and erect form was now bowed, shrunken -and emaciated: his fine, high, noble features were faded, sunken, and -sharpened; his once luxuriant auburn hair and beard were now thin and -white as snow; his countenance, though expressive of intellectual pride -and conscious power, was impressed with the ineffaceable marks of deep -suffering modified by patient benignity. - -But what was the nature of that suffering? Was it inconsolable sorrow -for some heavy misfortune earth could never repair? Or was it -inextinguishable remorse for some deep sin that Heaven could not pardon? - -No one ever knew, or even surmised. But, as the spectators looked upon -that care-worn face, they spoke together in whispers, of that strange, -terrible, unexplained episode in his family history; the sudden, fearful -midnight flight of his son; the total estrangement between himself and -his daughter-in-law, and the rigid seclusion of his young -grand-daughter; and, for the hundredth time, wondered whatever could be -at the bottom of those mysteries. For the moment, even the impending -trial was forgotten in this discussion of the family secrets of Lord -Elverton. - -But the attention of the assembly was soon recalled to its first -subject. - -The prisoner was ordered to be brought into court. - -And once more every eye was turned and fixed in unwinking vigilance upon -the door by which she was expected to enter. - -And all this eager curiosity in the crowd was only to see one poor, -frightened, trembling girl brought up to trial for life or death. - -They had not long to wait for their spectacle. - -The doors were thrown open, and the young prisoner was led in between -the deputy-sheriff and the female turnkey. - -The merciless gaze of those hundreds of eager eyes fell, not upon a bold -woman—a hardened criminal—but upon a young, slight, delicate girl, -dressed in black and deeply veiled, who advanced with trembling steps -and downcast eyes. - -Behind her walked Malcolm Montrose, whose haggard countenance betrayed -the agony of anxiety he suffered on her account. - -She was led up the length of the hall and let into the dock, where a -seat had been placed for her by some kind hand. - -At a sign from the sheriff, the wardress entered and took a place by her -side. - -Malcolm Montrose posted himself as near the dock as he could possibly -get. - -As Eudora dropped into her seat, her head sank upon her breast, her -hands fell upon her lap, and her whole form collapsed and shrank beneath -the oppressive gaze of that large assembly. - -Yet, if the poor girl could have looked up, she would have seen more -than one pair of eyes regarding her with an expression kinder than mere -curiosity; even those of the venerable judge were bent upon her in deep -compassion. - -But she dared not lift her head. - -She heard a murmur of voices, a stir of hands, a rustle of papers, and -then the voice of the clerk of arraigns, calling out: - -“Eudora Leaton!” - -She started as though she had received a blow, and instinctively threw -aside her veil. - -And the beautiful, pale, agonized young face was revealed to the whole -assembly. - -A murmur of compassion moved, breeze-like, through the hitherto pitiless -crowd, and a single half-suppressed cry was heard from the Anchorage -party. - -That cry came from Annella Wilder, who then for the first time -discovered the identity between her friend Miss Miller and the accused -Eudora Leaton. - -“Attend to the reading of the indictment,” continued the clerk, -addressing the prisoner. - -Eudora obeyed by lifting her frightened eyes to the cold, business-like -face of the speaker, who commenced reading the formidable document he -held in his hand, setting forth in successive counts how the prisoner, -Eudora Leaton, being impelled by satanic agency, with malice prepense, -at certain times and places therein specified, by the administration of -certain poisonous and deadly drugs, did feloniously procure and effect -the death of the Honorable Agatha Leaton, &c., &c., &c. - -“Prisoner at the bar, arise, and hold up your right hand,” ordered the -clerk, when the reading was finished. - -Eudora, pale, faint and trembling, obeyed. - -“Prisoner, you have heard the charge against you. Are you guilty or not -guilty of the felonies with which you are accused?” - -“Not guilty, as I shall answer at the last day before the awful bar of -God,” said Eudora, in a low, sweet, solemn voice, that thrilled through -the hearts of that whole assembly, as she sank again into her seat. - -The attorney-general, who had come down from London to prosecute this -most important case, now arose in his place, took the bill of indictment -from the clerk of arraigns, and proceeded to open the case on the part -of the Crown. - -He commenced by saving that his duty in the present instance was -extremely distressing in its nature, but, fortunately, simple in its -course; that the case he stood there to prosecute, dark as it was with -the deepest guilt, was yet so clearly illumined by the light of -evidence, that happily it need not occupy the court long; that whether -they considered the tender youth of the criminal, the cold-blooded -atrocity of the crime, or the high worth of the victims, this agonizing -case had no parallel in the long experience of the oldest barrister -living, or the whole history of criminal jurisprudence; that he need not -recall to memory the celebrated cases of Borgia, Essex, Brinvilliers, or -Lafarge to prove that youth, beauty, womanhood and high rank combined, -were not incompatible with deep guilt and dark crimes in their -possessors; that he did not mean to draw any comparison between the -female fiends he had named and the prisoner at the bar, for he should -soon prove Eudora Leaton had succeeded in reaching a much higher point -upon the “bad eminence” of criminal fame than had ever been attained by -Lafarge, Brinvilliers, Essex, or Borgia. - -“The prisoner,” he said, “of Indian parentage, was the only child of the -late Honorable Charles Leaton and his wife, Oolah Kalooh, of Lahore, -and, doubtless, she must have derived from her mother all those subtle, -secretive, and treacherous elements of character for which the East -Indian is noted, while she gained from her father all that rare, -dangerous, botanical knowledge of the deadly plants of the country, the -study of which had once been his favorite pastime, and the acquaintance -with which has been recently her most fatal medium of destruction. - -“By the death of her parents,” he continued, “she was left an orphan at -the early age of sixteen years. Her uncle, the late Lord Leaton, as soon -as he received intelligence of her condition, dispatched a special -messenger to India to bring her home to his own house. Upon her arrival, -he, as well as his whole family, received the orphan with the utmost -tenderness, placing her at once upon an equal footing with his own only -daughter and sole heiress.” - -“But how,” inquired the prosecutor, “has the benevolence, confidence, -and affection of this honored family been repaid by their cherished -_protégée_! They have been repaid by the blackest ingratitude, the -foulest treachery, the deepest guilt; they have been repaid with -death—the insidious, protracted, dreadful death of slow poison—poison -administered by her whom they received into the bosom of their family. - -“And what,” he asked, “tempted this young, beautiful, and high-born girl -to plunge herself into this deep Gehenna of guilt, misery, and infamy? - -“The basest motive that could influence human nature-the love of lucre! -She knew that, in the event of the death of Lord and Lady Leaton and -their daughter, _she_ must be the sole inheritor of the whole Leaton -estate; and for this inheritance she has perpetrated crimes unequalled -in atrocity by her most notorious predecessors of criminal celebrity. - -“She has sacrificed her nearest kindred in this world, and her dearests -interests in the next. She has destroyed those who sheltered her. Yes, -she whom they received into their homes and hearts, warmed at their -household fire, cherished with their bosom’s love, _she_ drugged their -daily food and drink with the deadliest poisons, until they wasted, -withered, and perished before her, as plants before the breath of the -death-blowing sirocco! - -“As under the action of this slow poison, one after another sank upon -the last couch of illness, _she_ it was who superseded every honest and -trustworthy attendant, and with deceitful zeal and deadly purpose, -hovered about the bed of death! - -“_Her_ hand it was that changed the heated billow, bathed the burning -brow, and then placed the poisoned cup to the parched lips that thanked -her for the cooling draught, and blessed her for her loving care! - -“_Her_ hand it was that wiped the death-dew from the fading forehead, -returned the last pressure of the failing fingers, and closed the -glazing eyes of the dead victim—dead by her deed. But they - - “‘Are in their graves, where she, - Their murderess, soon shall be.’ - -“For she has lost the game at which she staked her soul, and sits there -now to wait her doom. - -“Bowed down and crushed almost unto death is she? Aye, not by grief for -her sin, but for that ‘sin’s detection and despair.’ - -“Beautiful, is she? Aye! beautiful as all the fatal growths of her -native clime! beautiful as the spotted serpent of her jungles—as the -striped tigress of her forests—as the stately ignatia of her plains! - -“Thank Heaven, she is not a native of civilized and Christian Europe, -but of that deadly clime where the fierce heat of the sun draws from the -earth the most noxious plants, and developes in man and brute the most -ferocious passions—the land of the upas and the cobra—the land of Nena -Sahib! - -“But enough,” he concluded. He would not deal in invective, or seek to -exaggerate that guilt which no words of the prosecutor could magnify. He -had stated the facts of the case; he would now proceed to call witnesses -to prove them. - -This severe opening charge was felt by all to be no mere official -denunciation by the prosecutor, but the awful truth, as he himself -believed it to be, and finally succeeded in causing judge, jury, and -audience to accept it. - -Its effect upon the poor young prisoner was overwhelming. She drooped -still lower, and breathed from the depths of her wounded spirit— - -“Oh, Father, Thou, who knoweth all things, knowest that this is not true -of me; Thou who canst do all things, will yet deliver me from this -death!” - -But was she the greatest sufferer there! Ah, no! He who stood behind -her, hearing this terrible charge, without the power of contradicting -her accuser—seeing all eyes fixed in horror upon her without the -privilege of saying one word in her defence, and witnessing her distress -without the means of consoling it—suffered more, though he bore up -better than she did. - -Upon our simple family party from the Anchorage the effect of the -attorney-general’s opening address was very profound. - -“Dear, dear, dear!” sighed old Mrs. Stilton, whose simple mind received -every word uttered by that high dignitary as gospel truth, because how -could such a learned gentleman be mistaken? “Dear, dear, dear! what a -young devil she is to be sure!” - -“Yes—a real young Indian demon! a genuine little cobra-di-capello—an -infant Thug! They’ll be sure to hang her, that’s one comfort!” said the -admiral. - -“It is false! The attorney-general is no better than a licensed -slanderer! I hate him! and I wish _he_ was on trial!” cried Annella, -bursting into tears of rage and grief. - -But the clerk was calling the first witness for the Crown, and all eyes -and ears were directed to the words of that functionary. - -The evidence for the prosecution was essentially the same as that -elicited at the coroner’s inquest and at the magistrate’s investigation. -It need not be repeated in detail here. It is sufficient to say that the -first witnesses examined were the medical men who had assisted at the -autopsy of the dead bodies, and the analysis of the tamarind-water. -Their testimony clearly proved that the deceased had died from the -effects of ignatia, and that the fatal drug had been administered in -their drink. - -And the severest cross-examination of these witnesses by the counsel for -the prisoner only served the more strongly to confirm the facts, and the -more deeply to impress them upon the minds of the jury. - -“And thus,” said the counsel for the Crown, “the primary item in the -prosecution—to wit, that the deceased came to their death by poison—may -be considered as established. Our next care shall be to prove that this -poison was feloniously administered by the prisoner at the bar.” - -The witnesses examined upon this point were the household servants of -Allworth Abbey, who all testified to the facts that Miss Eudora Leaton -had been the constant attendant upon the sick-beds of the deceased; that -she had prepared all their food and drink, and especially the -tamarind-water, and that she was with Miss Agatha Leaton at the hour of -her sudden death. - -These witnesses were carefully cross-examined by Mr. Fenton, but, alas! -with no favorable result for his unhappy client! - -Finally, the police-officers who had executed the search-warrant for -examining the chamber of the prisoner, produced a small packet of -strange-looking grey berries, that they testified to having found hidden -in a secret drawer of her escritoire. - -The medical men were recalled, and identified these to be the deadly -_fabæ Sancti Ignatii_ of the East Indies, the same fatal poison which -had been discovered in the autopsy of the dead bodies and the analysis -of the tamarind-water. - -These were the last witnesses examined on the part of the prosecution. -And as it had happened before, the closest cross-examination by the -prisoner’s advocate only resulted in strengthening the testimony. - -“And now,” concluded the Queen’s counsel, “the second item in the -prosecution—namely, that the poison by which the deceased came to their -death was feloniously administered by the prisoner at the bar—may be -considered so clearly proved that we are contented here to rest the case -for the Crown.” - - - - - CHAPTER XXII. - THE CONVICTION. - - Thus on her doom to think, - Well may the dews of torture now - Hang bead-like on her straining brow, - Well may her spirit shrink. - ’Tis hard in youth to yield our breath; - To die in thought is double death, - Shivering on fate’s cold brink.—_Nicholas Michell._ - - -Mr. Fenton arose for the defence. He was much too wise to weaken his -cause by attempting to deny that which was undeniable. He therefore -resolved to waive the first, and to concentrate his forces upon the -overthrow of the second and vital point in the prosecution. - -He commenced by saying that he would admit the fact that the Leaton -family had perished by poison, but would totally deny that this poison -had been administered by his client. - -“Let the jury,” he said, “look upon Eudora Leaton, where she sits, -overwhelmed with her weight of woe! Observe how young, how delicate, how -sensitive she is. Can any one for an instant suppose that she, a young -girl of sixteen springs, a mere child in years, an infant still in law, -could have conceived, planned and executed so atrocious a crime as the -destruction of a whole family to clear the way for her own inheritance -of their estates! Such a supposition would be preposterous. - -“It can only be because, for the deep atrocity of this crime, the law -demands an instant victim, and no other is to be found, that this poor -child has been seized and offered here as a sacrifice to appease the -offended majesty of justice. And if in the end she is immolated, it will -be only as the pascal lamb, slain upon the altar of the temple for the -sins of others! - -“I will not,” he continued, “affect to disregard the meshes of -coincidence that envelop my most innocent client. - -“Like the poor lost dove, beaten down by the storm, and fallen into the -net of the fowler, she is involved in a coil of circumstances that may -prove to be her destruction, unless the just interpretation of an -intelligent jury intervene to save her from unmerited martyrdom. - -“But,” he continued, “I have a theory that I shall offer in explanation -of those circumstances, which I firmly believe must exonerate my client -in the mind of the jury and every just person present. - -“Before proceeding further, I will read a few extracts from the records -of the coroner’s inquest upon the case.” - -Here Counsellor Fenton took from the hands of his clerk certain -documents, from which he read aloud that part of the evidence given by -the late Lady Leaton, in which she testified to having seen the shadow -of a woman’s form upon the wall, and heard the rustle of a woman’s dress -along the floor of her husband’s chamber a few moments before he drank -the fatal sleeping-draught that stood upon the stand beside his bed on -the night of his death. - -Next the advocate turned to another part of the record, and read the -evidence given by the late Miss Leaton, in which she deposed that, at -the very time at which her mother heard the noise and saw the shadow in -her father’s room, Eudora was seated beside Agatha’s bed, engaged in the -vain effort to read the restless invalid to sleep. - -Finally, he referred to the record of the second coroner’s inquest, and -read the evidence given by Eudora Leaton, in which she testified that, -while watching by the bedside of her cousin, on the night of her death, -she fell into a light slumber, from which she was awakened by the -impression of some one moving about the room, and that at the moment of -opening her eyes, she saw a figure steal away through the door opening -into her own adjoining chamber; but that on following the figure, she -found the next room vacant, and therefore fancied that her half-awakened -senses had deceived her. - -“The evidence which I have just read,” continued Counsellor Fenton, as -he returned the documents to the hands of his clerk, “is so significant, -so important, so vital to the cause of justice, that, had it been -permitted to have its due influence with the coroner’s jury, no such -cruel suspicion could have fallen upon Eudora Leaton as that which has -placed her here on trial for her life. And now at least, when that -evidence shall be duly considered, it must entirely exonerate this most -innocent girl. From that evidence, gentlemen of the jury, I draw the -whole theory of this most mysterious chain of crime, and that theory I -would undertake to establish, as the only true one, to your perfect -satisfaction. - -“The whole Leaton family have perished by the hand of the poisoner. -True—alas! most horribly true! But who, then, is that poisoner? Who but -that nocturnal visitor, who had stolen like a fell assassin to the -chamber of Agatha Leaton, and while her watcher slumbered, put the -poison into her drink, and whose ill-boding form was seen by the -awakening watcher to steal away and disappear in the darkness? Who, but -that midnight intruder, who, in the temporary absence of Lady Leaton, -glided like an evil spirit to the bedside of Lord Leaton, and dropped -the deadly drug into his drink, and whose rustling raiment was heard by -Lady Leaton to sweep across the floor like the trailing wings of a -demon, and whose dark shadow was seen to glide swiftly along the wall -like its vanishing form? - -“But who was this fiend in human form. Not Eudora Leaton, whom the -testimony of the late Agatha Leaton proved to have been at that hour -engaged in another place. Who, then was it? Heaven only knows! But -whoever it might have been, it was one who, in resolving upon the -destruction of the whole Leaton family, had determined upon the death of -Eudora too! One, who in carrying out the fell purpose of extirpation, -while compassing the death of Lord and Lady Leaton and their daughter, -took measures to fix the crime upon Eudora Leaton for her ruin. The same -fiend who, in the midnight glided into the chamber of Agatha Leaton, and -infused the deadly ignatia into her cooling drink, in passing through -Eudora’s room, deposited the fatal drug in her drawers to fix this -suspicion upon her! It was a most diabolical plot, worthy only of the -accursed spirits of Tophet. - -“This,” he concluded, “was his theory of the murders, a theory that he -most fervently believed to be the true one—a theory that he most -earnestly entreated the jury to deeply consider before consigning a -young, lovely, and accomplished woman; a delicate, sensitive, refined -being; a most injured, most unhappy, yet most innocent maiden, to the -deep dishonor of a capital conviction, the unspeakable wretchedness of a -blighted name, and the horrible martyrdom of a public death!” - -The advocate sat down _really_, not professionally, overcome by his -emotions. - -The influence of this address upon the unhappy girl was very beneficial; -it inspired her with hope; it revived her sinking courage; it enabled -her to look up and breathe. - -The effect upon the spectators was seen by their changed expression. -They no longer regarded the poor young prisoner with looks of horror, -but with eyes full of compassion. But the effect upon our guileless -friends of the Anchorage was noteworthy. - -“Well, now, perhaps after all she did not do it, poor thing!” observed -the blunt admiral, whose convictions were shaken by Mr. Fenton’s -address. - -“Didn’t do it? Why, of course she didn’t do it!” exclaimed Mrs. Stilton, -who had been turned completely round by the advocate’s speech; “it’s -certain she didn’t do it. Haven’t you just heard the nice gentleman in -the gown and wig explain how it was all a plot against her, poor dear, -motherless child? It’s my belief as the attorney-general was in it; and -it’s my hopes he’ll be found out and punished. I don’t believe the good -Queen knew anything about it, as forward as they are using her name in -the dockerments.” - -“I love that dear, darling old Lawyer Fenton. Oh, how I do love him for -his defence of poor Eudora! Yes, I do, Cousin Vally, and so you needn’t -bite your underlip and frown. I do love him, and if he was to ask me to -have him, I’d marry him to-morrow!” exclaimed Annella, to the annoyance -of Mr. Valorous Brightwell, who could not see any reason for such -enthusiastic gratitude. - -But the clerk of arraigns was summoning witnesses for the defence, and -the attention of the spectators was immediately attracted. - -These witnesses were some of the household servants of Allworth Abbey, -and some of the friends and neighbors of the Leaton family, who being in -turn called and sworn, testified to the integrity and amiability of the -prisoner, and the confidence and affection that existed between her and -the deceased. - -And with the examination of the last witness, the defence closed. - -Alas! how weak it was, although the best that could be offered. To the -attorney-general, indeed, the defence appeared so weak and so unlikely -to influence in any way the decision of the jury, that he waived his -right to reply upon the evidence adduced by the counsel for the -prisoner, and left the case in the hands of the judge. - -The Lord Chief Baron Elverton rose to sum up the evidence on each side, -and to charge the jury. - -Every eye was now turned upon the noble, grave, and grief-worn face of -the venerable judge, and every ear was strained to catch the words of -his address, for every soul believed that from the spirit of his speech -the jury would take its opinions, and the young prisoner receive her -fate. - -“Gentlemen of the jury,” began his lordship, “you have heard the charge -brought against the prisoner at the bar. You have heard that charge ably -expounded by the learned counsel for the Crown, and strongly supported -by the witnesses he called. You have also heard the same eloquently -repudiated by the distinguished advocate for the prisoner, and somewhat -affected by the evidence he has presented. - -“On the one hand, the case against the prisoner, as made out by the -prosecution, is strong, very strong, but it is only circumstantial, and -may well be fallacious. On the other hand, the explanation of those -circumstances, as offered by the defence, are plausible, extremely -plausible, and may easily be true; and I feel it my duty to recommend -this explanation to the most serious attention of the jury. - -“Of the guilt or innocence of this young girl, none but the Omniscient -can judge with infallibility; but in all cases of uncertainty it is the -duty of Christian jurors, as it is the spirit of civilized law, to favor -the acquittal of the prisoner. Such doubtful cases are most frequently -found among those sustained solely by circumstantial evidence. - -“Now, circumstantial evidence is not positive testimony—far from it. -Witness the recent case of Eliza Fenning, an innocent woman, convicted -by an English jury upon circumstantial evidence, but whose innocence was -not discovered until after her execution, when it was too late to repair -the dreadful error—when no power on earth could restore the life that -the law had unjustly taken. - -“One such judicial murder as that should be a warning to English juries, -through all future time, never, except upon the most unquestionable -proof, to assume the awful responsibility of pronouncing upon a -fellow-creature’s guilt, or taking that sacred life which no earthly -power ever can give back. Better that some guilty homicides should be -left to the sure retribution of God than that one innocent person should -be consigned to the unmerited ignominy of a capital conviction and a -shameful death. - -“If, from the evidence before you, you feel assured of the prisoner’s -guilt, it is your duty to convict her; but if any—the least degree of -uncertainty disturb your judgment—it is your duty to acquit her. English -law recognizes no such middle course as that taken by the jury in -rendering their verdict in the celebrated case of Madeleine Smith. If -the charge is considered ‘not proved,’ the prisoner is entitled to a -full acquittal.” - -And, finally praying that their counsels might be directed by Omniscient -wisdom, he dismissed them to the deliberation upon their verdict. - -The venerable chief baron resumed his seat, and the bailiffs conducted -the jury from the court-room. - -The spectators breathed freely again. His lordship certainly favored the -prisoner. And if ever the charge of a judge could sway the minds of a -jury, those twelve men must certainly bring in a verdict of acquittal. - -“All will be well, dearest Eudora. The judge believes you innocent,” -whispered Malcolm to the prisoner. - -“All is in the hands of God,” breathed the poor, pale girl, in a dying -voice, for her very life seemed ebbing away under the high pressure of -this terrible trial. - -In other parts of the crowded court-room the charge of the judge was not -quite so highly approved. - -“Ah! Oh? Umph! The most one-sided charge I ever heard in all the days of -my life,” exclaimed Sir Ira Brunton, indignantly, wiping his flushed -forehead as if he himself had just made a long speech. “It actually -forestalls the verdict of the jury; it positively amounts to an -acquittal. It is the most unjust, barefaced, abominable abuse of office -I ever knew in my life. The man is unfit to sit upon the bench. He -should be impeached. He must be getting into his dotage.” - -“Lor! Do you think so? Why I thought it was an excellent discourse—as -good as a sermon. And as for being in his dotage, why how you do talk, -boy. He is younger than you,” said old Mrs. Stilton. - -“God bless Lord Elverton,” exclaimed Annella, fervently; “and when he -himself shall appear at the last judgment-bar, may God judge him as -mercifully as he has judged that poor girl.” - -“You know nothing of the matter, Miss!” exclaimed the admiral, angrily. -“But hush! I do believe the jury are coming in. What a little time they -have taken. But oh, of course their going out was only a form, since the -charge of the judge was tantamount to an instruction to bring in a -verdict of acquittal.” - -The jury, marshaled by the bailiffs, were already in court. All eyes -were immediately turned in eager anxiety towards them, to read, if -possible, in their expression the nature of the verdict they were about -to render. - -The faces of those twelve men were pale, stern, and downcast. It seemed -ominous to the prisoner, and every eye was instantly directed towards -her to observe the effect of all this upon her manner. - -Eudora, no longer conscious of the hundreds of eyes fixed upon her, had -half risen from her seat, thrown her veil quite back, and bent her white -face towards the jury, in an agony of suspense, terrible to behold. The -hand which, in rising, she had rested upon the side of the dock, was -firmly grasped by Malcolm, who stood with his eyes fixed upon the face -of the foreman in fierce anxiety. There was a breathless pause. And then -the clerk of the arraigns arose, and demanded of the foreman of the jury -whether they had agreed upon their verdict. - -The foreman, a tall, fair, sensitive-looking man, hesitated for a -moment, and his voice faltered, as he replied: - -“We have.” - -The order given to the prisoner and the jury to confront each other was -quite superfluous as regarded Eudora, who had never taken her wild, -affrighted gaze for an instant from the faces of those who held her fate -in their hands. - -But to those twelve men who had young sisters, wives, or daughters of -their own, it was a severe ordeal to gaze upon the white, agonized face -of that poor child whose doom they were about to pronounce. - -The momentous question was then put by the clerk: - -“Do you find the prisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the crime -for which she has been indicted?” - -“GUILTY.” - -A low, wailing cry, like the last quivering note of a broken -harp-string, burst from the pale lips of the prisoner, as she fell back -in her seat and covered her face with her hands. - -Malcolm, with a groan that seemed to burst his heart, leaned towards her -in helpless, speechless anguish. - -The low sound of sobbing was heard throughout the hall among the women -present. - -All wished to end the torture of this scene. - -At a sign from the judge, the crier called out for silence, and the -clerk ordered the prisoner to stand up and receive the sentence of the -court. - -Eudora attempted to rise, but her limbs failed, and she sank powerless -back into her seat. - -“Help her—lift her up,” said an officer to the female turnkey that sat -beside Eudora. - -“Try to stand, my poor, poor child,” said the good woman, putting her -arms around the waist of the wretched girl, and raising her to her feet, -where she stood leaning for support against the shoulder of Mrs. Barton. - -And then amid the awful stillness of the hall, the venerable chief baron -arose to pronounce the doom of death. His fine face, usually so pale and -woe-worn, was now convulsed with an anguish even greater than the -terrible occasion seemed to warrant. He appeared to be incapable of -uttering more than the few frightful words that doomed the body of that -poor, shrinking, fainting girl to “hang by the neck until she should be -dead,” and commended her soul to the mercy of that Being who alone could -help her in this her utmost extremity. - -Everyone looked to see how that young, delicate, sensitive creature -would bear this cruel sentence. Ah! Eudora had not heard one syllable of -all those awful words. The utter fainting of her heart, the sudden -failing of her senses, the swift ebbing away of all her life-forces, -saved her from that last torture. - -And when the order was given that the prisoner should be removed from -the court, the weeping woman who supported her, answered: - -“My lord, she has fainted.” - -And in this state of insensibility, Eudora was conveyed from the court -to the prison, and laid upon the iron bedstead of the condemned cell. - -As the lord chief baron was leaving the court-house that night, a -dark-robed woman plucked at his cloak. - -“You have this day condemned an innocent girl to death!” hissed the -stranger, close to his ear. - -“I believe it,” groaned Lord Elverton. - -“It is another consequence of—” - -“I know—I know!” interrupted his lordship. - -“Nor will it be the last result—” - -“Woman! demon! say no more! The end of these things is not here!” cried -the chief baron, hastily escaping into his carriage, which immediately -drove off to the Leaton Arms. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIII. - THE CONDEMNED. - - Condemned to death—Oh! dread - The thoughts of coming suffering—there - The scaffold stands in morning’s air, - Crowds wave-like round her spread, - Their eyes upraised to see her die, - No heart to breathe a pitying sigh— - The prison stones her bed.—_Michell._ - - -Malcolm Montrose, nearly maddened by despair, threw himself into a -carriage, and drove swiftly after the prison van in which Eudora was -taken back to gaol. - -He was met at the prison entrance by the warden, of whom he urgently -demanded: - -“Where is she? How is she? Has she recovered her consciousness? Oh, -Anderson! let me go to her at once!” - -“Mr. Montrose, I am very sorry for you, and my heart bleeds for her; but -I must do my duty, and tell you that you cannot see her,” said the -warden, sorrowfully. - -“Why, how is this?” groaned Malcolm. - -“Ah, sir! all is changed when a prisoner is condemned to death. The -rules that govern us in taking care of them are very strict. From the -moment sentence is passed they are cut off from the living, as one may -say, and have no more to do on this earth but to use the few days left -to prepare for death!” said the warden, with a heavy sigh. - -“Great Heaven! Anderson, do you mean to say that no friend may go to her -to try to alleviate her sufferings through this horrible calamity?” - -“Sir, the gaol chaplain will visit her. Two female turnkeys will always -be with her; and by applying to the sheriff, you may obtain an order to -see her, though even then only in the presence of others.” - -“Oh, Eudora! Eudora! has it come to this! Oh, God! what a world of chaos -and horror is this, in which the innocent are sacrificed and the guilty -are triumphant!” cried Malcolm distractedly. - -“But there is another world, Mr. Montrose, in which the ways of God -shall be justified to man,” said the warden, solemnly. - -“Aye, there _is_ another! and thank God that this life which leads to it -is short! A few more years of this mystery of iniquity—this whirling -confusion in which truth is lost and good trampled to dust by evil, and -each sinner’s or sufferer’s share in the madness of life will be over -forever! Would to God it were over with that poor, sweet victim even -now! Oh, would that she might never have waked again to consciousness of -suffering here!” exclaimed Malcolm with impassionate earnestness. - -“Mr. Montrose, you are dreadfully agitated. Pray come into my apartment -and sit down, and try to compose yourself, while I go to the cell to see -how she is doing and bring you word,” advised the warden, opening a -side-door, and admitting his visitor into the office. - -Malcolm paced up and down the floor with disordered steps until the -return of the warden from his errand. - -“Well, sir, how is she?” he hurriedly inquired as Mr. Anderson entered. - -“Lying still in a deep swoon,” replied the warden. - -“Thank Heaven! every hour of that swoon is a respite from anguish! Oh, -that while she is in it her spirit may pass peacefully away to Heaven! -Who is with her?” - -“Mrs. Barton and my wife. They are doing all that they possibly can for -her relief, and believe me Mr. Montrose, every care and comfort shall be -given her that her unhappy condition and our painful duty will permit. I -would do as much, sir, for the poorest and most friendless stranger that -might be committed to my charge, to say nothing of the daughter of the -noblest man I ever saw and the best friend I ever had,” said the warden, -earnestly. - -“I am sure you would. And—I hope you do not believe her guilty?” - -The warden winced. Since the disclosures of the trial his faith in the -innocence of Eudora was much shaken. He would gladly have evaded the -inquiry, but as the looks of Malcolm were still eagerly questioning him, -he was obliged to answer: - -“I do not know what to believe, sir. As the daughter of her father, I -should say she could not be, sir; but then her mother was an -East-Indian, and no one knows what venom, might have mixed with the good -old Leaton blood in crossing it with _that_ breed.” - -“That is enough! You cannot help believing what all the world, except a -very few, believe. Oh, Heaven! my poor Eudora, that even your dead -mother’s race should rise up in evidence against you! But we must be -patient; aye, patient until the very judgment-day, when all shall be -made clear! Would to God that it were to-morrow! Where can the sheriff -be found this evening, that I may go to him at once to get that order -you spoke of?” - -“He is in the village now, staying at the Leaton Arms. But, Mr. -Montrose, you cannot in any case see Miss Leaton before to-morrow -morning, for the hour for closing has already arrived, and it is against -the rules to open to anyone.” - -Deep grief is never irritable, else Malcolm might have uttered an -imprecation on the rules, instead of asking, with quiet despair: - -“How early in the morning may I be admitted?” - -“With the sheriff’s order, at any time after nine.” - -With this answer Malcolm bowed, and again earnestly commending Eudora to -the care of the warden, took his leave. - -He first went and secured the order from the sheriff, and then sought -out Mr. Fenton, who was staying at the same over-crowded inn. He found -the unsuccessful advocate in deep despondency. They shook hands -silently, like friends meeting at a funeral, and the lawyer began to -say: - -“I did all that man and the law could do to save her, but—” His voice -broke down and he could say no more. - -“I know you did,” moaned Malcolm. - -“The evidence was too strong for us—” - -“But not too strong for your faith in her.” - -“No, no; I am an old practitioner with a long experience among -criminals, and I could stake my salvation that that child is not -guilty—” - -“Despite her East-Indian blood?” - -“Yes; and, if there were time, something might even yet be done to save -her—” - -“Fenton!” exclaimed Malcolm, starting forward and gazing with breathless -eagerness, in the lawyer’s face. - -“I mean, though the detectives we have hitherto employed have failed to -discover the least clue to this hideous mystery, yet if there were more -time, we might engage others who might be more successful.” - -“More time! Oh, God! When is the day of her—martyrdom ordered?” - -“This day, fortnight, I understand.” - -Malcolm recoiled and sank into his seat. There was silence between them -for a few minutes, and then Malcolm suddenly exclaimed: - -“Fenton, I know it is a desperate chance, but I cannot bear to have her -perish without another effort. Draw up a petition for a respite, and -after I have seen her to-morrow, I will myself take it up to town, and -lay it before the Home Secretary.” - -“I will do so, and get as many signatures as I can in the meanwhile,” -replied the lawyer, feeling a sense of relief at the thought of doing -anything, however hopelessly, for his unhappy client; and knowing -besides, that if it did Eudora no good, it might help to console Malcolm -with the thought that nothing had been left untried to save her. - -They talked over the terms of the petition, and then Malcolm, leaving -the lawyer to draw up the document, took his departure. - -Loathing the thought of rest while Eudora lay in the condemned cell, he -bent his steps towards the prison, and spent the night in walking up and -down before the walls that confined the unhappy girl. - -Meanwhile Eudora lay extended on the iron bed of the condemned cell. She -was still in a deep swoon; her form was rigid, her features livid, her -pulse still. - -The two watchers, while conscientiously doing all they could to restore -her sensibilities, silently hoped that she might never more awake to -suffering, but that her soul might pass in that insensibility. During -that long, deep trance, her spirit must have wandered far back over -leagues of space, and years of time to the beautiful land of her birth, -and the days of her childhood, for when at dawn of morning she recovered -her senses, she looked around her with eyes full of the innocent, soft -light of girlhood, modified only by a slight surprise. - -“What place is this? Where am I?” those eyes seemed to inquire, as she -gently raised herself on her elbow to examine the cell. - -The watchers were silent from awe and pity; but the narrow stone walls, -the iron door, the grated window, sternly though mutely answered the -questioning gaze. - -And as the truth slowly grew upon her memory, her face changed from its -look of girlish curiosity to one of terror and anguish, and with a -piercing cry, she fell back upon the pillow, and covered her eyes with -her hands. - -The kind women that filled to her the double office of warders and -attendants, took her hands from her face, and began to address her with -words of sympathy; but what words of theirs had power to reach her -heart, snatched far away from ordinary human comprehension as she was by -her great woe! - -She never answered, or even seemed to hear them. After the first sharp -cry that marked her returning consciousness, she lay in silent anguish. - -And so the hours of the morning crept slowly on until the rising -sunbeams glanced into the cell. Then the two weary watchers were -relieved by Mrs. Barton, who came in and sent them to take some rest, -while she herself remained to put the cell in order, and assist the -nearly dying girl to get on her clothes. - -“Come, my poor dear, it is better for you to try to rouse yourself a -little. Rise up and bathe your face in this nice cool water, and then -dress yourself, for some of your friends will be getting an order from -the sheriff to come and see you, they will, and you should be ready to -receive them,” said Mrs. Barton, as she poured the water into the basin, -and took the hand of Eudora to assist her to rise. - -In mute despair the poor girl suffered herself to be guided. Silently -she followed all Mrs. Barton’s directions. - -“Come, come, don’t give up so; while there’s life there’s hope; and I -myself have known more nor one person pardoned or commuted after they’ve -been condemned to death,” continued the good woman, trying to comfort -the prisoner while assisting at her toilet. - -But the shuddering young creature seemed incapable of reply. - -“Oh, dear, dear! what can I say to you? Can’t you still trust in God?” -sighed the woman. - -No, Eudora could not. Innocent, yet condemned, she felt her faith in God -and man utterly fail; and lacking this support in her hour of extremity, -she sank beneath her weight of affliction; and as soon as she was -dressed and out of the hands of Mrs. Barton, she fell again upon the -bed, and buried her head in the pillow. - -Her breakfast was brought her by another turnkey, and Mrs. Barton took -it from his hand and set it on the little table, while she entreated the -prisoner to rise up and try to partake of it. And Eudora, in the perfect -docility of her spirit, sat up on the side of the bed, and took the cup -of coffee in her hand and attempted to drink it, but in vain; and then, -with a deprecating look she handed the cup back to Mrs. Barton, and sank -down upon the bed. The good woman saw that she could not swallow, and so -she sent the untasted breakfast away. - -A few minutes after this, Malcolm Montrose, attended by the governor of -the gaol, came to the cell. Mr. Anderson left him at the door, and -retired to a short distance in the lobby. - -Malcolm had forced himself into a state of composure, and nothing but -the deadly paleness of his face betrayed his inward anguish. - -When he entered the cell Eudora was still lying on the outside of the -bed, with her face buried in the pillow, while the female turnkey stood -by her side. - -“How is she?” breathed the visitor, in the hushed tones of deep woe. - -“Oh, sir, she has not uttered one word, or swallowed one morsel since -her conviction. Speak to her, sir; perhaps she will answer you,” said -Mrs. Barton. - -“Do _you_ speak to her; tell her that I am here,” requested Malcolm, in -a faltering voice, as he struggled to retain an outward composure. - -The woman bent over the stricken girl, and whispered: - -“Miss Leaton, dear, here is your cousin, Mr. Montrose, come to see you. -Won’t you turn and look at him?” - -The name of Malcolm broke the spell of dumb despair that bound her. -Starting up, she caught the hands of her cousin in both her own, and -gazing in an agony of supplication in his face, she exclaimed: - -“Oh, Malcolm, save me from this fate! No one will save me unless you -do!” - -He dropped upon his knees beside the bed, and bowed his head upon her -clinging hands, and answered, in a broken voice: - -“Eudora, all that man can do shall be done to save you! I would pour out -my heart’s best blood to deliver you.” - -“Malcolm,” she exclaimed, still clinging to his hands as the drowning -cling to the last plank, and gazing down on his bowed face, with her -eyes dilated and blazing between wild terror and mad hope, “Malcolm, I -did not do what they say I must die for! you _know_ I did not! Oh, -surely there must be some way to prove it—some way that you can find -out! Oh, Malcolm! try—try hard to save me from this fate! Oh! do not -think that I am a coward, Malcolm! It is not death I fear. I should not -dread dying in my bed with some devoted friend beside me, as sweet -Agatha died! But to be hung! to die a violent, struggling, shameful -death, with all the people looking at me!—oh! for Heaven’s sake, -Malcolm, save me from such maddening horror!” - -“Eudora! child! love! it is not necessary for you to urge me so -earnestly. I would give my body to be burned if that would save you! and -all that human power can accomplish shall be tried to deliver you. I -have not been idle since your conviction. Already I have set on foot a -scheme by which I hope to serve you!” replied Malcolm. - -“Oh, Malcolm, devoted friend, before you came in I feared that even God -had forsaken me, but now I do not think so. Your plan, dear friend, what -is it?” - -Mr. Montrose had not intended to tell her of his mission to London, lest -he should only raise false hopes; but it was not possible to behold her -agonizing terror of pain and shame, or hear her earnest appeals for -comfort and deliverance, without immediately responding and yielding her -hope. - -“I have a petition drawn up, praying the Crown to respite you during her -Majesty’s pleasure; I shall take the petition to London and lay it -before the Home Secretary. If he favors it, as I hope, and trust, and -believe he will, it will give us time to investigate this dark mystery, -discover the criminal and deliver you.” - -“Oh, Malcolm, do you think he will?” cried Eudora, with clasped hands. - -“I shall know, dearest, in twenty-four hours. I shall take the first -train, to London, that starts at ten o’clock. I came here to see you -before setting out, and to implore you to trust in God, to pray to him, -and to keep up your spirits until I return.” - -“Will you be gone long?” asked Eudora, still clinging to his hands. - -“Two or three days perhaps; but I will write to you by every mail, and -telegraph you the moment I get a favorable answer.” - -“Oh, may God speed your errand!” she exclaimed, fervently clasping her -hands. - -“Amen. And now, dear one, I have but twenty minutes to catch the train. -Eudora, in parting with you for a short time, I would recommend you to -see the chaplain of the prison. He is a truly righteous man, and his -conversation will do you good.” - -“I will see him, if only to please you,” she answered. - -“And, now, dear one, good-bye for the present, and may the Father of the -fatherless, and the God of the innocent, watch over you!” said Malcolm, -lifting her hands to his lips with reverential tenderness before leaving -the cell. - -Half an hour later Malcolm, with the petition in his pocket, was -steaming onward in the express train for London. - -It was soon known throughout the town that Mr. Montrose had gone to the -city with a memorial to the Crown for a respite or commutation of Eudora -Leaton’s sentence; but not one human being that discussed the subject -believed for one instant that his desperate enterprise could possibly be -successful. - -The chaplain of the gaol was the Reverend William Goodall, a grave, -gentle, sympathetic young man, who greatly feared that the youthful -prisoner was really guilty, and earnestly desired to bring her into a -state of hopeful penitence. - -With this view, early in the afternoon, he visited Eudora in her cell, -and sought by every argument to counteract the effect of that false hope -which had been raised in her breast, and which he firmly believed was -the only thing that withheld her from repentance and confession. - -But to all his exhortations the unhappy girl responded: - -“Oh, sir, this one little hope is the only vital nerve that quivers in -my bosom; kill it, and you destroy me, even before the appointed -death-day! Oh, Mr. Goodall, leave me this little hope!” - -“But, my poor child,” said the young minister, gazing with the deepest -compassion upon the almost infantile face of the girl, “it is false, -delusive expectation, that is luring you on to certain and everlasting -destruction of soul as well as body, by keeping you from that full -confession and repentance which is your only chance of salvation.” - -“But it does not, Mr. Goodall. I have nothing to confess or repent; at -least, nothing but my common share in erring human nature; and for -redemption from that I have been taught to trust in God’s mercy through -our Saviour.” - -The young minister groaned in spirit as he replied: - -“But, poor, blind child, while you keep a guilty secret in your breast, -that mercy cannot reach you; and while a single hope of life is left you -here, you will not part with that secret. Abandon all such delusive -hopes, Eudora; confess, repent, and cherish these heavenly hopes of -pardon and redemption that never yet deceived a penitent sinner.” - -“It is useless for us to talk longer, I fear; we speak only at -cross-purposes. You believe me guilty, and urge me to abandon all the -expectations of mercy in this world, and to confess crimes that I never -committed; while I know that I am innocent, and upon that knowledge -found all my anticipations of deliverance. I am sorry that we cannot -agree; for I do need religious consolation and support, but it must be -administered by one who is a sufficiently subtle ‘discerner of spirits’ -to recognize the truth when I speak it,” said Eudora, with gentle -dignity. - -The young minister drove his fingers through his dark hair, and gathered -his brows into a deep frown, not of anger, but of intense perplexity; -for the clear, unflinching gaze of her eyes, the calm, unwavering tones -of her voice, and the keen and powerful aura of truth that seemed to -emanate from her whole presence shook his convictions of her guilt. He -felt the necessity of withdrawing from this disturbing influence in -order to examine his own conscience. Rising, he took her hand, and said: - -“My poor child, I will leave you for the present; but I shall not cease -to bear you upon my heart to the Throne of Grace, and I will come to you -again in the evening.” - -And then he left the cell. - -Eudora clung to her little hope as the young cling to life. She had -called it the only vital nerve that quivered in her bosom. Yet it would -be scarcely true to say that she was the happier for it. - -The days of Malcolm’s absence were passed by her in a high fever of -suspense. By every mail she received letters from him assuring her of -his undying devotion and zealous efforts in her behalf, and entreating -her still to pray and to trust. - -The chaplain also kept his word, and visited her frequently, still -exhorting her, with tearful earnestness, to resign all expectations of -earthly life, and to turn her thoughts towards heaven. But still Eudora -clung with death-like tenacity to her hopes of deliverance. - -“You think that I am sinking fast in this stormy sea of trouble that -threatens to overwhelm me, and you ask me to let go the slender plank -that keeps me up, and to resign myself to death—but I will not! I will -cling to this plank of life! I will not let it go! I will grasp it—I -will possess it—it shall save me!” was still Eudora’s answer to all the -young minister’s fervent exhortations. - -“Ah, well! I see it is in vain to reason with you in your present mood -of mind. You still insanely hope against hope. But when Mr. Montrose -returns without the respite you expect, and you feel that your fate in -this world is sealed, when death stares you in the face, you will listen -to my counsels, disburden your bosom of its guilty secret, and give your -soul to repentance,” was ever the minister’s final reply when he -concluded each visit. - -Alas! these interviews were productive of little satisfaction to either -party. - -Eudora could derive no comfort from the conversation of even a good -minister, who founded all his exhortations upon the mistaken theory of -her guilt; and Mr. Goodall almost despaired of benefitting one whom he -considered an obstinate sinner, wickedly refusing to confess and repent. - -But as the weary days passed, Eudora felt more keenly the protracted -anguish of suspense, and the increasing difficulty of holding fast the -little hope that sustained her; for, although Malcolm continued to write -to her by every mail, and in every letter endeavored to keep up her -courage, yet he gave her no definite information. His stay was -protracted from day to day, as though he were engaged in prosecuting an -almost desperate enterprise which he was resolved to accomplish. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIV. - DESPAIR. - - She looked how pallid there! - Not starting, sighing, weeping now; - The quiet anguish of her brow - Was written by Despair. - Ah me! despite a governed breast, - Seeming the while in placid rest, - What anguish soul may bear!—_Michell._ - - -When Malcolm had been gone a week, and Eudora’s life was almost worn out -by the long-drawn anguish of hope deferred, she was sitting in the -morning in her cell, in danger of dropping once more into the death-like -torpor of despair, when the door was opened by the governor, who -announced: - -“A friend to see Miss Leaton,” and retired. - -Eudora sprang forward, expecting to meet Malcolm Montrose, but she found -herself confronted with a stranger—a very young, slight, graceful girl, -dressed in simple but elegant mourning, and deeply veiled; and even when -the stranger threw aside her veil Eudora failed to recognize in this -elegantly-dressed young lady Annella Wilder, the tipsy captain’s -half-starved daughter, whom she had befriended in the poor London -lodgings. - -“You do not know me, Miss Miller—I mean Miss Leaton—and I—oh!” began -Annella, but losing her self-command, she burst into tears, and threw -herself in the arms of Eudora, who, weakened by long, intense suffering, -sat down in her chair, and would have drawn the girl to her bosom, but -Annella sank to the floor, and dropped her head on Eudora’s lap, sobbing -violently. - -Miss Leaton could not understand this excessive emotion. She recollected -Annella’s unfortunate barrack education, her utter destitution after her -father’s death, and her wild flight from London; and seeing now the -costliness of her attire, and being totally ignorant of the change in -her circumstances, the mind of Eudora was filled with the darkest fears -for Annella. But if she should find that this young, friendless, and -inexperienced girl had really come to grief, Eudora resolved to befriend -her as far as possible by interesting the noble-hearted Malcolm in her -fate to save her from irremediable ruin. While these thoughts coursed -through the young prisoner’s mind, she gently untied her visitor’s -bonnet and laid it on the bed, and softly caressed the bowed head, while -she inquired, in a low voice: - -“What is the matter, dear Annella? I am not so utterly bewildered by my -own woe but that I may be able to comfort you. Tell me what trouble you -are in, and if I cannot help you very long myself, because I may have to -die next Wednesday, I can leave you to one who will be a brother to you -for my sake.” - -“Oh, Miss Leaton, Miss Leaton, say no more! Every word you speak goes -through my heart like a spear!” cried Annella, breaking into harder -sobs. - -“No, no, don’t say so! I wish only to do you good. Tell me the nature of -the difficulty you are in,” said Eudora, gently caressing the weeping -girl. - -“Oh! I am in no difficulty myself; it is all right enough with me -personally, and far better than I deserve, Heaven forgive me! And even -if it were not, how could I think of my good-for-nothing self while you -are in such terrible straits!” cried Annella, wildly sobbing. - -“Then do not weep for me, kind girl; it can do no good, you see.” - -“Oh, but you don’t know how much reason I have to weep—yes, tears of -blood, Eudora; for it was I that did it! I! I!” - -“_You!_—did what?” asked Eudora, in astonishment. - -“Betrayed you, as Judas did his master, wretch that I am! I wish I was -hung!” cried Annella, amid choking sobs. - -“You?—betrayed me? I do not understand you in the least.” - -“I set the police on your track, mean scamp, that I am! I told them -where to find you! I gave you up! Oh! if there is any marrying down -below, they ought to wed me to Judas Iscariot!” - -“But—how could you have known that I was Eudora Leaton of whom they were -in pursuit?” inquired the deeply-shocked girl. - -“I _didn’t_ know it! I was not so irredeemably bad as _that_ either! -Perhaps even Judas did not know all the evil he was doing when he -betrayed his Master. If I had known it I would have bit my own tongue -off rather than told it. But I had to chatter about you and describe -you, and tell all I knew of you, until I raised suspicion, and they went -and arrested you; and that was the return you got for your kindness to -me! Oh, I wish somebody would strangle me, for I am too wicked and -unlucky to live!” exclaimed Annella, with streaming tears and -suffocating gasps. - -“But, poor girl, if you did not know what you were doing you have -nothing to reproach yourself with,” said Eudora, kindly stroking her -bowed hair; for all this time Annella’s head lay in the lap of the -prisoner. - -“Yes, yes, I have; conscience is the true judge, and it assures me that -ignorance is no excuse; and that instinct should have taught me silence. -I came here to confess this to you, Miss Leaton; to let you know how -wicked I have been; but not to ask you to pardon me. I do not want you -to do that; I do not wish even the Lord to do it—I would much rather be -punished,” exclaimed Annella, hysterically. - -“Dear girl, do not talk so wildly. You have done nothing to require -pardon. If you were unconsciously the means of my arrest, it was not -your fault.” - -“But if you should perish, I should feel as if I were your murderer. But -you shall not perish! I hear that Mr. Montrose is in London, petitioning -the Crown for a respite. I hope he will succeed; but even if he should -not, mind, Miss Leaton, you shall not perish! I swear it before High -Heaven!” exclaimed Annella, wiping her eyes, and looking up. - -“You must believe me innocent, or you would never speak with such -confidence.” - -“Believe! I _know_ you are; and if everyone else fails, _I_ will save -you—I _will_, if I die for it! I pledge my soul’s salvation to that!” - -“Alas! poor child, look at these thick walls and heavy locks; how could -you help me?” - -“I do not know yet _how_, but I _do_ know that I _will_ somehow!—as the -Lord hears me, I will!” - -“I take the disposition for the deed, and thank you as much as if you -were able to keep your word; and above all, I bless you that you do me -the justice to believe me guiltless. Ah, dear girl, I have been so -tortured by the chaplain of this prison, who thinks me guilty, and urges -me to confess. It is so distressing to be thought such a monster by so -good a man.” - -“Good, is he, and yet believes you guilty? Then he does not know a white -dove from a black crow, which is tantamount to saying that his reverence -is a fool, begging his pardon. But indeed most of the good people I know -_are_ fools. It seems as if nature were so impartial in the distribution -of her gifts, that she seldom endows the same individual with both -wisdom and goodness at the same time. There’s my three grannies, I mean -the male granny and the two female grannies, all with such good hearts, -but la! such weak heads. Anybody can whirl their minds round and round -as the wind does the weathercocks. La! you shall judge for yourself. At -the trial, when the prosecuting attorney-general was abusing you, he -carried them along with himself until they believed you to be a perfect -demon of iniquity. Then, when your counsel was defending you, he carried -them along with himself, until they believed you to be a persecuted -cherub. Then, when the judge summed up both sides, they were equally -drawn by opposite opinions, and could not make up their minds whether -you were an angel or a devil. Finally, when the jury brought in their -verdict, they comfortably decided that you were the latter, and so went -home happy to supper and bed. La! and we are requested _always_ to -respect our elders!” - -“Certainly, dear Annella,” said Eudora, gravely. - -“Wish they were always respectable, then.” - -“Annella, you shock me, dear; old age must be reverenced.” - -“Can’t help it. I haven’t got a particle of reverence in my composition; -it is all owing to my barrack bringing up, I suppose.” - -“I suppose it is, poor girl; but, Annella, you seem to have found -friends.” - -“Reckon I have; three grannies, I told you.” - -“Whom?” - -“I’ll tell you. As I was trying to make out Allworth Abbey, what do I do -but fall over an old servant, half-sailor, half-valet, who caught me -trespassing on private grounds, and hauled me up before his master, like -a vagrant before a magistrate; and when I told my story, who does the -old gent turn up to be but my own granny, who was living in that fine -house the Anchorage, with two other old ladies, also my grannies.” - -“The Anchorage; then you must speak of Sir Ira Brunton and his family?” -said Eudora in astonishment. - -“Just. He quarrelled with my mother and father, and cast them off, but -he took me in when he found me dragged over his threshold. Shall I tell -you all the particulars? Would it interest you?” - -“Very much, indeed,” said Eudora, forgetting for the moment her own -awful situation in her interest in Annella’s fortunes. - -The girl began and related her adventures as they are already known to -the reader. - -The narrative won the prisoner from the contemplation of her own -sorrows, and at its close she put out her hand and took that of Annella, -saying: - -“I am very glad for your sake, dear.” - -“_But I am not_,” exclaimed Annella, recurring to her cause of grief and -remorse. “I had rather remained in London, and have met all that I most -dreaded—the union, a vulgar task-mistress, beggary, anything, rather -than have come down here to betray you. But I did not mean it, Eudora; -oh, indeed I did not! I would have died rather than have brought you to -this. But I did not even suspect your identity until I recognized you in -the court-room, and even then I did not know that I had had any hand in -your arrest until I got home that evening, and Tabitha Tabs, the -lady’s-maid, told me it was all my doings; that it was from my talk that -they had gained the clue to your hiding-place; and oh, Eudora, I felt -that she was telling the truth, and I felt as if I had been knocked down -with a club, and I have been ill ever since. If I had been well, do you -think I would have stayed away from you so long?” - -“No, dear Annella; but I wonder you got leave to visit me at all.” - -“I believe you; it was very difficult. First I asked my grandfather to -bring me, but he refused and blowed me up in the bargain; then I watched -my opportunity and put on my bonnet and walked straight here, and the -governor refused to admit me without an order from the sheriff; then I -went and hunted up the sheriff, and asked him if he would give me an -order to see you, and he roared out ‘No,’ as if he would have bit my -head off for asking him, and then I went to the prison chaplain, and -told him what a kind friend you had been to me, and what a traitor I had -been to you, and how broken my heart was, and I cried, and begged and -prayed him to get an order for me, and he got it from the sheriff and -gave it to me, and so here I am. But I did not come for nothing, Eudora, -I said you should not perish, and you shall not, as Heaven hears me,” -added Annella, in a low whisper, as she glanced jealously over her -shoulder at Mrs. Barton, who was squeezing herself tightly into the -farthest corner of the little cell, to be as far off as her office would -permit. - -“What is that woman waiting here for? It is very rude. Why does she not -go away and leave us together?” inquired Annella, in a whisper. - -“Dear, it is her duty to remain. I am not permitted to be left alone for -an instant.” - -“Well, I suppose that is meant kindly, as you are in such deep trouble; -but you are not alone now; I am with you, so she can go. Tell her to -go.” - -“Dear, you mistake; it is not in kindness, but for security, that I am -guarded in this way, and Mrs. Barton dares not leave me, even at my -request.” - -“But I wish to talk to you privately; I don’t want her to hear every -word we say,” exclaimed Annella, in a vehement whisper. - -“But no one can be allowed to talk to me so; and she is here for the -very purpose of hearing all that we have to say,” replied Eudora, -sorrowfully. - -“But that is very hard.” - -“It is the invariable rule; and as it is a wise precaution, used in all -cases such as mine, I cannot complain of it.” - -“But why is it used?” - -“Because, Annella, if the friends of the condemned were allowed to visit -them in private, they might bring them the means of escape.” - -At this moment Annella became very pale, and gave an hysterical sob. - -“Or,” continued Eudora, “what is worse, they might bring them some -instrument of self-destruction, for many a prisoner would gladly seek -death in the cell rather than meet the shame and anguish of—” - -Her voice choked, and she shuddered throughout her frame. - -“But, would you—would you, Eudora?” questioned the girl, in an eager -whisper. - -“I should not dread death so much if I could meet it here in my bed—even -here in prison, and alone—but I would not seek it, Annella. I would -never commit crime to escape suffering.” - -“_Hish!_ can that woman hear me when I speak as low as this?” whispered -Annella, close to the ear of Eudora. - -“Yes, every syllable. The round stone walls of this little cell seem -formed to echo every sound. She hears even this reply.” - -“I wish she was hung, and I don’t care if she hears that.” - -“Hush, she is very good to me; you must not offend her, because she only -does her duty.” - -“Please, miss, I am not offended; I would take a’most anything from any -friend of yours; it’s quite nat’ral as they should hate and despise me -for sitting here a-keeping guard over an innocent creetur like you; sure -I often hates and despises myself, and I wonder _you_ don’t too,” said -Mrs. Barton, putting her apron to her eyes and beginning to cry. - -Annella wheeled around and took a good look at the woman; then suddenly -putting out her hand, she said: - -“I beg your pardon—I do indeed, sincerely. I ought not to have spoken as -I did; but you see I am not good, and never was, nor shall be; and when -my heart bleeds, my temper burns and my tongue raves.” - -“No offence, Miss, as I said afore; I only wonders as _she_ don’t -mortally hate and despise me,” said Mrs. Barton, wiping her eyes and -sighing. - -Annella, who had been gazing at Mrs. Barton with intense interest, arose -with a pale face, trembling limbs, and quick and gasping breath, and -approaching her, whispered: - -“You called Miss Leaton innocent. You believe her to be so?” - -“Yes, I do; and I would not believe otherwise if all the archbishops and -all the bishops, priests, and deacons in the kingdom was to swear she is -guilty, and take the sacrament on it,” said the woman, earnestly. - -“And therefore you must see that it is very cruel she should be doomed -to suffer,” said Annella, eagerly. - -“It’s martyr’om; that’s what it is.” - -“Hush! listen!” continued Annella, bending low; “you would like to see -her free of this place, would you not?” - -“Oh, wouldn’t I though! Sure, I pray for her deliverance every night and -morning on my knees,” sobbed Mrs. Barton. - -“And—you would help her to escape, if a good plan was laid, and it was -all safe for you?” inquired Annella, in a low, breathless whisper. - -“Eh?” - -“If you could do it safely, without endangering yourself, you would -connive at her escape, would you not?” - -“Eh? What? I don’t understand you; but I would do anything in the world -I could for her. Sure, she knows that without my telling her.” - -“Well, then, listen! But stop—what hours do you watch with her?” - -“From six to twelve in the morning, and then from six to twelve at -night.” - -“Very well; no, if I were to come again to-morrow morning while you have -the watch, couldn’t you contrive to turn your back and shut your eyes -and pretend to drop asleep while I change clothes with her, and let her -walk out closely veiled in my place?” - -“Eh! What! No, Miss.” - -“But why?” - -“Lawk, Miss, I dar’n’t.” - -“Oh, you need not be afraid of consequences; there would be no danger to -you. You might be suspected, but you could not be convicted, for no one -on earth could prove that, overcome by fatigue you didn’t fall asleep; -and so the worse that could befall you would be the loss of your -place—for I do suppose they would not keep a female warder who was -addicted to falling asleep on her watch. But, Mrs. Barton, any loss you -might sustain, should be made up to you a hundred-fold.” - -“’Taint that, Miss; I ain’t afeared of nothink but doing wrong. I -dar’n’t let her escape.” - -“But it would be a meritorious act, helping the innocent to evade -unmerited death.” - -“So it would, Miss, under some circumstances; but, you see, when I took -this place, I pledged myself to obey the laws, and to watch over the -safe custody of the prisoners under my charge. And so I dar’n’t break my -word, or betray my trust, Miss—no, not even to save her precious life, -as it melts my heart to see her suffer so,” said Mrs. Barton, putting -her apron up to her face, and beginning to cry again. - -“Not if I was to offer you five hundred pounds—a thousand pounds?” - -“Not if so be as you were to offer me ten thousand, Miss,” sobbed the -woman. - -“Look at Eudora, then; if you won’t let her go, only look at her,” said -Annella, artfully. - -Mrs. Barton dropped her apron, and turned her eyes towards the prisoner, -who sat upon the side of her bed, with her head bent forward, her cheeks -flushed, her lips apart, her eyes strained outward, and her hands -clasped and extended in mute, eloquent appeal for freedom. - -“I can’t look at her; it cleaves my heart in two, it does!” sobbed Mrs. -Barton, covering her face again. - -With a sudden impulse, Eudora started forward, and clasped the hand of -her warder, exclaiming: - -“Oh, listen to her! Listen to my friend! Give me leave to get away if I -can; give me this one _little_ chance of life. Think—I have got but one -week to live; one short week, and then I am to die such a horrible -death! Oh, pity me! let me go!” - -“Oh, this is dreadful—dreadful! I would do anything in the world for -you, poor child; but I dar’n’t do this—I dar’n’t betray my trust,” -replied Mrs. Barton, wildly weeping. - -“Suppose I was your own child, you would let me go—you would risk your -soul’s salvation to free me; or, if I had a mother, she would move -heaven and earth to save me—but I am motherless. Oh, pity me as if I -were your child, and let me go!” - -“I darn’t; Lord help me, I darn’t. And even if I did, poor dear, it -wouldn’t save you; you’d be known and tuk up again afore you got outside -of the prison gates. Lawk, yes; afore you even got to the head o’ the -stairs o’ this very ward; and then your case would be worse nor it is -now.” - -“It _could not_ be worse; and if the chance is ever so small, still it -_is_ one. Oh, give me this little, little chance of life! I do not -deserve to die this horrible death.” - -“I’d rather die this minute myself than refuse you. I mustn’t be a -traitor. Sure, you wouldn’t have me go agin my conscience?” - -Without another word Eudora turned and sat down on the bed, dropped her -clasped hands upon her lap, her pale face upon her breast, and sat in an -attitude and expression of blended shame and resignation. - -“How could you be so hard-hearted and cruel?” exclaimed Annella. - -“I’m not so, Miss; contrariwise, it a’most breaks my heart to refuse -her, but even so I must do my duty,” sobbed Mrs. Barton, with her apron -once more at her eyes. - -“Oh, bother your duty,” exclaimed Annella, with indignant vehemence. -“That word is as good as a dose of tartar-emetic to me, for I do believe -there is more sin committed in the name of duty than ever has been -perpetrated at the instigation of any devil in Pandemonium from Moloch -down. I am not as old as the north star, but even I have noticed all my -life, when anyone is going to do anything so abominably wicked or -shamefully mean that Satan himself would blush to own it, they father it -upon duty.” - -“Well, duty is not the less sacred nor incumbent upon us on that -account. Many ill deeds have been done in the name of the Most High, but -we do not, for that, worship the Divine name the less,” said Eudora, -reverently. - -“Oh, Miss, I hopes you do not think as I am a hypocrite as acts wicked -an’ mean in the presence of duty?” asked Mrs. Barton, still sobbing. - -“No, I am sure you acted conscientiously in refusing to aid my escape. -It was I who did wrong. I ought not to have made such an appeal to you, -or worked upon your feelings, or tempted your fidelity. But I was -carried away by my emotions—I forgot myself—I acted upon the impulse of -the moment. The temptation was so strong—death seemed so bitter, life so -sweet,” said Eudora, with a deep sigh. - -“Oh, how can you be so cruel as still to refuse to let her go? Even -supposing it would be wrong, you might do a _little_ wrong for mercy’s -sake, and to save her from perishing,” pleaded Annella. - -“Do not tempt her farther, dear. God is omnipotent; if He wills He can -deliver me, but to tempt His creatures is no way to gain His favor,” -said Eudora. - -“That’s it, Miss; do right, and trust in Him as can save even at the -eleventh hour,” commented Mrs. Barton, wiping her eyes. “And now listen; -I hear the other warder coming. Don’t attempt to talk to her as you have -to me, for _she_ would think it _her_ place to report the conversation -to the governor.” - -At this moment, without an instant’s warning, the door was unlocked, -Mrs. Barton peremptorily called out, and her substitute admitted. - -The new comer was a stern, “grim-visaged” woman, who took her seat with -the stolid indifference of one long hardened to her cruel office. - -Annella, not daring, for Eudora’s sake, to speak freely before this -she-dragon, yet had not the heart to take leave of her unhappy friend. -She sat down beside her on the cot, and silently took and held her hand. -She remained as long as she possibly could do so, and then, in parting, -promised to re-visit Eudora, if permitted, the next day. - -With the departure of the wild, though true-hearted girl, a sunbeam -seemed to have been withdrawn from the cell. - -During her visit, Eudora’s agonizing consciousness of her situation had -been suspended, or modified. - -Nature, indeed, the most tender of mothers, never permits her children -to endure a long continued strain of suffering, whether of mind or body. -She makes the tortured victim faint upon the rack, and in -unconsciousness lose the sense of physical agony. She gives the mourner -long intervals of stupor, distraction of hope, to alleviate the effect -of mental anguish. - -Such a blessing had come to Eudora with the entrance of Annella, but had -gone with her exit. After the departure of her visitor, all the full -realization of her dreadful position rushed back upon the mind of Eudora -and overwhelmed her, and she sank upon the bed in the collapse of -despair. - -She had not remained thus many minutes before the door was once more -unlocked, another “friend to see Miss Leaton” announced, and Malcolm -Montrose entered the cell. - -Forgetting everything else, Eudora started up and sprang towards him, -exclaiming: - -“Oh, Malcolm, have you come at last? What a weary, weary time you have -been away! God bless you, I am so glad to see you! But, oh, Malcolm! -will they let me live? Quick, tell me if you will!” - -He could not answer her; he pressed her hand with an unconsciously cruel -force, while he turned away his face in silent misery. - -She looked at him in sudden terror, and in the written agony of his brow -she read the truth. Her beating heart grew still as death; her flushed -cheek turned pale as marble, and she sank upon her seat and covered her -face with her hands. - -He sat down by her side, took one of her hands in his own, and essayed -to speak; but his voice refused its office. - -Then with that wonderful strength which comes even to the weakest woman -in the direst distress, she controlled her own agitation, and wishing to -save him the pain of announcing the fatal intelligence, she quietly -said: - -“I am to die.” - -He pressed her hand in mute despair, and not another word was spoken -between them. They sat with clasped hands side by side, until the hour -of closing the prison separated them. Then, in taking leave, Malcolm, -with a broken voice, faltered forth: - -“I will see you again, to-morrow.” - -She answered: - -“Come.” - -And so they parted. - -That evening it was known throughout the town that the petition for a -respite or commutation of Eudora Leaton’s sentence had been rejected; -that all hope of saving her life was abandoned, and that the execution -appointed for Wednesday morning would certainly proceed. - - - - - CHAPTER XXV. - THE APPEAL OF DESPAIR. - - “A friend! and thine the ruthless part - To break the bruised reed; - Coldly to crush the trusting heart - In time of deepest need; - To quench the lingering, quivering ray, - Of Hope’s just dying light, - Thus spreading o’er life’s dreary way - One deep unbroken night.” - - -The next morning, while Malcolm Montrose sat within his private parlor -at the “Leaton Arms,” crushed by the failure of his last hopes, the door -was suddenly thrown open, and a young girl, dressed in mourning, with a -face pale as death, and a manner dreadfully agitated, hastily entered -the room. - -“So your mission to the Home Secretary has not succeeded!” were the -first abrupt words uttered by the visitor, as she threw aside her veil, -and stood before Mr. Montrose. - -Malcolm sighed, and looked in surprise at this singular intruder. - -“And you pretend to be in earnest in your desire to save her, yet could -not accomplish your object?” exclaimed the girl in bitter, and scornful -irony. - -“I would have given my life for hers; I would give it now, could the -gift save her!” groaned Malcolm, in deep bitterness of spirit. - -“And yet you failed to obtain even a respite of her sentence!” - -“Because,” said Malcolm, sorrowfully, “the Home Secretary was unable, on -account of the illness of the judge, who tried the case, to consult him -on the subject.” - -“And so I suppose she must suffer on Wednesday?” - -Malcolm choked, and faltered: - -“Yes!” - -“And you affect to love her, and yet say that? Oh! man! man! you love -her not! But I love her, and I say she shall not die!” exclaimed the -girl, with an impassioned earnestness that caused the young man to start -and look up at her with amazement. - -Clearly he supposed his strange visitor to be mad. - -“She shall not die, I repeat!” said the girl, in answer to his -astonished gaze. - -“Who are you, young woman, who seem to take such an earnest interest in -the fate of that unhappy lady?” inquired Malcolm, gently. - -“One who is far too deeply in earnest to abandon Eudora Leaton to her -unmerited fate; one who will save her despite of judge, jury, gaoler, -and sheriff,” replied the visitor. - -“Alas! poor girl!” sighed Malcolm, feeling sure that he was in the -presence of some compassionate young lunatic. - -“See here, Mr. Malcolm Montrose. I am not beside myself although your -looks seem to say so; and although, if trouble ever crazed anybody, I -should be mad!” - -“But who are you, then, young woman, who are so kindly solicitous—” - -“What does it matter who I am?” impatiently interrupted the visitor. “I -am Annella Wilder, the grand-daughter of Admiral Brunton for his sins! -But that is not of the slightest consequence. What _is_ of the utmost -importance is my errand here to plan with you the rescue of Eudora -Leaton!” - -She paused for breath, for all this time she had been speaking with -eager, earnest, impassioned vehemence; but as Malcolm still regarded her -with a fixed, inquiring, distrustful look, she broke forth again, -impatiently: - -“Oh, I see you still think I am mad! but I am not. I am only nervous, -anxious, and excited; and very conscious of being so! How should I be -otherwise? I have slept but little since her conviction, and not at all -since the last hope of a respite failed. I have lain awake night after -night planning how we might free her. And scheme after scheme has surged -through and through my brain, until I have grown almost wild from -excitement and loss of sleep. So I scarcely wonder that you think me -mad; but surely you must see now that I am not.” - -“Young lady, I thank you from the depths of a most grateful heart for -the deep interest you take in Miss Leaton, whose misfortunes must be her -only claim to your regard; for you are probably a stranger to her, and -cannot know the excellence of her character,” said Malcolm. - -“Can’t I? There you are mistaken. She is no stranger, but the dearest -friend I have in the world!” exclaimed Annella, who immediately poured -forth in a few vehement words the history of her acquaintance with -Eudora. - -All this time Annella had been standing before Malcolm, who had remained -sitting. - -He understood her now, and recollected himself. He arose, took her hand, -and led her to a seat with respectful tenderness, saying, deprecatingly: - -“I beg you will forgive me, Miss Wilder, but this heavy calamity has -quite unmanned me, and made me oblivious even of the common courtesies -of life.” - -“I know, I know,” said Annella, impatiently, “but don’t waste words of -apology on me, I don’t want that; I want your immediate co-operation in -a plan for the rescue of Eudora.” - -“Kind girl, I thank you earnestly in Eudora’s name; but any plan you -might arrange I greatly fear must prove impossible of execution.” - -“_Do_ you love her, and _can_ you talk of fear and of impossibility in -reference to any scheme for her deliverance?” exclaimed Annella, -passionately. - -“Miss Wilder, I told you that I would gladly purchase her life with my -own, if I could be permitted to do so; but for any plan for her rescue, -dear girl, I can have but little hope.” - -“Why?” - -“Ah, Miss Wilder! have you reflected upon the strength of that prison, -and the vigilance and incorruptibility of its officers?” - -“The strength of the prison is a hard material fact that I cannot deny; -the vigilance of its officers is also very evident to the most casual -observer; but their incorruptibility—bah! Voltaire, or Solomon, or -Robinson Crusoe, or somebody said, that every man could be bought if -you’d only pay him his own price! Now, how do you know that the officers -are incorruptible? Is anybody perfect? Are you? The only question is, -have you money enough to bribe the gaoler to favor her escape?” - -“I do not think I have. For I do not think that any sum would bribe -him.” - -“You do not _half_ love her! But how much money have you got?” inquired -Annella, with eager interest. - -Malcolm paused a moment, and then answered: - -“I could raise five thousand pounds.” - -“La! why that would buy an archbishop or a prime minister, much more a -poor provincial gaoler!” - -“You have a bad opinion of human nature.” - -“Got a right to. The only human being with whom I am intimately -acquainted—and that’s myself—I _know_ deserves to be put in a pillory; -and all the rest except a few ought to be hung! But try the gaoler with -the offer of five thousand pounds. That sum will be an irresistible -inducement to a man in his circumstances—especially if you can convince -him of what I believe to be the truth—that he will be doing a -meritorious act in assisting the escape of an innocent girl.” - -“Really, your reasoning has a certain plausibility in it. ‘The drowning -catch at straws,’ and I am inclined to seize upon your idea. What is the -plan of escape that you wish that the gaoler should be brought to -favor?” - -“I said _bought_ to favor! Oh, it is a very simple one. I go to the -prison closely veiled. I propose to change dress with Eudora, and let -her walk out in my gown, mantle, bonnet, and veil, while the gaoler, -upon some pretence or another draws off the warders to some other part -of the building, so that she can pass out uninterruptedly. And you could -have a close carriage somewhere near, put her into it, and drive at once -to the sea-coast, where you must have a fishing-smack already hired to -take her away. Meanwhile, when they come to look for her, they find me!” - -“But do you know, kind girl, even if your plan should succeed, what -would be the penalty to yourself for assisting the escape of a convicted -prisoner?” inquired Malcolm, gravely. - -“No, nor care! They couldn’t hang me, and even if they could, I -shouldn’t mind a little hanging in the cause of a friend!” said Annella, -cheerfully, for her spirits were rising with sanguine hopes of success. - -“They would transport you for life!” - -“Well, let them, if it would be any comfort to them for the escape of -Eudora! It would only be giving me a free passage to Australia, and I -want to see the world. I dare say Botany Bay is not the worst place on -the face of the earth. They say convicts there in a very short time are -able to retire on ample fortunes. In a word, I should be transported -with joy to be sent over for Miss Leaton’s sake. ‘Variety is the spice -of existence,’ and that would be one of the spices!” said Annella, -gaily, for in Malcolm’s evident acquiescence her spirits were rising. - -“Your plan shall be tried,” said Mr. Montrose, gravely, “the more -readily that I do not believe you would really come to harm through it. -But are you sure that even if you win over the gaoler, you have courage -to act out your own part? Remember that yours is far the most perilous -part of all. My hand would scarcely be seen in it. The gaoler, with five -thousand pounds, could afford to leave the country, but you would be -found in the cell, and have to face—” - -“The music of the row they’d raise! I know it. I’m not afraid. Go ahead. -I’ll do my part,” said Annella, bravely. - -“If the peril were all my own—” - -“Now you are at your doubts and hesitations again. Think of Eudora’s -peril, and act with decision.” - -“You are right, Eudora only should be thought of now, but when she is -once in safety, my dear girl, I will devote all my energies to helping -you out of any trouble you may get into upon her account,” replied -Malcolm. - -“Thank you kindly, but I will not trouble you. I shall help myself, as I -have done all my life. I had a great deal rather you would tell me when -we shall begin to help Eudora,” said Annella, bravely. - -“Immediately. I was only waiting here for the hour of opening the prison -to arrive. Now, by the time we can walk thither it will have come, and -we can be admitted. I shall go at once to the gaoler, and in a private -interview, open my plan to him. You, meanwhile, can visit Eudora in her -cell; but I beseech you, say not one word of the plan of deliverance to -her until we discover whether the gaoler can be induced to favor it, for -the subject might only agitate with vain hopes a soul that is piously -trying to resign itself to death,” said Montrose. - -“Why, do you think me an idiot? Of course I should say nothing to her -prematurely, even if I had the opportunity, which I should not have, as -one of those women warders is always on guard over her.” - -“True; but if the governor can be induced to co-operate with us, he will -make some opportunity for me to convey the news to Eudora. Then I will -hurry away, and make every arrangement for the flight, which may be -accomplished to-morrow,” said Montrose, rising, and taking his hat and -gloves. - -They immediately left the hotel, and walked rapidly on to the prison, -exhibited the sheriff’s order, and were at once admitted. - -While they waited for a minute in the hall, for some turnkey to attend -them, Annella inquired in a breathless whisper: - -“After your interview with the governor, you will come immediately to -Eudora?” - -“Certainly.” - -“But one of the warders will be with her, and you cannot speak of it -before either of them, how, then, shall I know whether your appeal has -been successful?” - -“By my face! Could I, with all the self-control of my nature, repress -the satisfaction you would read there if I had succeeded, or the despair -you would see there if I had failed?” - -“But you will _not_ fail. You are sure to succeed,” said Annella, -impatiently. - -At this moment a turnkey came forward with his bunch of keys. - -“Be kind enough to say to the governor that I wish to see him, and then -conduct this young lady to Miss Leaton’s presence,” said Montrose. - -The officer bowed, opened a side door, and announced: - -“A gentleman to see the governor.” - -Then touching his hat to Annella, he led the way up the heavy staircase -to the upper wards in which the condemned cells were located. - -Meanwhile, Malcolm entered the office of the governor, who was seated at -a desk engaged in writing, but immediately arose, with an earnest -expression of sympathy and respect, to meet his visitor. - -“Mr. Montrose, still looking so harassed and ill, and no wonder! You -could endure it better in your own person, I know that, but try still to -bear up, even for her sake. Time carries away the sharpest griefs as -well as the sweetest joys. A few more days and all this agony for you -and her will be over for ever. She will be at rest, with her it will be -well. If she is guiltless, as I hope she is, and suffers unjustly, as I -fear she must, God will abundantly compensate her in another world. When -all is over you must travel, and time, philosophy and religion will heal -the wounds of your heart. Sit down here, Mr. Montrose, and let me offer -you something,” said the governor, placing a cushioned arm-chair for his -visitor, and moving towards that buffet where he kept liquors for -exigencies like this. - -“I thank you—no, I require nothing of that sort. But, Mr. Anderson, I -wish to have a private interview with you. Will you be kind enough to -turn the key in that door, so that we may not be interrupted?” inquired -Malcolm, seating himself in the arm-chair. - -The governor, in some surprise, did as he was requested, and then drew a -chair and seated himself near Malcolm, saying: - -“How can I serve you, Mr. Montrose?” - -“First, by giving me your word of honor that what passes at this -interview between you and myself shall be considered strictly private -and confidential. I make the request, not for my own sake, but for that -of another person—a young lady.” - -“Miss Leaton?” inquired the governor, dubiously. - -“Another young lady, a stranger to you, and until this morning, to me -also,” replied Malcolm, evasively. - -“She is not in any way concerned in that Allworth poisoning affair, I -hope, because, if she were, I would not give you the promise, you know?” - -“Nor should I be likely to ask it. No, she was never in the county until -about two weeks ago, and has never, in the least degree, transgressed -the laws of the land.” - -The governor paused in deep thought for a moment, and then cautiously -answered: - -“Well, Mr. Montrose, I have sufficient confidence in your integrity of -mind to believe that you would not confide to me, or bind me to keep -secret any conversation that it would be my duty to communicate, and so -you have my promise that whatever may pass between us in this interview -shall be held strictly confidential.” - -“And that upon your word and honor?” inquired Malcolm, solemnly. - -“Upon my word and honor, yes,” replied the governor, earnestly. - -“Anderson, I have heard that the father of Eudora Leaton was your patron -and best friend?” said Montrose. - -“I owe him everything I possess in this world,” replied the governor, -shortly. - -“And, therefore, you must feel for his most unhappy child?” - -“As if she were my own—yes, I do.” - -“And you believe the daughter of so good a man free from the foul crime -for which she is doomed to die?” - -“I do not know; I am inclined to believe her so.” - -“Then while you are disposed to believe her innocent, how can you -consider the approaching execution in any other character than that of a -judicial murder?” - -The governor arose hastily from his seat, and walked up and down the -floor of his office in great agitation. - -Mr. Montrose, steadied by the concentrated intensity of his own purpose, -sat watching the troubled governor. - -At length the latter resumed his seat, and wiped his brow, saying: - -“Why do you say all this to me, Mr. Montrose? I did not try her, nor -condemn her, and shall not execute the sentence of the law upon her. -Granted that her execution may be a judicial murder, I shall not have -committed it, and I cannot help it.” - -“_You can help it!_” said Malcolm, emphatically. - -“Ha!” cried the governor, looking up in perplexity. - -“I say you _can help it_! You can hinder this great wrong being -done—this great crime being committed—this innocent girl being executed! -And if you do not hinder it, you yourself become accessory to the murder -of your benefactor’s orphan daughter!” exclaimed Montrose, with -impassioned earnestness. - -The governor gazed upon the speaker in astonishment and perplexity that -only required the additional element of fear to form perfect -consternation. - -“I—I hinder all this? For the Redeemer’s sake, Mr. Montrose, tell me -how. I am a poor man, with a wife and child, but I would joyfully -sacrifice everything I possess in this world, and go forth a beggar, if, -by so doing, I could save her from the horrible fate awaiting her!” he -eagerly protested. - -“Noble heart! no sacrifice will be required of you. Eudora Leaton’s -friends would never permit you to suffer loss or injury in her cause. -No, Anderson! you will at the same time save your patron’s child and -enrich yourself!” exclaimed Malcolm, seizing and pressing the brown hand -of the governor. - -Anderson grew, if possible, more embarrassed than before. He dropped his -head upon his breast, bent his eyes upon the floor, and remained silent. -Perceiving that he would not make any comment at present, Malcolm -continued, by inquiring: - -“How much is your post here worth?” - -“A small salary with apartments,” replied the governor, glad of a -question to which he could return a straightforward answer. - -“How much can you save from that?” - -“Twenty pounds a year when all goes prosperously.” - -“Then, under the most favorable circumstances, it would take you five -years to save one hundred, ten to lay by two hundred, and twenty-five to -accumulate five hundred pounds?” - -“Just, so, if everything went well with me; otherwise, I could save -nothing, and might even get into debt.” - -“Yes. Well, Anderson, if you will lend your assistance in the most -righteous cause of delivering your benefactor’s orphan daughter from -unmerited death, I will pay you down five thousand pounds in hard -English sovereigns—a sum that will make you and your family independent -in this or any other country for the rest of your lives!” said Malcolm, -coming at once to the point, though with an unsteady voice and flushed -cheek. - -“Good Heaven, sir!” exclaimed the governor, shrinking back, as the blood -rushed to his face. - -“You consent?” asked Malcolm, in a low husky voice. - -“I never dreamed of such a thing!” - -“The sum is large, it is all I can raise, or it should be doubled, -trebled, quadrupled! I would give twenty thousand—a hundred thousand—a -million if I had it—as I would give my life, if I could do it, to save -Eudora.” - -“And I would not ask one penny to save her, if I could do it honestly, -sir. Perhaps I didn’t understand you, sir. How could I save her?” - -Malcolm seized his wrist, bent to his ear, and in eager, vehement -whispers, recounted his simple plan for the escape of Eudora. - -While he spoke the governor listened with downcast eyes, and at the end -of his speech answered nothing. - -“What have you to say to this? Will you take the money, and save her?” -demanded Malcolm, impatiently. - -“Mr. Montrose, I repeat, without taking one penny of that money, I would -gladly save her if I could do so honestly; but to lend my countenance to -the plan you propose, or any plan for a prisoner’s escape, would be a -grave breach of trust.” - -“A justifiable one, if ever such existed,” exclaimed Malcolm, earnestly. - -“Yes, if ever such existed; but no breach of trust ever could be -justifiable, Mr. Montrose.” - -“Not even to save an innocent girl from a horrible death?” - -“No, sir, not even for that. But, indeed, I do not know that she is -innocent, poor girl, and even if I did, it would not be my place to set -judge, jury, and sheriff right by opening the doors and letting a -convicted prisoner walk freely out of gaol!” said the governor, trying -to speak sternly, though his honest face paled, flushed, and quivered -with emotion, and he was again obliged to rise and walk rapidly up and -down the floor. - -Malcolm watched him closely, and perceived, notwithstanding the -decisiveness of his words, that he was undergoing a severe conflict -between duty and inclination, and that his temptation came not from -greed of gain, but from pity for Eudora. - -Malcolm let him walk up and down for some time in silence, and then, as -he saw the struggle still going on in his mind, arose and joined him. - -And as they paced side by side, Malcolm said: - -“You will have compassion on this poor, sweet victim; you will permit -her to escape and reach some foreign country in safety, and in after -years, when her innocence shall be discovered, you will rejoice to -remember that you saved her blameless life from a felon’s death!” - -Anderson mournfully shook his head, saying, “My God! I am not fit for my -hard duties.” - -“No, you are not hard enough for the stern duties of a governor of a -gaol. Your humane nature must suffer much in constantly witnessing the -very worst forms of human woe, crime, remorse and punishment, and the -wide ruin and unspeakable misery they bring upon the innocent as well as -the guilty,” said Malcolm, gently. - -“True, true! my heart has been wrung daily, for years, in witnessing the -wretchedness of prisoners and their friends. But what would you -have—some must be gaolers?” - -“But not men like you—you suffer too much in the performance of your -duties. Come, listen to me! be persuaded to leave this abode of sin and -misery. Let Eudora escape! take the compensation that her grateful -friends will offer you, and go to some lovely, quiet, rural home, in -some foreign country, where you can live with your wife and child amid -the sweet influence of nature, and with the almost Divine consciousness -of having saved a human life! Come—speak—consent! urged Malcolm -persuasively. - -“I dare not! oh, Heaven! I dare not commit a breach of trust—I dare not -do a dishonorable deed!” said Anderson, wiping the streaming -perspiration from his brow. - -“Remember her dead father, and all his brotherly kindness to you, and -pity his orphan child in her unspeakable wretchedness. Think how dear -life is at her tender age; how hard it is to die at seventeen, and such -an awful death—a death of public ignominy! How her young heart must -shrink in anguish and affright. Think how sweet the offer of life would -be to her; how her spirit would leap with joy to meet it; how she would -bless you; how she would thank you; how she would pray for you through -all the days of the life that she would owe to you;—and how you would -rejoice to feel that the debt of gratitude to your benefactor had been -abundantly paid off by saving the life of his child, who, but for you, -would be mouldering in a premature, dishonored grave! Anderson, think -how, at this very moment, the spirit of her sainted father bends down -from the Heaven of Heavens to hear what you shall say!” concluded -Malcolm, solemnly. - -“Oh, Montrose, speak no more! All this that you have said my own heart -has urged more forcibly than you could speak! But I must not do this -thing. I must not stain my soul with dishonor!” exclaimed the gaoler, -and then, man though he was, he burst into tears, went and leaned his -elbows on his desk, dropped his face upon his open palms, and wept -bitterly. - -But not for this would Malcolm Montrose abandon the cause of Eudora. - -He went to the side of Anderson, put his arm caressingly over his -shoulder, and continued his pleadings with all the impassioned eloquence -of love and grief. Whether he was successful will be seen. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVI. - THE MYSTERIOUS PLAN OF ESCAPE. - - Condemned to death—how near - The fatal, terrible to-morrow! - ’Twould end her agony and sorrow, - Yet, oh, how fraught with fear! - She counted—mind’s fore-torturing hell— - Hours, minutes, till the solemn bell - Should sound upon her ear.—_Michell._ - - -Meanwhile Annella had entered the cell of the young prisoner, whom she -found extended upon the outside of the bed, looking more like a corpse -laid out than a living creature. Mrs. Barton was sitting near her. - -Annella nodded to the warder, and then, with that hushed air of awe with -which one approaches death or deep affliction, she drew near Eudora, -whispering: - -“How do you find yourself this morning?” - -Eudora, whose eyes were covered with her left hand, put out her right -hand, and silently pressed that of Annella, but made no other answer. - -Annella stooped and kissed her chilled lips, and after a few minutes, -repeated her question: - -“How do you find yourself this morning, dear Eudora?” - -“Drifting, drifting down the dark river towards the horrible fall! I -shall soon go over and be dashed to pieces! That will be well. There -will be a catching of the breath, a shiver of fear, a shock of death, -and all will be over!” murmured the sufferer. - -Again Annella stooped and pressed her lips to those of Eudora, and then -turning to the warder, she asked: - -“How has she seemed since I was here yesterday?” - -“Oh, Miss, it a’most breaks my heart to be with her and see her—it do. -She bore up well enough even after Mr. Montrose told her as the petition -had been refused, and she knew there was no hope at all. She heard all -that as quiet as possible, and took leave of him quite calm when he went -away. You see, I think she tried hard to bear up for his sake, to spare -his feelings; for the moment he was gone, she turned and sank down in a -deep swoon, poor dear! and that’s the second time she’s gone into one o’ -them since she has been here. And it was a longer fit than the first, -and we only brought her to this morning about sunrise, and she’s been -lying as you see her, ever since. And what makes matters worse, the -chaplain, as might ha’ spoke some words o’ comfort to her, is ill in -bed,” replied Mrs. Barton. - -Annella would have given much for the privilege of whispering into the -ear of the despairing sufferer a few words of hope, but even her -sanguine nature felt that the communication would now be premature, as -it might also be cruel and dangerous. And as she might not speak of -hope, Annella felt that all other words were worse than mockery in a woe -like this. - -She sat down beside the bed and took the prisoner’s poor little wasted -hand, and held it in silence, sometimes pressing it tenderly, or kissing -it, while she waited in breathless suspense for the appearance of -Malcolm Montrose. - -More than two hours passed in this silent, dreary misery, and still -Malcolm did not appear. And now every passing minute seemed to tread -with a leaden foot upon the sinking heart of Annella, that every moment -grew heavier, more fearful, and more impatient. - -“Oh, I cannot stand this! I shall lose my breath presently!” she -inwardly exclaimed, feeling the protracted suspense grow almost -suffocating. - -At length footsteps were heard approaching, the cell door was unlocked, -and Malcolm Montrose was ushered in by the turnkey, who, as usual, -retired. - -Annella bounded forward to meet him, and raised her eyes, dilated and -blazing with burning anxiety, to his face. - -She read there the death-warrant of Eudora Leaton. - -“He has failed!” she said to herself, as she sank, shuddering into the -nearest seat, where she sat during the remainder of the interview, like -one spell-bound in some awful trance, with her elbow resting on the -little table, her chin leaning on the palm of her hand, her face white -as death, her lips compressed, her eyes contracted, glittering, and -fixed apparently upon some far-distant, visionary, fearful scene in -which, perhaps, she saw herself the principal actor. - -Malcolm, meanwhile, passed her quickly, and sank upon his knees beside -the bed, and took Eudora’s pale hand, inquiring, in a low tone of -reverential tenderness: - -“How is my dearest Eudora, now?” - -“Almost resigned, Malcolm, if I could only suffer alone!—thinking less -of my own fate than of your sorrow when all shall be over with me,” -replied Eudora, opening her eyes, and fixing them upon his face with an -expression of tender pity. - -He could not bear the look of those sweet eyes. He bowed his head upon -her hands, and it required all his strength to keep the swelling agony -of his bosom from bursting forth in sobs. - -“Oh, Heaven!” he exclaimed, “what anguish it is to feel myself utterly -powerless to save you, or to help you, even by the sacrifice of my life -and soul, that I would gladly offer for your sake!” - -She drew her hand from under his face, and passing it around his bowed -head, gently smoothed his hair, while she said: - -“All that human power could do to save me you have done. Let that -thought support you.” - -“But to think that I can do no more!” - -“Yes, dearest, truest friend, you can do much yet to console me.” - -“Ah, Eudora, how—how can I comfort or help you?” - -“Why, for the few remaining days of my life, come to me as often, and -stay as long as they will let you.” - -“That be sure I will; but, oh I how little good it can do you!” - -“It will do me all the good I am capable of appreciating now. Oh, -Malcolm! you do not know how much I regret those precious days vainly -lost in London when they might have been spent with me.” - -“And so do I, dearest; but yet I should have been even more wretched -than I am now, had not those days been employed as they were, in using -every possible means to gain a respite for you.” - -“I know; so, therefore, it is of no use to regret them.” - -“And now, dearest, what else is there that I can do for you?” - -“Promise me, dear Malcolm, that when the last day of my life comes, you -will be with me in my hour of death. It will not seem so horrible if I -can have you near me, and take my farewell look from your kind eyes.” - -“I promise, Eudora,” answered Malcolm, feeling sure that it would drive -him mad to witness her execution, yet resolving to stand by her to the -very last moment of her life, if permitted to do so. - -He remained with her as long as possible, and then in rising to take -leave, promised to be with her again early the next day. - -“Malcolm,” she said, holding his hand as he lingered by her side, “you -will think it a frivolous request from one in my awful circumstances, I -know, but I must make it for all that—” - -“What is it, dear? Be sure that no wish of yours could be thought -frivolous by any one,” said Malcolm, earnestly. - -“It is only to go to Allworth Abbey this afternoon, and bring away my -poor little Fidelle, and bring her with you when you come to-morrow.” - -“Certainly, dearest Eudora; I will attend to it at once.” - -“I would like to see the faithful little creature once more before I -die. Indeed, I wanted to have her here, only I did not like to bring any -harmless creature to such a gloomy place as this; and, besides, I do not -think they would have let me have her.” - -“They will let you have almost anything you desire now, dearest.” - -“Except life and liberty, or anything that might help me to either—yes, -I know that! You will not think it levity in me, even in my awful -position, to ask to have my little dog, will you?” - -“No, my own dearest one, no; I only see in your desire the all-embracing -goodness of your heart, that, like the love of Divine Providence, -encircles all creatures, from the highest to the humblest,” replied -Malcolm, bowing his head over her hand, and pressing it to his lips, as -he turned to leave the cell. - -He looked back for Annella, who remained spell-bound as before. - -“Come, Miss, time is up, and you must leave with Mr. Montrose,” said the -warder, touching the girl’s shoulder to call her attention. - -Annella started from her trance, and arose to obey; but before leaving -the cell she turned to Eudora, and, in an eager, earnest, breathless -whisper, exclaimed: - -“Do not resign yourself to death! Keep up your heart—look forward to -life and liberty! for I swear before Heaven, and by all my hopes of -salvation, that you shall be saved!” - -To Eudora these words seemed nothing more nor less than those of -madness—the expression of a compassionate soul wrought by sympathy to -frenzy. But before she had considered how to reply to them, the speaker -had vanished. - -Annella joined Malcolm in the lobby; but it was not until they were -fairly outside the prison walls that she spoke, but without the tone of -reproach Malcolm expected to hear in her voice. She merely said: - -“So you have failed again?” - -“Oh, Heaven! yes. I did all that any man possibly could do to win him -over! I appealed to his affection for her father, to his compassion for -herself, to his regard for his own interests, to every motive that could -actuate the soul of man—but in vain! He was not to be tempted by money, -or moved by mercy. He made it a matter of conscience not to ‘betray his -trust,’ as he called it. And when an honest man—a man like -Anderson—takes a stand upon conscience, you might just as well try to -uproot Helvellyn as to move him from his position!” - -“Pitiless monster!” exclaimed Annella. - -“No, he was not that either; he wept like a woman in refusing me; but -his last words to me were, ‘Mr. Montrose, I dare not stain my soul with -dishonor; and you, as a man of honor, should not dare to urge me to do -so.’ What could I reply to that? Nothing. And I came away with a broken -heart. Miss Wilder, have you no reproaches for me?” - -“No. It is said that things beyond remedy should be beyond regret, and -when they are not so, they should be remedied instead of regretted,” -said Annella, in so strange a tone that her companion turned to look -upon her, and started to see her lips drawn tightly away from her -clenched teeth, and a deadly, stiletto-gleam darting from the contracted -pupils of her half closed eyes. - -“What do you mean, Annella?” he inquired in vague alarm. - -“Nothing that I intend to confide to you or to any one else whose -friendship is so cold a thing that they will not peril _soul_ as well as -body for a friend in extremity!” said Annella, severely. - -“That is a very bitter reproach, which I do not deserve, Miss Wilder,” -said Malcolm, sorrowfully. - -“Is it? Good people like you and Mr. Anderson, who would not strain a -point of conscience to save a friend, may think it bitter; I think it -just; but then I’m not good, you know. I’m only devoted—mind, body, and -estate, for life, death, and eternity—to my friends, or rather for my -friend, for I feel only for one.” - -“I believe you, Miss Wilder; you have not even the slightest pity for -the anguish I suffer on Eudora’s account,” said Malcolm, bitterly. - -“No, not one bit! for you have the use of your long limbs to go whither -you please over this sunny earth. I pity only, that poor, sweet girl, -who cannot get out; who is waiting only for death to release her from -prison. But she shall not die! by all my hopes of heaven, she shall -not!” hissed Annella through her clenched teeth, while the same fearful -expression sat upon her tightly-drawn lips, and gleamed from her -contracted eyes. - -“She would not die, if you, kind girl, by any effort or any sacrifice, -could save her; or if I could do so; but oh, Annella, everything has -been tried in vain! human power can do no more!” groaned Malcolm. - -“Can it not? We shall see! What is the meaning of that noble proverb, -‘Where there is a will there is a way?’ It came from the wisdom of ages, -and I believe it. My own will is so strong that I shall find a way to -save her, though it should lead through floods and flames!” - -“Dear, dear girl, one must honor your single-hearted devotion to this -object, while at the same time—” - -“You believe me mad,” interrupted Annella. “Well, believe me so; it will -do no harm. Mr. Montrose, I am at this day a poor, weak, wild girl, as I -may be in another a corpse, a prisoner, or an exile! but whatever -becomes of me, Eudora shall be free!” - -“Annella, there is something in your words and manner that fills me with -alarm for your sake. I fear you will attempt some desperate act, which -instead of serving Eudora, will only ruin yourself. What is the plan you -are thinking of?” inquired the young man, in earnest kindness. - -“I will not tell you, Mr. Montrose; henceforth I shall act alone in this -matter; then, if my deed be a misdemeanor, my person only will suffer -for it; and if it be a mortal sin, my soul only will perish for it,” -replied Annella, with gloomy firmness. - -“Well, Miss Wilder,” said Montrose, solemnly, “whatever your own -thoughts may be, this one request I must earnestly make of you—that you -say not another word upon the subject of rescue to Miss Leaton. It would -be now the greatest possible cruelty to disturb her thoughts with vain -hopes of escape, and prevent her from settling her mind into that -religious resignation and composure that her awful condition renders so -desirable. Therefore I must entreat your silence to her, at least upon -this anxious subject.” - -“You have my promise. I will not say another word to her upon the -subject of her escape,” answered Annella, with great emphasis. - -They walked on in silence awhile, until they reached a point where their -road forked—the right hand path leading across to the Anchorage, and the -left-hand one going into the town. Annella stopped short, saying: - -“Our ways divide here, and I must hurry home, lest my longer absence -should raise inquiry; but before I go, Mr. Montrose, I have something to -say to you, and if you do really love Eudora Leaton, and long for her -release, you will attend to what I say.” - -“Dear Annella, I am all attention,” answered Malcolm, in anxious -perplexity. - -She looked up and down the roads, and all around them, to see if any -person were in hearing, and finding all the way clear, she suddenly -clutched the hand of Malcolm, held it with a spasmodic grip, gazed in -his face with eager intensity, drew closer to him, and whispered, with -breathless vehemence: - -“Do just as you would have done if our plan had succeeded.” - -“Eh?” - -“Make all the arrangements for flight just as you would have made them -if the governor could have been bribed to connive at Eudora’s escape.” - -“I do not comprehend you. What do you mean?” - -“Dullard! I mean this—go secretly and find out some small vessel; hire -it, and keep it hovering near this part of the coast ready for service -at a moment’s warning; have a little row-boat always at the beach ready -to take you to the vessel at an instant’s notice; keep your fast horse -tied in the shade of the thicket, under the dead wall, at the back of -the gaol; and you yourself walk every night up and down before the front -gate of the prison, just as you walked the first night after Eudora’s -conviction, and so wait for what fortune shall send you; and then, when -you find Eudora standing before you, do not stop to ask how she came -there, but catch her up in your arms, run with her to the thicket, place -her before you on the horse, gallop to the beach, put her in the boat, -row for life to the vessel, and set sail for some foreign port!” said -Annella, speaking with breathless excitement. - -“Dear, devoted girl, are you really mad?” exclaimed Malcolm, in dismay. - -“No,” cried Annella, with startling energy, “only exalted above doubt, -fear, and selfishness. Promise that you will do as I request.” - -“Well, to make these arrangements will do no harm, though they may do no -good. Yes, Annella, I promise,” answered Malcolm, earnestly. - -“And you will set about the business immediately?” - -“I will.” - -“Then Eudora shall be saved!” - - - - - CHAPTER XXVII. - A YOUNG HEROINE. - - A lamp faint lit the cell, - Feebly upon her iron bed, - Feebly upon her drooping head, - Its sickly quiverings fell: - The silent watchers sat apart, - What passed in that poor bleeding heart - Their cold hearts naught could tell.—_Michell._ - - -The first thing Malcolm Montrose did the next morning was to go over to -Allworth Abbey to fetch the small sky-terrier that had been Eudora’s -only pet. - -He found the poor little creature rambling disconsolately about the -grounds, where the servants told him she always wandered, as if in -search of her lost mistress. - -He took her with him in the chaise and drove to the prison. - -He was admitted at once to the condemned cell, where he found Eudora -reclining upon the bed, from which she seldom now arose, for her -strength seemed hourly waning, and it was a question whether she could -survive till the day appointed for the execution, to undergo the -sentence of the law. She was attended by the stern-faced woman who -alternately, with Mrs. Barton, kept guard over the prisoner. - -She arose upon her elbow to welcome Malcolm, but before she could speak, -Fidelle, with a quick bark of joy, had recognized her mistress, and -sprang from the arms of Malcolm to the bosom of Eudora, where she -nestled, trembling with delight. - -The poor young prisoner smiled faintly as she put one hand caressingly -around her favorite, and held out the other to her visitor, saying: - -“I thank you very much, dear Malcolm, for fetching her so soon. Poor -little thing, I’m glad _she_ does not know,” she added, tenderly -caressing her pet. - -Ah, but Fidelle _did_ know—if not the nature and particulars of the -heavy misfortune—at least that something had gone wofully wrong with her -mistress, upon whose faded, wasted, hollow-eyed countenance she gazed -with the touching mute eloquence of a dog’s love and sympathy. - -Malcolm seated himself beside Eudora, and watched her uneasily as she -lay dimly smiling and softly caressing her little dumb friend, and -apparently forgetting for the time being her own awful position. And as -he noticed her, his heart ached with the foreboding fear that her mind -as well as her body was giving way and sinking into imbecility under the -pressure of her heavy calamity. - -He wished to test the truth of his suspicion by conversing with her upon -some subject more serious than that of her little dog, who seemed for -the present to engage all her attention; yet he hesitated to disturb the -transient peace that seemed to have descended upon her bruised spirit -like a blessing. - -“I wonder if they would let me keep her? she could do no harm, you know, -poor little beast, and it would be almost a comfort to have something -here that loves me through the sleepless nights,” said Eudora, raising -her eyes with pleading inquiry to Malcolm’s face. - -“I think they will, if you so much desire it. I think they will give you -every indulgence the rules do not absolutely forbid,” answered Malcolm. - -“It is only a few days, so they might not mind, you know. Why, even the -cruel men of the French Revolution let Marie Antoinette keep her little -dog, though they took crown and kingdom, husband and children, and even -life away from her, and surely—” - -“I will see to it, love; there can be no possible objection to granting -you so harmless an indulgence,” interrupted Montrose. - -Malcolm’s order for admission comprised only one hour of each day. It -was supposed that longer or more frequent visits would only distract the -prisoner’s mind from the solemn duty of preparation for death, for which -so short a time had been granted her. - -Punctually, therefore, at the end of the stipulated hour, the turnkey -unlocked the door of the cell, and informed Mr. Montrose that his time -was up. - -Eudora held her little dog towards him, saying: - -“You had better take her down and get permission before you venture to -leave her with me, Malcolm.” - -Montrose silently received the little animal, but when Fidelle perceived -that she was to be carried off, she set up such a piteous howling and -struggling, that even the stern heart of the female warder, callous to -human suffering, was touched with compassion, and she said. - -“I think as how you may venture to leave her, sir. You can ask the -governor about it when you go down stairs, and then, if so be objections -are made, it will be time enough to come and force her away.” - -“Thank you; I think you are quite right,” said Malcolm, restoring the -little creature to her mistress. Then stooping, he pressed his lips to -the forehead of Eudora, promised to repeat his visit the next day at the -usual hour, took his leave, and left the cell. - -In the hall below he met the governor and preferred his request. And Mr. -Anderson, really pleased with the opportunity of granting any indulgence -to the unhappy young prisoner not inconsistent with the duties of his -office, readily consented, and he himself went to the cell to assure -Eudora that she might keep her little four-footed friend as long as she -liked. - -Malcolm Montrose left the prison wondering that he had not encountered -Annella Wilder there, or on the road. He felt extremely anxious again to -see and speak with that mad girl, who, he much feared, was rushing -headlong into some frantic enterprise which, without helping Eudora, -might ruin herself. He vainly looked out for her on his way back to -town, and vainly expected her during the remainder of the morning. - -The whole day passed without his seeing or hearing anything of the -admiral’s grand-daughter. - -The next morning, however, as he was sitting over an untasted breakfast, -impatiently waiting for the hour that he might visit Eudora, the door -was suddenly pushed open, and unannounced, Annella stood before him. - -He positively started with dismay at her appearance. - -She was dressed in black as on the previous days, and her face had -always been pale and wasted from the effects of the long continued slow -starvation of her childhood’s years. But now two crimson spots burned in -the hollows of her cheeks, and her eyes glowed like fire in their sunken -sockets. She seemed consuming with some hidden fever or restrained -frenzy. - -Malcolm took her hand, and made her sit down in the easy-chair, while he -said: - -“I did not see you at the prison yesterday. I hope that illness did not -keep you away?” - -“It could not have done so. No; they would not admit me yesterday, and -they will not to-day. They say that so many visits disturb the -prisoner’s mind, and draw off her thoughts from the duty of preparing -for death. They say that from this time no one is to see her, except the -officers of justice, the ministers of the Gospel, and yourself, as her -nearest living relative!” answered Annella. - -“They say—who say, my dear child?” - -“Why, the sheriff and the gaoler, and even the chaplain, who stood my -friend at first, but who now says that my daily visits will do the -prisoner more harm than good.” - -“This will interfere with your hopes of saving Eudora,” said Malcolm, -only with the view of drawing her out; “for, of course, if you are not -permitted to see her, you can do nothing for her?” - -“Yes I can! besides, I shall see her once more. The sheriff promised -that, to get rid of me, I am to be allowed one parting interview with -her the day before she is to die—‘_To die!_’ as if he thought I was -going to let her die!” exclaimed Annella, feverishly, while the crimson -spots in her hollow cheeks burned more brightly, and the smoldering fire -in her sunken eyes flashed more fiercely. - -“What are your plans, Annella?” inquired Malcolm, with as much calmness -as he could assume, secretly hoping that she might have forgotten her -former refusal to confide in him, and would now, as a matter of course, -inform him. - -But Annella had a good memory and a firm will. She replied: - -“I repeat that I will not tell you! I will not tell any one! I will act -alone! If my act be a felony, my person only shall pay for it! If it be -a sin, my soul only shall answer for it! If the plan fail—as it shall -not—I only will bear the blame! If it succeed—as it shall—you only shall -gain the honor!” - -“The honor, from whom?” - -“From Eudora, of course, for saving her life! from no one else, for none -but her, you, and myself shall ever know that she is saved! All else -shall believe that she has perished!” - -“My dear, dear child, you talk wildly!” said Malcolm, uneasily. - -“I do not, even when I reiterate that Eudora shall be saved, while all -the world, except us three, shall believe that she has perished!” - -“Annella, you speak of impossibilities!” - -“You will find before three days shall have passed over our heads, that -I have converted those impossibilities into certainties.” - -Malcolm Montrose bowed his head upon his breast, and remained a few -moments in deep and anxious thought. Then looking up he said: - -“I have been vainly taxing my brain to discover what your scheme may be; -but I cannot find it out; I cannot even imagine what it is.” - -“No, I presume not,” replied Annella. - -“You are not perhaps dreaming of such an impracticability as taking her -place and dying in her stead?” inquired Malcolm, dubiously. - -Annella laughed a low, weird, unnatural laugh, as she replied: - -“No, for that, indeed, would be impossible; though, could it be -otherwise, I would gladly attempt it, since it is so much easier to die -one’s self than to see a dear friend die! But such is not my plan, for -it would be, as you say, impracticable. I should be found out in an -hour. Besides, even to attempt such a plan would require the connivance -of her warders, which you know cannot be gained for love or money. No, -Mr. Montrose, what I do shall be accomplished without the assistance, -connivance, or even knowledge of any soul within or without the prison! -It shall be accomplished by myself singly!” said Annella, proudly. - -Again Malcolm dropped his head upon his breast, and fell into profound -and troubled thought. At length he raised his head, and said, very -gravely: - -“I have discovered your scheme, Annella; and I am glad that I have done -so in time to save you from attempting to put it into practice.” - -Annella started violently, and gazed upon him anxiously. - -“For the very attempt would be a crime.” - -“Well, it would be _my_ crime, not yours. _I_ should have to answer for -it, not you! And if _I_ choose to peril my life, liberty, and honor -here, and my salvation hereafter, in the service of Eudora, it is not -_your_ hand or voice that should be lifted to hinder me!” exclaimed -Annella, indignantly, rising and pacing the floor. Presently she paused -before him, and sharply demanded: - -“Why do you, of all men in the world, seek to hinder me from attempting -to save Eudora?” - -“Because, dear girl, in the first place, the very attempt to save her by -such means would be, as I said before, a crime; and because in the -second place it would never succeed!” - -“Why should it not succeed?” demanded Annella, abruptly. - -“Because, dearest girl, the physician of the prison is a man of science, -skill, and experience, and he would detect the trick in a moment.” - -“The physician of the prison?” inquired Annella, with a puzzled look. - -“Yes; Dr. Nelson would understand and expose the _ruse_ in an instant.” - -“But why should he more than others? May I die, if I know what you are -driving at!” exclaimed Annella, looking more and more perplexed. - -“Why, at this fact, that Dr. Nelson would certainly be summoned; that -his knowledge of narcotics and their effects would enable him to -comprehend the case at the first glance, and so your scheme would fail.” - -While he spoke Annella was watching him attentively. When he ceased, she -said: - -“I am astonished at your perspicacity, Mr. Montrose; but tell me what -you suppose the plan to be which the medical attendant of the prison -will be so quick to detect?” - -“Why, of course, when you assure me that Eudora Leaton shall be saved, -at the very time that all the world, except our three selves, shall -believe her to have perished, I can come but to one of two conclusions -in respect to your purposed course.” - -“And what may those be?” - -“The _first_ I have already mentioned; that perhaps you insanely propose -to take her place, in the mad hope that your person might possibly be -mistaken for hers and yourself permitted to suffer in her stead, so as -to deceive the world into the belief that she had perished, while in -reality she would be safe and free.” - -“You know that I have denied and repudiated that course as impracticable -and even unthought of by me. But the _other_! What is the other -conclusion to which your wisdom has arrived in regard to my purposed -course?” - -“Or else—” said Malcolm, hesitatingly. - -“Or else?—Yes! What else? What is that _second_ conclusion—that other -scheme which is to be a crime, and which the physician of the gaol is to -detect and expose? I am anxious to know what you suppose that to be, if -you will tell me?” said Annella, mockingly. - -Malcolm hesitated for a moment, and then said: - -“You intend surreptitiously, to administer some powerful narcotic -sedative to Eudora, which shall plunge her into a sleep, trance, or -coma, so profound as to simulate death. And then, when she shall be -supposed dead, you propose to have her body claimed by me, as her -nearest relative, ostensibly for the purpose of Christian burial, but -really for that of being conveyed to some safe and secret place and -restored to consciousness. A very ingenious plan, Annella, which, if it -could be made to succeed, would certainly deliver our dearest one from -captivity and death, while it would, at the same time, mislead the -public into the belief that she had perished in prison. But, dear -Annella, for the reasons I advanced just now, it must not be attempted. -The very administration of such a drug would seriously endanger Eudora’s -life, and therefore constitute a crime. Besides, it could not succeed -for a moment. The physician who would be called would immediately -recognize the presence of the drug and apply antidotes. So the only -effect of your scheme, my poor Annella, would be to entail useless -suffering upon that sweet victim; therefore—” - -He was interrupted and astonished by a peal of weird laughter from -Annella, who, as soon as she recovered herself, exclaimed: - -“I do so much admire your perspicacity, Mr. Montrose, and also your -ingenuity in imagining such a plan! And I likewise perfectly agree with -you that it could never succeed, as the science and experience of the -prison doctor would detect and expose the fraud in an instant. But I -never even dreamed of such a _ruse_, Mr. Montrose. I know nothing -whatever of ‘narcotic sedatives’ or any other drugs, or their effects; -and even if I did, I would not for the world risk Eudora’s life by -administering them to her. And even if I were wicked enough to do so, I -should never have the opportunity afforded me, because of the sharp eyes -of those female turnkeys that are never removed from me while I am in -the cell. No, Mr. Montrose, you are very clever indeed, but you have not -discovered my plan. My scheme involves no such risk of life to Eudora, -nor of discovery by the physician! No; for if my scheme succeeds, as it -must, Eudora shall leave the prison in full possession of her life, -health, and faculties! Excuse my having laughed, but I could not help -it. I was so tickled by your positiveness, so delighted to find, after -all, that you had not detected my plot! And if _you_, with _your_ -perspicacity, have not discovered it, who will?—why, no one!” exclaimed -Annella, triumphantly. - -“Then, in the name of Heaven, since neither of my conjectures were -right, what is your most inexplicable scheme?” demanded Malcolm, in -amazement. - -“I have already several times assured you that I shall not tell you; and -I mean to keep my word!” replied Annella, firmly. - -“Let me consider for a moment,” said Malcolm reflectively. “You propose, -without the assistance, connivance, or even knowledge of any other -single soul within or without the prison, except our three selves, to -place Eudora Leaton, free and safe, outside the prison walls, while all -the world except ourselves shall believe her to have perished?” - -“Yes, that is just exactly what I undertake to do!” said Annella, -exultingly. - -“But why not confide to me the mode by which you propose to do all -this?” inquired Malcolm, gravely. - -“Because I won’t!” said Annella, giving him the “woman’s reason” without -an instant’s hesitation. - -“Miss Wilder,” began Malcolm, in a grave, sorrowful tone, “I greatly -fear that in your beautiful devotion to Eudora, your zeal in her behalf, -and your total inexperience of the world, you are about to rush into -some ruinous enterprise that may destroy yourself without saving that -poor, sweet girl.” - -“Well?” inquired Annella, looking up anxiously and defiantly. - -“Under these circumstances, I doubt whether it is not my duty to go to -the Anchorage, and advise your friends there to take better care of you -than they seem to be doing,” answered Montrose, gravely. - -Annella jumped to her feet with a rebound that wrung like steel springs -on the floor, confronted him, and flashed-sheet-lightning from her eyes, -as she exclaimed: - -“If you dare! If you _dare_, Mr. Montrose! I will do you some deadly -mischief! I will, as the Lord in Heaven hears me; for I am not good, I -tell you! I am bad! I have black blood in my veins, wherever I could -have got it!” - -While Malcolm gazed in astonishment upon her, her mood suddenly changed. -The fire died out of her eyes, her arms dropped by her sides, and her -voice lowered, as she said: - -“But—pshaw! I am a fool to threaten you; you would not mind what -mischief anyone might do you. But I will give you a reason for your -silence that you must mind—Eudora’s safety! Mr. Montrose, I was wrong to -boast so much to you of my own secret certainty of success, especially -as I refused to confide to you the grounds of that certainty.” - -“Will you confide them to me now, Annella?” inquired Montrose, kindly. - -“No! and a thousand times no! but still—” - -“Still you expect me to believe in them?” - -“Yes; and when you are inclined to doubt, because of the humble -instrument of this success, please to remember that a mouse once freed a -lion from a net, and a goose saved imperial Rome! and think that poor -Annella Wilder may not have boasted vainly when she promised to deliver -Eudora Leaton from death! And so, if you really do love Eudora, and -desire her deliverance, you will take no step to hinder my plans! Nay, -you must promise me to take none!” - -“You ask much of me, Annella!” - -“Not more than you will grant for Eudora’s sake.” - -“But your plans are totally inexplicable; and your object, by your own -single act to set the prisoner free and safe outside the prison walls, -and make all the world believe that she has perished, seems quite -impossible of attainment.” - -“I shall accomplish it.” - -“It is a riddle to me.” - -“Let it remain so for a few days longer. But I did not come here to -propound or expound riddles; I came to tell you that as they have -refused me admittance to Eudora until the evening before the appointed -execution, it will be well to make some little change in our -arrangements.” - -“How?” - -“Why, as I cannot get into the prison before Tuesday evening, of course -I cannot get Eudora out before that time.” - -“And what then?” - -“Why, then it will be perfectly useless for you to keep the fast horse -tied every night in the thicket, or lose your own rest by watching near -the prison. And it would not only be useless, but indiscreet, as it -might attract attention, and endanger the success of my plot.” - -“Then what is it you wish of me?” inquired Malcolm, rather with the -design of acquiring some little knowledge of her plan than with any hope -of its success. - -“Before I tell you what I wish, I want to know if you have already done -what you engaged to do?” - -“You mean to ask—” - -“If you have hired the vessel to take her away, when she is safe outside -the prison walls?” - -“I have not yet.” - -“You promised to do that! You dare not break your pledged word!” -exclaimed Annella, between alarm and defiance. - -“I have no purpose to break faith with you, dear Annella. It can do no -manner of harm to hire the vessel you speak of; and it is my intention -to look out for one to-day. What next?” - -“Why, after you have hired the vessel to hover near the coast, and -arranged to have the little boat always tied and floating at the beach, -then I advise you to keep as quiet and get as much rest as you can -between now and Tuesday night; for I assure you you will need all your -health, and strength, and nerve, and presence of mind for that occasion. -Then, on Tuesday night, about eleven o’clock, have your fast horse ready -in the thicket, and you yourself wait near the gate, and, as I said -before, when you find Eudora Leaton in your arms, never stop to ask a -question, or to look behind you, but fly as Lot fled from burning -Sodom!” - -“Mystery of mysteries—all is mystery!” exclaimed Montrose, involuntarily -paraphrasing the Scripture proverb, as he gazed like one in a dream upon -the thin, flashing face of the excited girl. - -“And now promise me that you will not go to the Anchorage to do what you -threatened, or even attempt to hinder me in any way.” - -“I promise,” answered Malcolm, “though I do so in blind confidence.” - -“Your faith shall be justified, if ever faith was.” - -“I promise,” repeated Malcolm, like one under the influence of a spell. - -“That will do; I know that you will keep your word; and now that I have -your pledge, I will tell you—” - -“Your plan?” - -“No! But why it is I cannot confide that plan to you, Mr. -Montrose;—because if I were to impart to you or to any other human being -the nature of my plan, it could never be accomplished, and Eudora would -be left to die.” - -“But look at the clock! the hour of your daily visit to the prison is -approaching, and I will not detain you any longer. Give my love to -Eudora, and explain to her why I cannot come to her. Good-bye. -Remember!” - -And so saying, Annella seized and dropped his hand, and vanished from -the room, leaving Montrose still under her spell. - - - - - CHAPTER XXVIII. - THE READING OF THE DEATH-WARRANT. - - Life! life! Oh, Heaven, for this! - To gaze again on God’s bright sun, - To see the moss-marged streamlet run, - To feel the wind’s soft kiss; - To meet loved eyes where pity glows, - To hear kind words to soothe her woes, - Life! life! Oh, bliss of bliss!—_Michell._ - - -He remained for a few moments, sitting in silence where she had left -him, and then rose with an effort to shake off her influence, murmuring -to himself: - -“What an incomprehensible creature! a mere girl, not more than fifteen -or sixteen years of age, and yet planning, by her own unaided efforts, -the rescue of a prisoner from the strong Abbeytown gaol! Is she mad or -inspired? If inspired, is it by a good or an evil spirit?—an angel or a -devil! If I were a mystic, now, and believed in people being possessed, -I should suppose that fragile, excited, half-frenzied girl, to be the -medium and agent of some tremendous spirit acting through her. But -whether she be mad, sane, or inspired, I will do what I promised, if it -afford one chance in a million of saving Eudora. Oh, Eudora! Eudora! as -the drowning catch at straws, I catch at this mad girl’s unknown scheme -to save you!” - -He took up his hat and went out to walk to the prison. - -He was immediately shown to the cell, where he found Eudora, as on the -preceding day, reclining on the outside of the bed. Her little dog was -coiled up contentedly by her side. Mrs. Barton was on guard. As Malcolm -approached and took the little wasted hand she held out to him, he saw -she was perceptibly paler, thinner, and feebler than on the day before. - -This increasing weakness was evident not only in the emaciation of her -face and form, but in the faint tones of her voice and the slow motions -of her hands. As he noticed this, the heart of Montrose sank within him. - -“And yet,” he thought, “why should I grieve for her waning life? It is -better, far better, that she should sink gently into death here—even -here in her prison-cell, where her soul might depart in peace and -privacy—than live to be dragged forth. Oh, God! oh, God!” - -He groaned and buried his face in his hands, as if to shut out the image -that arose before his mind’s eye. - -Eudora looked up at him uneasily, and with quick sympathy caught his -mental vision. She could not have been paler than she had been before. -But now her very lips blanched and quivered, and a spasm seized her -throat and choked her utterance. This passed in a moment, and then she -put up her hand and gently removed those of Malcolm, and looked in his -face. - -That face was convulsed with anguish; but with a mighty effort, he -crushed down his emotions, seated himself by her side, took her hand, -and held it in silence, as was often now his custom. - -For a few moments neither trusted themselves to speak, but at length -Eudora broke the silence by inquiring: - -“Do you know why Annella has not been here these two days?” - -“The officers of justice believe that her visits disturb you, dear,” -answered Malcolm, gently. - -“Ah, I thought they would interdict her visits, poor child! She is so -rash in her zeal for me. Do you know, Malcolm, that she even tried to -bribe Mrs. Barton here to let her change clothes with me, so that I -might escape in hers? Did she tell you?” - -“No, she never told me that; but I know she would run any risk on earth -for you, dearest, and so I am not surprised to hear it.” - -“I wonder if the attempt came to the ears of the officers, and if that -was the reason why they stopped her visits?” - -“No, Miss—oh, no, because there was nobody to tell but me, and I never -dropped a hint of it,” Mrs. Barton hastened to say. - -“No, that was not the reason, dear Eudora; it was because she was -considered too young and flighty to do you any real good by her visits, -which it was also feared might disturb you,” said Malcolm. - -“And shall I see her no more?” - -“Oh, yes; she called at my lodgings this morning to tell me why she has -not been to see you these two days, and to send you her love, with the -assurance that she would come on Tuesday, having the sheriff’s promise -of permission to do so.” - -Eudora shivered, for she remembered that Tuesday was the last day of her -allotted life, and knew that Annella’s next visit would be also her last -one. - -The hour of grace sped quickly away, and Malcolm arose to go. He stooped -and pressed his farewell kiss upon Eudora’s brow. He dared not trust -himself to speak; he was thinking how swiftly the sands of her life were -running out. But one more quiet visit, and then—the dreadful parting -interview on Tuesday night—and then, unless the unknown scheme of -Annella should succeed—as he did not dare to hope—death for Eudora and -endless despair for himself! So he pressed his parting kiss in silence -on her brow, and turned away. - -Mrs. Barton happened to be relieved of her guard by the entrance of the -other warder, and she left the cell at the same moment with Mr. -Montrose. - -Malcolm beckoned her to his side, and as they walked down the lobby, he -said: - -“I wished to speak to you alone, Mrs. Barton, to ask you about your -charge. She seems wonderfully composed for so young a girl in so awful a -position. I fear that it is only assumed composure, for I see that she -is sinking fast under her heavy misfortunes. Now, tell me, does she not -put herself under great restraint when I am with her?” - -“Well, sir, she certainly do seem much more composeder when you are here -nor she do at any other time. I think, howsoever, that’s partly because -she do feel it to be a comfort and a support to her like to have you -along with her; and partly because she do try to keep down her feelings -for fear of hurting yours. Leastways, I know she don’t give way to ’em -as she does at other times,” answered Mrs. Barton, thoughtfully. - -“How is she at other times?” inquired Mr. Montrose, anxiously. - -“Why, sir, wariable, wery much so indeed; for sometimes she will be -quiet enough for hours and hours together; and then, maybe, something -will happen to bring her doom afore her all on a suddint—and she’ll -scream, and clap her hands over her eyes, and fall to shaking as if she -wer’ tuk with an agur fit. And when that’s over, she’ll turn on her -face, and not move nor speak for hours and hours more.” - -Malcolm groaned with anguish. - -“And sometimes, sir—and that hurts my heart worse nor all the rest—when -she will be lying quite calm, she’ll put her finger and thumb around her -throat and press it, and then quickly drop her hand and scream with -terror, and fall into another shaking agur fit.” - -Another involuntary groan burst from the overcharged breast of Malcolm, -while Mrs. Barton continued: - -“But, lor, sir! what could you expect from such a mere child as she is, -with such a fate afore her? Why, sir, I’ve been in service here this -twenty year, and I’ve seen the most strongest and hardenest of men as -ever was, have their hair turn grey with the thoughts of what was afore -them, between the day of conviction and the day of execution. So what -could you expect of a poor, tender girl, with the scaffold staring her -in the face? I wonder she isn’t dead already, for my part; and I am sure -I think it would be a mercy and a blessing if she was.” - -“It would, indeed,” muttered Malcolm. - -“But there is one thing I dreads for her more nor all the rest—more even -nor the last thing of all.” - -“And what is that?” inquired Malcolm, in a sinking voice. - -“Why, sir, the reading o’ the death-warrant to her; and it’s my belief -as the sheriff don’t like the job himself, as he has put it off so -long—and I doubt it’ll be the death of her without any more trouble. -Why, lor’, sir, I’ve seen the dare-devilest ruffians, as you would think -they’d go through fire and brimstone, and face Satan himself, blanch as -white as a sheet at hearing of that read. Why, lor’! you see, sir, it do -go into all the particulars, so cruel plain, telling all about how they -are to be—” - -“I know—I know!” hastily interrupted Malcolm, with sickening faintness -stealing over him. “But, tell me, is this formality never in any case -omitted?” - -“I beg your pardon, sir—” said the perplexed wardress. - -“Does not the sheriff sometimes fail to read the death-warrant to the -condemned prisoner?” - -“Not as ever I hear on, sir; no, I believe not. But sure you ought to be -able to tell, sir.” - -“I know very little of these formalities,” answered Malcolm. - -They had by this time reached the lower hall, where their way divided. - -Mrs. Barton courtesied, and turned off towards her own apartment; and -Mr. Montrose, with breathless lungs, bursting heart, and burning brain, -hurried out into the open air. - -All that he had seen, heard and felt during this morning’s visit to the -prison, confirmed him in his resolution to keep faith with Annella, and -he immediately set about making all external arrangements for a possible -rescue. - -Annella might be mad; her unknown scheme might be vain, useless, -dangerous, fatal. There might not be one chance in a million of its -success; yet it was the only hope of rescue for Eudora, and as the -despairing snatch at the very shadow of hope, he resolved to embrace it. - -Good reason had the kind-hearted wardress to dread the ordeal to which -Eudora’s fortitude was soon to be subjected. Mrs. Barton had just gone -into the cell to take her afternoon’s turn at guarding the prisoner, -when several footsteps were heard approaching, the door was unlocked, -and the sheriff, attended by the gaoler, entered. - -The manner of the sheriff was grave even to solemnity; that of the -gaoler was very sorrowful. - -Eudora hastily arose from her recumbent posture, and sat up, glancing in -surprise and vague dread, but without the least suspicion of their -errand, upon the intruders. - -Mrs. Barton, who knew what was coming, got up and passed towards the -door, crying: - -“Let me go away, Mr. Anderson—please, sir, do! I can’t stand it—indeed, -sir, I can’t!” - -“Stay where you are, woman,” answered the governor, in a low voice. - -And Mrs. Barton, forced to obey, sank trembling into her seat. - -“This is Mr. Rushton, the sheriff of the county, Miss Leaton, who has -some business with you this afternoon,” said the gaoler, in a faltering -voice, as he presented the visitor. - -Eudora arose, and slightly bowed in acknowledgment of the sheriff’s -presence, and then resumed her seat. But far from surmising the nature -of his business with her, she flushed with a transient hope that the -paper he carried in his hand might possibly be a commutation of her -sentence—a respite, or even a pardon! While her face flushed and paled, -her heart beat, and her pulses quickened with this hope, the sheriff -slowly unfolded the document, and said: - -“I have a necessary duty to perform, Miss Leaton, and must request you -to give your attention to the reading of this paper.” - -Something in his manner banished Eudora’s new hopes, and brought back -her vague fears, and while she gazed with eyes dilated by terror, the -sheriff commenced in a distinct voice, and read, with all its plain, -clear, cruel details, the warrant for her execution. - -But before the reading of the warrant that consigned her to a speedy, -public, shameful, and violent death, was completed, Eudora’s fortitude -gave way, and with a piercing shriek she fell to the floor. - -“There, I hope and trust, with all my heart and soul, as you’ve finished -her and put her out of her misery now!” sobbed Mrs. Barton, as she -hastened to raise Eudora. - -The sheriff, having done his painful duty, retreated from the cell, -attended by the gaoler, and leaving Eudora to the care of the wardress. - -Mrs. Barton lifted the swooning girl, and laid her upon the bed, and -applied such restoratives as she kept at hand for her recovery. It was a -long time before the deadly swoon could be broken by the pungent -stimulants that were used. But at length Eudora, with a shiver, opened -her eyes. Alas! return to consciousness was only return to thought, to -memory, and to agonizing terror. Sobs, shrieks, and spasms that could -not be controlled, expressed the anguish, despair, and wild affright -that shook her life and reason to their foundations. - -Mrs. Barton did all that the most tender nurse or mother could have done -for her relief. She voluntarily remained with her through the whole of -the afternoon and the night; but her endeavors to ameliorate the -sufferings of her charge were all in vain. And in the morning, finding -Eudora still pallid, collapsed, and shuddering, upon the very verge of -dissolution, Mrs. Barton, when relieved from her long watch, hastened to -the office, and said to the gaoler: - -“I doubt my prisoner is a-dying sir; and though it might be a mercy to -let her die and go out of her misery, yet mayhap it’s our duty to send -for the medical man.” - -The gaoler immediately arose, and beckoning the wardress to follow him, -hastened to the condemned cell, and after gazing mournfully upon the -stricken girl for a few minutes, he said: - -“I will send for the doctor; but no one else, not even Mr. Montrose, -must be permitted to see her while she is in this precarious state.” - -And calling a turnkey who happened to be passing, he dispatched him for -the medical attendant of the prison. The messenger had scarcely departed -when Malcolm Montrose was heard approaching, attended by another -turnkey. The gaoler, who was on the watch, went out to turn him back. -Meeting him, he took his arm, and walked him off to a distant part of -the lobby, where he paused to say to the astonished and half-offended -young man: - -“I beg your pardon, Mr. Montrose; I am very sorry to stop you, but the -truth is, that ever since the death-warrant was read to that poor young -creature yesterday afternoon, her courage has entirely given way, and -she has been in such a precarious state that I fear the least accession -of excitement might prove instantly fatal to her; and under these -circumstances I dare not admit anyone, even yourself, to her cell until -after our doctor has seen her.” - -“But I have the sheriff’s order,” urged Malcolm. - -“Still I beg that you will not press it, sir. It is for her sake only -that I entreat you to refrain until the doctor has made his visit.” - -“I see the necessity of doing as you advise. But oh, Heaven! when, when -will her long-drawn sufferings cease! It is but a few weeks since her -arrest, yet since that day ages and ages of torture seem to have passed! -Would to Heaven it were over for her!” exclaimed Malcolm, wildly. - -“Try to compose yourself, Mr. Montrose. Come down to my room, and take -something strong.” - -“I thank you, I require nothing; but with your consent I will go and sit -in your office until I hear the doctor’s report,” answered Malcolm, -accompanying the governor to the ward-room below, but refusing the -refreshment that Mr. Anderson still pressed upon his acceptance. - -Meanwhile Dr. Moss, the physician in ordinary to the prison, proceeded -to the condemned cell. - -Dr. Moss was a tall, fair-skinned, gray-haired old man, whom forty -years’ connection with the prison, and constant ministration to the -worst forms of human suffering among the most desperate criminals of -both sexes had not hardened, but rather softened; had not rendered -harsh, obdurate and unfeeling, but rather tender, sympathetic, and -compassionate. - -He now entered Eudora’s cell, and stood for a moment silently regarding -her as she lay with her face turned down and hidden in the pillow, cold, -pallid, collapsed, and shuddering. - -Then beckoning Mrs. Barton to the door of the cell, he questioned her -minutely as to the state of mind and frame that had preceded this -asphyxia of the sufferer. - -And the careful wardress described the girlish terrors of Eudora, and -ended by saying: - -“You can’t expect a mere child like that to face quietly what makes the -hardest men quail. Besides, doctor, we women cre’turs are ten thousand -times worse afeard of being _hurt_ nor we are of being killed. I am -pretty nigh sure as it isn’t the fear of death as has brought her to -this state, but the horror of the violent death as is always afore her.” - -The doctor having learned all that he wished to know for his own -guidance in this case, returned to the cell, seated himself beside the -sufferer, took her hand, and said, gently: - -“Look up, poor child, and let me see your face. I can do you good, -though you may not yet believe it.” - -The deep-toned, tender, sympathetic voice of the Christian physician -fell like balm upon the bruised heart of the victim, and caused her to -turn her wasted face and anguished eyes to meet the compassionate gaze -and benignant countenance that was bent upon her in such deep -commiseration. - -“I can relieve your acute sufferings, Eudora. I can scatter all your -terrors and give you ease,” he repeated. - -“Oh, can you change what is before me? Can you snatch me away from this -doom, as you would rouse one up from a horrid nightmare? If you cannot -do this you can do nothing for me!” she cried. - -“I cannot change your fate, Eudora, but I can disarm it of its terrors,” -he answered, very gently. - -She looked at him with a wild, incredulous gaze. - -“The state of the mind depends so much upon the condition of the body, -that I must bring your excited nervous system into some quietude before -I can hope that you will listen to me with benefit,” said the doctor, -opening a small box and taking from it a minute lozenge, which he -directed her to swallow. - -Eudora obeyed, and the doctor sat watching the effect of the drug. - -In a few moments the morphia had done its benign work, and soothed the -agonized nervousness of the victim down to a state of serene repose, in -which she could calmly contemplate her coming doom. - -“You feel better now, my child,” said Dr. Moss. - -“Yes,” she replied. - -“And you can bear to speak of your position?” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“Then, Eudora, I wish you to open your heart to me as to an old and -experienced friend, who sympathizes with every phase of your sufferings, -and can ameliorate them all. Tell me, now, what it was that filled your -mind with such fear and horror as to overthrow your fortitude so -completely. It was not fear of death I know; for even children meet -death unblenchingly. What was it then? It will do you good to confess to -me.” - -“You judge me rightly,” said Eudora, as, calmed by the morphia, she now -entered with perfect self-possession upon the dreaded subject. “It was -not fear of death, for I should be happy if I could die quietly here in -my bed. It was the manner of the death, the deep dishonor, and the -mysterious, unknown, awful agony of that blindfolded, suffocating, -helpless struggle with a violent death!” - -“In a word, you dreaded excessive physical suffering.” - -“Oh, yes.” - -“My child, there will be no such suffering at all. The death you so much -dreaded will be the easiest of all deaths.” - -She looked up at him with calm, incredulous wonder. - -“Eudora, I speak the words of truth and soberness, as well as of science -and experience,” said the doctor, gravely. - -“Ah, how do you know? How can any one know. I myself can only judge by -this.” Here she put her thumb and fingers towards her throat, but the -doctor arrested her moving hand, and held it while he said: - -“You must not do that—you will only frighten yourself with false -terrors. An incomplete pressure like that is very distressing, a -complete one is quite the reverse.” - -“Ah, how can we be sure of that?” - -“By the light of science, which shows us that the instantaneous -congestion of the brain consequent upon such a pressure prevents all -suffering. So, my child, dismiss all dread of pain, you will not have to -bear it.” - -“I do not know. No one has ever come back from that dread mystery to -tell us what it was.” - -“Yes, but there has. There are several authentic instances on record of -individuals who have been resuscitated after execution, and who have all -agreed in testifying that the manner of death was easy, thus -demonstrating the theory of science in that respect. But if you want -farther confirmation, Eudora, you can have it in my own professional -experience.” - -“Yours!” exclaimed Eudora, in quiet incredulity. - -“Yes; I resuscitated a man who had, in a fit of despair, attempted to -destroy himself in that very manner. He was found by his friends -suspended from a tree in a grove, and when taken down was quite -insensible, and apparently quite dead. But the vital spark had not fled, -for when I was called to him, and took proper means to restore him to -consciousness, I succeeded. He was very penitent for having, in a fit of -despondency, tried to rush unbidden into the presence of his God. But -what made his case most interesting to me, as a medical man, was his -description of his sensations while undergoing that process. He -described them as being without the least degree of suffering, and as -resembling the effects produced by the first inhalations of chloroform, -until, like one under the full influence of that drug, he lapsed into -insensibility, and knew no more until his resuscitation; and now I hope -you will believe me, and dismiss your fears of suffering.” - -“Oh, yes; I suppose I was a sad coward to dread torture so much.” - -“All women do, Eudora. It is their nature; their tender, delicate -sensitive organizations shrink from torture. But now, what other feature -is there in this fate that so distressed you, for the dread of physical -agony was not all?” - -“Oh, no, for there was the sense of deep dishonor.” - -“Yet you say that you are innocent?” - -“I am weary of repeating that to incredulous ears, and yet God knows -that I am innocent.” - -“Then trust in God to redeem your name from all lasting reproach, as -your Christian faith teaches you to believe that He will; and consider -also, dear child, that when, in a few more hours, you shall stand in the -presence of that Divine Judge who knows your innocence, the opinion of -the world you have left behind will be as nothing to your released and -happy spirit. Should not such thoughts console you?” - -“Oh, yes, they should, indeed. Oh! sir, you have given me comfort—such -comfort as I could not have believed in before you came to me. I could -not have imagined that any earthly power could have lifted me from the -pit of black despair in which I seemed to have fallen. Heaven bless you, -Doctor, for the help you have given me,” said Eudora, holding out her -hand to the kind physician, who pressed and released it, as he said: - -“Now you must have another lozenge to put you to sleep. Take this little -one, and compose yourself to rest, and when you awake I will see you -again.” - -And thus having ministered to the mental and physical necessities of the -sufferer, this good physician of the soul and body took his leave of the -patient. - -Beckoning Mrs. Barton outside the door, he enjoined her to keep -everything quiet in and about the cell, as the reason, and even life of -the prisoner depended upon her getting an undisturbed rest. - -Then he went down to the lower hall, where his approach was anxiously -watched for by Malcolm Montrose, who hastened out of the ward-room, -eagerly inquiring: - -“How is your patient, Doctor? Can I be permitted to see her?” - -“She is better, and is composing herself to sleep, but you cannot see -her, as she must not be disturbed to-day,” answered the physician, -kindly. - -“And there will be but one more meeting between us—the parting interview -of to-morrow,” exclaimed Malcolm, in the extremity of mental anguish, as -he left the prison. - -He was seized with a burning anxiety to see Annella Wilder, but did not -know where to find, or how to communicate with that eccentric girl. He -therefore passed the remainder of the day in making the promised -arrangements for the almost inconceivable possibility of Eudora’s -escape. - - - - - CHAPTER XXIX. - PREPARATION FOR DEATH. - - What hears she?—a slight sound— - The opening of the cell’s dark door,— - Bright eyes—a word, and nothing more. - Quickly she gazed around, - Then, passionate, flung her hands on high, - And with a sharp, wild, rapturous cry, - Fell swooning to the ground.—_Michell._ - - -Eudora slept long and calmly, and awoke early on Tuesday morning, the -last day of her allotted life. Thanks to the good physician’s merciful -ministrations, the frenzy of terror and the darkness of despair had -alike vanished. Her nerves were wonderfully composed, and her mind -perfectly clear. - -“It is strange, Mrs. Barton,” she said, as the wardress was assisting -her to dress, “how well I am this morning, the very last day of my life. -It seems to me, looking back on my past feelings, as if I had been very -ill ever since my first arrest, and have only now recovered health and -reason. And this is my last day, and I have made no preparations for -death; but indeed I could not, and I see clearly now why I could not. -First came the thunderbolt of my arrest; then the anguish of suspense -before the trial; then the blackness of despair after conviction; and -then the frenzy of terror that followed the reading of the -death-warrant! What could I do amidst all that various suffering? But it -has all gone, now; the suspense, the despair, and the terror have all -taken flight, like evil spirits, and left my mind in a sweet, clear, -sunny, almost buoyant state, although I am to die to-morrow morning. I -hope this is not unnatural; I hope I am in my senses; for it is a very -strange experience.” - -“It is the goodness of God, and the skill of the doctor as His -instrument, my poor, dear child. You are innocent and martyred, and so -you are comforted by Heaven and earth,” answered the wardress. - -“I am not afraid to meet my Maker. I never was, even in the midst of my -worst terrors. I have not got my peace to make with Heaven at this late -hour, but I have much to do for those whom I shall leave behind, and I -must set about it immediately.” - -“Dear saint, think of yourself; do not trouble your heart about any one -else.” - -“Did Mr. Montrose call yesterday?” - -“Yes, dear child, but you were then too ill to see any one. But I -suppose he will come this morning, as usual.” - -“No, he will not. We agreed that as he is permitted but one visit in the -day, he should not come on this last day until the evening, so as to see -me at as late a period as possible before my death. You see how calmly I -can speak of that now, Mrs. Barton.” - -“Thank God, my dear, though it breaks my heart to hear you.” - -After her frugal breakfast, Eudora asked for pen, ink and paper, and sat -down to write her last wishes, to be confided to Malcolm. - -Meanwhile, the chaplain of the prison, who had been very ill with fever -for the last week, arose from his sick-bed to administer the last -consolations of religion to the condemned girl. - -He found Eudora seated at the little table and engaged in writing. - -She arose as he entered, and held out her hand, saying: - -“I am glad you have come to see me again on this last day, Mr. -Goodall—sit down.” - -“I should have come before if I had been able to stand upon my feet,” -replied the clergyman, earnestly, as he sank quite exhausted in the -offered chair. - -“I am sorry to see that you are still so ill,” she said, looking with -sympathy upon his haggard face. - -“Is it credible that you can have room in your heart for any other -sorrow than your own great one?” inquired the clergyman, looking up in -compassion at the face of the speaker. - -And then, for the first time, he noticed the perfect serenity and almost -cheerfulness of her countenance. - -She perceived his surprise, and answered both his looks and words by -saying: - -“I do not know how it is, but I cannot grieve for myself now. I seem -changed since yesterday; all the evil spirits of despair and terror that -have been tormenting me for so many weeks past have vanished, and left -my soul in a ‘peace that passeth understanding,’ a ‘sunshine of the -breast,’ that I cannot comprehend, but only receive in awe and -gratitude.” - -As Mr. Goodall did not immediately answer, but only watched her in -silent wonder, she continued: - -“I feel as if I were on the eve of a journey, going home to my father -and mother, and friends, and above all, to that Heavenly Father who -knows my innocence of this imputed guilt, and in whose Divine Mercy I -have never ceased to trust through the darkest days of my despair and -terror!” - -Mr. Goodall was reading her very soul, and, therefore, he would not -reply as yet. - -Suddenly she held her hand out to him, and said: - -“Mr. Goodall, hitherto you have supposed that I only protested my -innocence because I hoped, through such protestations, to be believed -and saved. But now you must know that not a shadow of hope remains to -me.” - -“I do know it,” said the minister, earnestly. - -“And, therefore, now that I have lost all hope of man’s mercy, and know -that I must certainly die to-morrow morning, you will believe me when I -repeat, as I hope for God’s mercy—I am guiltless of the crimes for which -I am to suffer,” said Eudora, solemnly. - -“I _do_ believe you; I am constrained to have faith in your innocence; -dear Eudora, forgive me that I ever doubted you.” - -“There is nothing to forgive, since it was inevitable that you should at -first think as all the world did; but there is much to be grateful for, -now that you have confidence in me. And now that we understand each -other, you can indeed give me much comfort,” said Eudora, holding out -her hand, which he took and held, while he said: - -“I will attend you to the last, dear, unhappy girl.” - -“But you are ill, and must not fatigue yourself.” - -“I will be with you to the last,” repeated the minister. “It will be -time enough for me to rest when you are—in Heaven.” - -Meanwhile, what had become of Annella Wilder, since her daily visits to -the prison had been prohibited, and her eccentric inroads into Malcolm -Montrose’s lodgings had ceased? - -Annella, for the last few days, had restricted herself to the Anchorage -and its immediate environs, where her burning cheeks and blazing eyes, -and feverish manner, excited the serious alarm of her relatives. - -“That dear baby is going to be ill, and she ought to be looked after,” -said Mrs. Stilton, who immediately ordered a foot-bath and certain -herb-teas to be taken by the patient at night. - -And with unusual docility Annella obeyed, saying to herself: - -“I have need of a cool head, and would drink a pint of bitterest -wormwood, and plunge my limbs into boiling water, if I thought that -would take away the burning pain in my head that prevents me from -thinking clearly.” - -And so she took—not her own desperate prescription, but the milder one -of Grandmother Stilton. And she arose the next morning, looking like an -expiring fire, and professing herself much better. - -But on this last day no one took notice of Annella. All the inmates of -the house seemed to be possessed of a sort of half-restrained frenzy, in -view of the tragedy to be enacted the next morning—that dread tragedy, -in which the life of a young girl was to be publicly offered up in -expiation of an atrocious crime. - -They had all known Eudora, and even those who believed her guilty felt -overshadowed and oppressed by the horror of her coming doom, now that it -drew so near. - -The two ancient dames—they were both so old that a trifling difference -of eighteen years between the ages of the mother and daughter was of no -sort of account—sat lovingly, side by side, in their easy-chairs, near -the drawing-room chimney-corner, where, summer and winter, a little fire -was always kept burning for cheerfulness. - -“I have lived too long, Abby, my dear—I have lived too long, now that I -see little girls as should be innocent as cherubs, and never come to no -more harm than soiling their bibs, and getting smacked by their nurse, -actually dipping their hands in human blood, and being hanged. Yes, -Abby, my dear, I have lived clear away into an age of the world as I -wasn’t born and brought up in, and don’t know nothing about. And if the -good Lord hasn’t forgot to send for me, I don’t know the reason why I am -left. And I think I had better go,” said Mrs. Stilton, despondingly. - -“Don’t say that, mother. You are the head of the family, which I don’t -know what we would do without you. And I have been used to you all my -life. And me and you have always been together ever since I can -remember. Think o’ the poor little haberdashery-shop as we kept when we -was both left widdies!—and how you comforted me when that boy o’ mine -run away and went to sea; which little did we think he would ever rise -to be an admiral and make our fortin’, and make ladies of us, and never -be ashamed of us ’ither! And since that we have always been so -comfortable together! And s’pose now I was to see that chair o’ your’n -empty! Oh! whatever should I do! _Oh, hoo! hoo! hoo!_ You’d never go and -die and leave me an orphan after all these years at my time of life! -_Oh, hoo! hoo! hoo!_” whimpered the old lady, in the piteous grief of -age; for though the younger, she was in mind and body much the feebler -of the two. - -“There, there, there, now, Abby, my dear, don’t cry. I didn’t mean it. I -won’t die! I’ll live to take care of you and your boy! Didn’t I promise -your dear father, on his death-bed, as I would bear up for the sake o’ -the child?—and haven’t I beared up? Good Lord, yes! how many years! -Years of t’iling and striving and struggling for life! And now, in these -latter days, when rest and peace have come, is it likely as I will give -up and die? No, Abby, my dear, not I! I think as the longer I’ve lived -in this world the better I like it, that I do! Only I was upset this -morning along of thinking about that poor dear baby. There, then, don’t -cry, Abby! I’m sure if you want me to do it, I’d just as lief keep on -living all the time as not. I’m sure I don’t see what’s to hinder me. -I’m noways ill, thank God, nor yet dissatisfied with this world. There’s -many a dark, stormy day as has cleared off just at sunset. And that has -been the way of our day of life, Abby, my dear, and now I don’t care if -our clear, pleasant twilight lasts forever. I know heaven is a better -land; but then I was always humble-minded, and easy satisfied, and so -I’m contented with this earth, and don’t long for no better till the -Lord pleases. Leastways, Abby, I won’t die till you are ready to go -along with me.” - -While the old ladies talked in this childish, affectionate way, the -admiral walked up and down the lawn in front of the house, with his -hands clasped behind him, in troubled thought. He, too, was overshadowed -by the “coming event.” He had no glance even for the fair Princess -Pezzilini, who, calm, placid, and elegant, occupied her usual morning -seat in the bay window, where she employed herself with some graceful -fancy-work, while Master Valerius Brightwell sat upon a footstool at her -feet, reading aloud for her amusement, and occasionally glancing up at -her with all a boy’s shy admiration of a beautiful woman. - -Annella had not been seen since breakfast-time. But when the family -assembled for luncheon at two o’clock, she was called, and appeared with -cheeks again so deeply flushed, and eyes so bright and restless, that -Mrs. Stilton exclaimed: - -“That child is on the very verge of brain-fever!” - -And she not only ordered her off to bed, but went herself to see her -order obeyed. - -Annella made no resistance; but as soon as her head was on the pillow, -and a brown paper, wet with vinegar, was laid upon her brow, she said: - -“Now, grandmamma, all I want is to be let to go to sleep, and if Madame -Pezzilini will be kind enough to let Tabitha come and sit by me, I shall -do very well.” - -“But why Tabitha? Why not your own woman?” inquired the old lady. - -“Because I _hate_ my own woman, and I love Tabitha—and—it will make my -head ache to talk more about it.” - -“Well, well, my baby, it shall be just as you please,” said the -indulgent old dame, shutting the door softly and retiring. - -A few moments passed, and then the door was as softly opened, and -Tabitha, stepping lightly, entered. She first went noiselessly to the -windows, and made them quite dark by closing the storm-shutters, and -then stole silently to the side of the bed to see if Annella slept. - -“I am awake, dear Tabitha; though I wish very much to sleep and recruit -myself for a few hours if I can. What o’clock is it?” - -“Half-past two, Miss Wilder.” - -“Very well; dip a towel in that iced vinegar and lay it on my head, and -let me sleep, if possible, until five o’clock. Then, Tabitha, wake me.” - -“Wouldn’t it be better as I should let you sleep your sleep out, Miss?” - -“No; if you love Eudora Leaton, wake me at five o’clock.” - -“Oh, Miss, don’t speak of her now! It almost drives me crazy.” - -“Hush! She shall be saved if you will wake me at five o’clock. In the -meantime I _must_ lie quiet and sleep if I can, or I shall go mad!” - -“But is there—is there a chance of saving her? Oh, Miss! if I thought -there was I would be a’most willing to lay down my life for it.” - -“There is a chance—I cannot explain now. I can do nothing before five -o’clock. Until then I _must_ try to compose myself! Tabitha, _will_ you -obey me?” - -“Yes, yes, Miss,—surely I am afraid she is going out of her senses,” -added the girl, _sotto voce_, as she wetted the napkin in iced vinegar, -and laid it upon Annella’s burning head, and then silently took her seat -beside the bed. - -Annella closed her eyes, and lay still as death, but whether she slept -or not, Tabitha had no means of ascertaining in that darkened chamber. - -Hour after hour passed, and Tabitha was on the point of dropping asleep -herself, when the striking of the little golden-toned ormolu clock on -the mantelpiece aroused her. - -“It is five o’clock, Miss Annella,” she said, softly, bending over the -quiet girl. - -“Then go and bring me my tea, and say that I am better, but shall not -come down this afternoon, and that I do not wish to be disturbed this -evening. And listen, Tabitha, say not a word of what passed between us -before I composed myself to sleep,” murmured Annella, without changing -her position or even opening her eyes. She seemed as one hoarding every -atom of her strength for one final effort. - -“No, Miss; I shan’t say nothing at all of what has passed between us, at -least not yet,” answered Tabitha, leaving the room to obey. - -In due time she reappeared with the tray, upon which was neatly arranged -Annella’s little chamber tea-service. - -The girl arose, bathed her face and head, arranged her hair and dress, -and then drank her tea. After which, she called Tabitha to her side, and -said: - -“I am sure you love Miss Leaton—” - -“Yes, that I do! I would lay down my life for her,” said Tabitha, -beginning to sob. - -“In that case you would not betray anyone who tried to serve her, to -comfort her, or even to rescue her?” - -“I’d bite my tongue off first! Sure I have proved as much!” - -“Yes. I always believed that you knew more than you chose to tell of her -first escape from Allworth Abbey. Well, Tabitha, listen now. I have an -order to visit Eudora to take a final farewell of her this evening. I -have, also, in my own mind, a plan for rescuing her even at this late -hour—” - -“Lord, Miss Annella! what ever can that be, and could you ever carry it -through—and wouldn’t the law punish you if you did?” inquired Tabitha, -earnestly. - -“I cannot tell you—it is enough for you to know that I shall go to visit -her this evening, but my visit to the prison must not be known—my -absence from this house must not even be suspected, lest it lead to -discovery; therefore, Tabitha, you must let me out the back way; and you -must remain in this room, and if anybody comes to inquire after me, put -them off with some excuse; and at night go out and lock the door after -you, so that no one can get into the room and miss me. And when you come -up again, bring a basin of gruel, as if I had need of it. Ask leave to -sleep in my room to take care of me to-night; but on no account let any -one else come in. You understand this, Tabitha?” - -“Every word of it, Miss Annella.” - -“Well, now hear my last words of all. After the family have all retired, -and the house is quiet, and everybody is asleep, steal out of this room, -lock the door behind you, and bring away the key, and creep down stairs -and out of the house, and watch for me at the lower park gate. Can you -do this?” - -“Surely, Miss Annella.” - -“But you look frightened already.” - -“It is enough to frighten one, but I’ll do it.” - -“And now, what are they all about down-stairs?” - -“The family are all gathered around the grand piano, listening to Madame -Pezzilini playing and singing—Heaven help them! and the servants are all -at dinner in the servants’ hall.” - -“That is well! It is the very hour for me to steal out of the house -unobserved. Lock the door and come with me, Tabitha.” - -They left the room, glided down the back stairs, and out at the back -door. - -Annella flew across the lawn; through the park, out upon the downs, and -into the high road. She ran along a little way, and then struck into a -by-path leading through a narrow, wooded valley, or “coombe,” lying -between two rolling uplands of the downs, and leading towards Abbeytown. -As soon as she found herself out of the reach of discovery and pursuit, -and safely hidden in this thicket, she sat down to recover her breath -and to still the violent throbbing of her heart. - -Surely if Tabitha Tabs had noticed the signs of excitement and almost of -insanity in the expression of Annella’s face, she had not consented to -her leaving the house. But the darkness of the bed-chamber and of the -narrow back staircase had obscured the woman’s vision, and the assumed -calmness and self-restrained manner of Annella had disarmed her caution. - -But any rambler passing that way, and seeing Annella as she sat, with -glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes, and restless, frenzied manner, would -have felt justified in taking her in charge upon his own responsibility, -and delivering her up to her friends as a wandering maniac. - -But withal Annella had as yet a strange, self-regulating power that -enabled her to control these frequently-recurring fits of excitement. - -She sat quietly in the cool shadows of the wood until its spirit had -entered into her soul, and for the time, at least, calmed its fever. - -Then she arose and took her way towards the prison. - -With the order in her pocket, she was at once admitted. - -“Has Mr. Montrose been here to day?” was the first question she put to -the turnkey, who conducted her. - -“No, he is not to come until six o’clock,” answered the man. - -“Very well; go on.” - -She was admitted to the cell, where she found Eudora sitting by the -little table engaged in reading the Scriptures. At her feet was coiled -up her little dog, and on the table was laid a folded paper. Upon seeing -the visitor, she put her hand out, and taking that of Annella, drew her -up to her side and kissed her, saying: - -“I thank you for coming to see me once more, dear girl. I am not afraid, -now, Annella! Every dark cloud has passed from my spirit, and I feel -strangely well. And now I begin to understand how it was that Jane Grey -and Anne Boleyn, and so many other young and timorous women, were -enabled to meet unmerited death with so much fortitude. I think that -strength comes at the very last by the gift of God.” And so saying, -Eudora moved and seated herself on the side of the bed to yield the only -chair to her visitor. - -Annella did not trust her tongue to speak. She sat down with her back to -the light, that Eudora might not see the disturbance of her face. - -So there fell silence in the cell for a few moments, and then Eudora -arose and approached the table, took up the pocket Bible, and wrote a -few lines on the flyleaf. Then laying it upon the lap of the visitor, -she said: - -“You will keep it for my sake, dear?” - -Annella’s hand closed over the book, but she made no reply. - -The dead silence of the young girl surprised and troubled Eudora, who -perceived in it a sympathy too deep and painful for words. - -At length the striking of a distant clock was faintly heard. As the last -stroke of six died away, Annella started up, threw her arms around -Eudora, strained her to her bosom, pressed a kiss upon her forehead, and -murmured, in a fainting voice: - -“Mr. Montrose will be here in a moment; I will not stay to disturb your -interview. Good-bye—Good-bye!” and hurried from the cell. - -Even this failed to disturb the almost supernatural calmness of Eudora, -and saying merely: “I will rest now,” she lay down upon the outside of -the cot. - -Mrs. Barton occupied her usual seat in the corner of the cell. - -A few moments passed, and then steps were heard approaching. The door -was opened, and Malcolm Montrose, ushered in by the governor, who -immediately retreated, entered the cell. Malcolm’s face was fearfully -pale, and bore all the signs of extreme mental anguish. It was evident -that he put a severe restraint upon himself, and exhibited a merely -external fortitude that might at any moment give way. - -She, too, though now so calm, was so wasted, wan, and deadly fair, that -she seemed more like a spirit of the air than a maiden of mortal mould. - -As she approached, she held out one thin, blue, pale, transparent hand, -and taking his, drew him towards her. - -They looked into each other’s faces intently for a moment with -unspeakable love and grief, and then his fortitude utterly failed him, -and he dropped upon his knees by her side, buried his face in his hands, -and bursting into sobs, wept such bitter tears as are only pressed, like -drops of life-blood, from the mighty heart of man by the extremity of -anguish. - -A spasm of agony passed over Eudora’s still face. She who had ceased to -feel for herself suffered acutely for him. With a supreme effort she -controlled her rising emotions, and, but for the fluttering of the -muscles in her transparent throat, and the quivering of her blue lips, -she seemed calm as before. - -She put her arm around his bowed head, drew it upon her bosom, and held -it gently there while she murmured: - -“Dear Malcolm, this wrings your heart cruelly, I know. You could endure -it with fortitude if it were yourself instead of me. It is for my fate -alone that you grieve; and your grief is the only thing that troubles -me. But do not weep so bitterly; remember that in a few short hours all -my earthly troubles will be over. And if it is the manner of my death -that appals you, remember that hundreds as young, as delicate, and as -innocent as your Eudora, have endured as dark a doom. And think that I -have strength given me to meet my fate, and reflect that by this hour -to-morrow it will be all the same to Eudora’s emancipated spirit as if -she had died in a bed of purple and fine linen, with ministering friends -around her. And now look up, dear friend. We have but an hour to pass -together, and I wish you to try to calm yourself and listen to me, for -there are some things that I want to commission you to do.” - -While Eudora was speaking, the sobs that burst from Malcolm’s agonized -bosom shook his whole frame. But with an almost superhuman effort he -subdued the storm of anguish, and forced himself to be calm. - -Then, still kneeling by her side, he took her wasted hand in his own, -gazed with unutterable love in her spirit-like face, and listened with -reverential tenderness to her last words. - -With her hands still clasped in his, and her eyes dwelling upon his with -unutterable love and faith, she spoke: - -“Dear Malcolm, when you were here the other day I requested you to -promise me that you would mingle with the crowd to-morrow, and place -yourself near the—the scene of my death, so that at the very last I -might look upon the face of a friend. Do you remember?” - -“Yes, dearest Eudora; and I will keep my promise—ay, if it drives reason -from its throne—as it is sure to do,” he added, mentally. - -“But I release you from that promise, Malcolm. It should never have been -asked or given; the trial is too great for human nature to bear; a -woman, even a fragile girl, has strength given her to endure that which -it would kill or craze the man who loves her to witness; therefore you -must not see me die.” - -“But, dear Eudora—” - -“Now, hear me out before you interrupt me. I have released you from -_that_ promise, but there is another which I wish you to make me—only -one, dear Malcolm; for though there are several requests that I wish to -make of you, there is but one promise by which I mean to bind your -faith.” - -“And what is that, dear Eudora?” - -“I wish you to promise me, on your honor as a gentleman, and your faith -as a Christian, to obey the one single command that I shall give you.” - -“I promise, dear Eudora.” - -“Then, my order is this: that you take the six o’clock train for London -to-morrow morning, so as to be far from the scene that must be enacted -here. I have your promise. I have given you the order, and you are -pledged to obey it whether you like or not.” - -“I am pledged,” groaned Montrose, dropping his face in his hands. - -There was silence between them for a few moments, and then she spoke: - -“And now, dear Malcolm, for the requests that I have to make of you, and -that I feel sure you will grant without a promise.” - -“Be sure that all your requests are at this moment as sacred to me as -the laws of God.” - -“Heaven bless you, dear Malcolm.” - -“What is it you wish me to do, Eudora?” - -“To carry out a plan which I would accomplish if I might be permitted to -live.” - -She paused for a moment, as if uncertain how to open her communication, -and then at length said: - -“I was the heiress of Allworth, Malcolm, and after me you are the sole -heir. You will be very wealthy, Malcolm, for I am told that the -forfeiture will not be enforced—” - -“Oh, Eudora! can you think of these things at this moment?” - -“Yes; I can think of everything that requires to be thought of. Pray let -me proceed. You will have abundant means of doing good. For my sake I -wish you to be a Providence to that poor widow with whom I lodged in the -Borough, and her thirteen children—what a family! and she was willing to -have made it fourteen, and even fifteen, by keeping the Captain’s orphan -daughter, and myself also, if there had been any need. Hers is a -terrible struggle with the world to win daily bread for all those -ravenous young mouths; and well and bravely does she maintain it. Now, -dear Malcolm, as I firmly believe that there is not a woman in this -world more worthy of assistance, I wish you to give her no merely -transient help, but such permanent aid as shall establish herself and -children in comfortable independence for life. I heard her say the house -she occupies was for sale. Buy it and give it to her; renew the -furniture and stock the shop. It will take but a few hundred pounds—that -you will never miss—but to her and her children what a fortune it will -be!” - -“If it took thousands, Eudora, it should be done, and not only because -they would be well bestowed, but because you desire it.” - -“I know it. Well, when you have made her comfortable in the way I have -indicated, next find out what trades or professions she would like her -sons and daughters to follow, and pay the fees to apprentice them. That -will provide for all their future lives, and relieve the good mother -from the great burden of care.” - -“It shall be done, Eudora, and in your own dear name, so that for years -after you have become an angel in heaven, the widow and her children -shall bless your memory.” - -“Ah, well, I feel the need that some one should bless me.” - -“Many will do so, dear saint! And now what more shall I do?” - -“Not much; only when I am gone, do not let my little dog perish. Mrs. -Barton will keep her for a few days, until you can call and fetch her.” - -“Dear girl, be sure that there will be few things in this world so -precious to me as the little creature that you loved. And now what else? -Speak all your wishes; tell me all that I can do for you, for to obey -all your commands will be the only course to save me from madness—the -only purpose for which I shall bear to live—except one! yes, except -one!” - -“There is nothing else whatever, dear friend?” - -“Nothing else? You ask nothing for yourself—nothing for your own memory! -Even at this supreme hour your thoughts are all for the good of others. -Yet, dear saint, though in your sweet resignation you have not asked it, -here I make you one solemn promise, one binding oath, one sacred vow! -Here, with my hand upon your martyred head—here, speaking to your -innocent heart—here, in the sight of the all-seeing God—I pledge my -whole life, fortune, and honor to the one sacred purpose of discovering -the real criminal, redeeming your memory from all reproach, and -establishing your innocence beyond all question!” said Malcolm, solemnly -sealing his vow by pressing a kiss upon her forehead. - -“Thanks, thanks for this devotion, dearest friend. And now bid me a -gentle good-night and go.” - -“So soon—has it come?” aspirated the young man, as all the blood in his -veins seemed to turn back in its course, and roll in with annihilating -force upon his heart. “Must I leave you?” - -“It is my own tongue that bids you go, dear Malcolm. Go, while we still -have some self-command left; go, and leave me to God!” - -At this very moment also a warder appeared at the cell door. He did not -speak, but the mere event of his appearance there announced that the -moment of separation had arrived. She raised him and threw herself upon -his bosom. He strained her to his heart in the unutterable agony of a -last embrace. A moment thus, and then her arms relaxed, and she sank -back fainting upon her pillow. - -Malcolm, blinded, giddy, and stunned by despair, reeled from the cell. - -The lobby, lighted only here and there at long intervals by lamps in -high sconces, was very dusky. As he rushed along its gloom, he suddenly -felt his wrist caught by a thin, fiery hand, that seemed to scorch into -his flesh, while a fierce, hot whisper pierced his ear, saying: - -“_Be on the watch to-night at the appointed place!_” - -The burning, wiry grip, the eager, stinging tones were those of Annella -Wilder. But before he could reply to her words, almost indeed, before he -had recognized her, she had vanished. - -And the next minute he was joined by the warder, who had only lingered -behind to lock the door, and who now attended him down the stairs and -saw him fairly outside the prison walls. - -He heard the great gate close with a loud clang, the key turn, the bolts -shove into their grooves, the bars fell into their places, and he knew -that the prison was closed up for the night. - -But where was Annella? - -He looked up and down the highway and all around, in expectation of -seeing that strange creature, whom he supposed must have left the -building before he did, and with whom, as the despairing and the -frenzied snatch at the faintest shadows of hope, he wished to confer. -But he looked in vain; she was nowhere visible. - -He well understood the meaning that her words were intended to convey. -But were they not the words of madness? Who could tell? - -“Be on the watch to-night at the appointed place,” she had said. - -Be on the watch? Aye, that he surely would, without the need of warning; -for could he go home and go to rest upon this last bitter night? Ah, no! -The only thing that he could bring himself to do was to pace up and down -the road beneath the prison walls, praying for her—praying for -himself—until the dawn of the fatal day should compel him to keep his -promise to Eudora, and throw himself into the first morning train, to -fly from the scene of her martyrdom. - -But with the constant echo of Annella’s last words in his ear came the -memory of the promise he had made her—an insane promise, but otherwise -harmless and certainly binding. A part of it he had already kept. - -There was a small vessel anchored in a quiet cove, five miles from -Abbeytown, and a boat chained at the beach. There was his fast horse, -Fleetfoot, in the stables of the Leaton Arms. There was not one chance -in a billion, not the shadow of a hope, not the faintest indication of a -possibility that any of these preparations would be of the least use; -yet he had madly promised to complete them, and he must keep his -promise. Still half stunned, blind, and dizzy with despair, he went on -to the town, got his horse from the stables, rode slowly through the -woods until it was quite dark, then tied Fleetfoot in the thicket behind -the prison, and went round and resumed his walk and watch before the -front gates. - - - - - CHAPTER XXX. - THE BURNING PRISON. - - “The doomed girl is silent, - I watch with her now, - And her pulse beats no quicker, - Nor flushes her brow. - - “The small hand that trembled, - When last in my own, - Lies patient and folded - And colder than stone.” - - -Malcolm paced up and down before the prison walls. The sky was “blind -with a double dark” of night and clouds. The huge building itself seemed -only a blacker shadow in the black scene. But not darker was the night -without than the soul within the solitary watcher. Why did he walk -there? Not only because he had promised Annella to do so. Not, either, -with the faintest hope of saving the martyr-girl who lay within those -strong walls awaiting her doom. No; but to be near her in her sorrow, to -watch with her as we watch beside the dead. Who can estimate the anguish -of that dark vigil? The deep-voiced clock at the top of one of the -towers struck each hour in its turn, and each stroke sounded like a -knell upon his ear and heart. He wondered if she heard them too, or if -Heaven had blessed her with sleep in these last hours. If so, would to -Heaven she might never wake to the horrors of the morning. - -While these agonizing thoughts were lacerating his bosom, he raised his -eyes towards the east wing of the building, in which she lay, and he was -startled to see the gratings strongly defined against a bright, ruddy -light shining within! - -What was the matter that the deadly darkness of this massive structure, -which an instant before had seemed but a shapeless mass of shadows piled -up against the midnight sky, should now be illumined so ominously? Was -she ill? dying? Heaven, in its mercy, grant that she might be! - -But while he gazed with suspended breath, the lighted row of gratings -suddenly darkened, and belched forth volumes of lurid smoke, pierced by -tongues of flame! - -THE PRISON WAS ON FIRE! - -“Oh, Heaven! she might escape her impending doom, but only perishing by -the most fearful of deaths!—perishing by fire with hundreds of others!” - -He rushed to the gate, seized the iron handle of the bell that -communicated with the door-keeper’s room, and rang it loudly. - -Another moment, and the great bell of the prison sounded from the tower, -rousing by its deep-toned thunder all the sleepers of the neighborhood, -while cries of “Fire! fire! fire!” burst in every tone of terror, -anguish, and despair from the inmates of the burning building. - -Still but another instant, and crowds of half-dressed men and even -women, who seemed to have started up from the depths of the earth in the -darkness of the night, came pouring towards the building. The great -gates were opened—when, how, or by whom Malcolm scarcely knew. -Bewildered by his trouble, he was carried with the crowd and hurried on -until he found himself in the great hall of the prison. - -Within, as without, the most fearful panic prevailed. Warders, turnkeys, -and door-keepers, roused from deep sleep by the horrid alarm of fire, -hurried hither and thither like men bereft of their senses. - -In the ward where Eudora’s cell was situated the darkness was intense -and the smoke suffocating. Malcolm, who had hastened thither, could -scarcely breathe the air. While blindly making his way towards her door, -from which he heard the voice of the wardress shrieking “Fire!” and -“Help!” he _felt_ rather than saw two figures meet in the darkness. - -“Is that you, Nally?” demanded the voice of the first, which Malcolm -recognized as that of the governor. - -“Yes, sir,” replied a husky, smoke-smothered voice. - -“Take this key, then, and release the condemned prisoner. Slip these -handcuffs upon her, and hurry her forward to the west-wing strong-room. -Don’t let her escape in this confusion. I must go and look after the -poor wretches above,” said the governor, in an agitated voice, as he -hurried away to the other end of the lobby. - -Malcolm groped along, keeping as near as he could to the figure that he -still _felt_ rather than saw moving before him. Screams of “Fire” and -“Help” still came from the condemned cell, which now, like the lobby, -was as dark as pitch. Malcolm came up with the other just at the cell -door. He held his breath with suspense, but the invisible figure beside -him breathed quickly and fiercely as they stood there together. - -A panic of astonishment transfixed Malcolm as he felt that hot breath -upon his cheek. An instant, and the cell door was unlocked and thrown -open, and Mrs. Barton, distracted with fright, rushed out past them, to -make good her escape from the burning building. Another instant and the -mysterious figure, who had plunged into the darkness of the cell, issued -forth, and dropped a light, soft burden upon Malcolm’s breast, -whispering fiercely: - -“She is saved! Fly for your life and hers; look not behind you!” - -Oh, Heaven! it was Annella’s voice! And she had kept her word! - -But he felt that there was not an instant to lose. Pressing the light -form of the girl close in his arm, he ran along through the darkness and -the suffocating smoke, through the lobby, and down the stairs, and out -into the free air. - -The smoke, the darkness, the crowd, and the panic befriended him. He -passed the bounds of the prison unobserved, and hurried on towards the -thicket where his horse was tied. As he pressed through the dark crowd -without, he heard many remarks. - -“The fire broke out in the prison wardrobe-room, where they keep the -clothing,” said one. - -“No one knows how it broke out,” said another. - -“They have saved all the prisoners, poor wretches!” exclaimed a woman. - -“They’ll soon bring the fire under, too,” observed a man. - -No one noticed Malcolm hurrying along with his beloved burden enveloped -in a dark shawl. All eyes were fixed on the ignited building, upon the -walls of which the fire-engines, which had now arrived, were playing -freely. - -Malcolm reached the thicket in safety. He sat down for a moment to rest -Eudora and uncovered her face to give her air. He thought that she had -swooned, but this was not so. She was pale, and weak, and limber, but -breathing and conscious. She was the first to speak. Raising her eyes to -his, she asked: - -“What is all this? What has occurred?” - -“You are saved, dearest Eudora!” - -“How?” - -“I scarcely know myself. Ask no questions yet, dear one, but rally all -your strength to fly with me.” - -He placed her gently on a bank, where she could rest against the trunk -of a tree. He led his horse to the spot, stooped and raised her to the -seat before him, and rode slowly and carefully until he was out of the -wood. Then putting spurs to his horse, he galloped swiftly towards the -sea-coast. As his horse rushed onward Malcolm turned to look at the -fire, and was gratified to see that the flames were certainly in process -of extinction. With a lighter heart he galloped along the beach until at -length he reached the cove, where his hired vessel lay at anchor. - -Day was now dawning, and by its faint light they discerned the little -boat upon the sands, and the vessel standing off a short distance from -the shore. - -Malcolm, leaving the horse to his fate, placed Eudora in the boat, -pushed it off, took up the pair of oars, and rowed rapidly to the -vessel. - -The captain was on deck, ready to receive his passengers, whom he had -been led to believe were only a pair of “true lovers” running away to be -married. - -“Poor young lady, but she is dreadfully faint,” he said, as he received -Eudora from Malcolm’s arms, and bore her into the cabin, where he laid -her gently upon the berths. - -“She is; but rest and safety will restore her. When can you sail?” - -“This instant! the tide has turned.” - -“UP ANCHOR!” shouted the captain, hurrying upon deck. - -The anchor was raised, the canvas was unfurled to the breeze, and the -little vessel sailed away upon the blue sea. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXI. - ANNELLA’S RETURN. - - “For the soul of a sinner - Let masses be said; - The sin shall be nameless, - And nameless the maid.” - - -Long and fearful was the watch kept by poor Tabitha Tabs, who had -stationed herself at the back gate of the lawn to await Annella’s -return. As hour after hour passed away she grew more and more anxious. -Where could the strange girl be? When would she come back? Would she -ever come back? If not, what would be the consequences? Tabitha -shuddered even to conjecture. - -At length, when she had grown almost hysterical with suspense, anxiety, -and terror, she was startled by seeing a light rising in the distance. -It was the burning prison! It was too far off for her to hear the cries -of “Fire!” or even the alarm-bells, so she could not know what building -was in flames; but the fascination of the fire, lighting up the midnight -sky, kept her gazing open-eyed and open-mouthed, and forgetful of all -her causes of anxiety. She would even have called her fellow-servants to -share the delight of this spectacle, but that she feared they would -question how she came to be up and watching, and might thus discover the -absence of Annella, who might even return while they were all enjoying -the pageantry of this illuminated midnight sky. - -While she still gazed upon the scene, with these thoughts revolving -through her mind, there was a sharp rap at the gate, followed by the -voice of Annella, wildly demanding admittance. - -“Lord sake, Miss Annella, I am glad you have come at last! I never spent -such an anxious night in all my life. Wherever have you been? And you -shall never go out in this way again with _my_ connivance! And can you -tell me what house that is a-fire?” inquired Tabitha, as she unbolted -the gate, and put out her hand to draw in the returning fugitive. - -But the hand she took was burning hot, and the words that replied to her -were wild and incoherent. - -Tabitha could not see the face of Annella, but she was greatly alarmed, -and holding the hand of the excited girl, she hurried her on to the -house, up the back stairs and into her chamber. There she struck a light -and looked at Annella’s face. That face was fearful to behold. The -cheeks were burning with fever; the eyes were blazing with frenzy. - -“Good Lord! the girl is delirious!” cried Tabitha, in affright. - -But, panic-stricken as she was, she had the presence of mind to undress -Annella and place her in the bed, and put away all her clothing, and set -the room in order before she gave the alarm. Then, indeed, she aroused -the housekeeper, telling her that Miss Wilder was extremely ill and -raving mad, and that a physician should be summoned at once. - -Barbara Broadsides felt herself quite equal to such an emergency, and -therefore declined to wake up her old mistresses before their accustomed -hour. But she aroused Mr. Jessup, and dispatched him to Abbeytown to -fetch a doctor, who arrived about the dawn of day. He pronounced the -illness of Annella to be a most alarming type of brain-fever, and -applied the proper remedies. - -This was the beginning of a long and dangerous illness, during which the -delirious girl continually raved of fire and floods, perils and rescues; -but as no one but Tabitha in that house knew the secret of her absence -that night, her talk was all considered to be the mere wanderings of a -mind excited and deranged by fever, as, perhaps, it might have been. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXII. - THE WRECK AND THE DISCLOSURE. - - “Storm that, like a demon, - Howls with horrid note - Round the toiling seamen - In the tossing boat— - Drive her out to sea! - - “Sleet, and hail, and thunder— - And ye winds that rave - Till the sands thereunder - Tinge the sullen wave— - Drive her out to sea!” - - -The little vessel sailed onward over the blue sea. She was bound for a -small and distant port on the coast of France, but she made slow way -against a wind almost dead ahead. - -Leaving Eudora sleeping in the cabin-berth, Malcolm went on deck to get -a little fresh air. While standing in the forward part of the vessel, he -observed a man with his back turned and his head bowed upon his breast, -in an attitude of deep dejection, leaning against the mast. Something in -the general form and air of this man seemed half familiar and half -alarming to Montrose. Unable to analyze his instincts in regard to this -stranger, he beckoned the captain to approach, and inquired, in a tone -of displeasure: - -“Who is that man? How is it that you have taken another passenger, when -I bargained for the sole use of the vessel?” - -“Why, sir, he is not a passenger, but a hand I picked up at Abbeyport, -to replace one of my men who is too ill for this trip,” answered the -captain. - -“What is his name?” - -“Antony More.” - -“Antony More!” repeated Malcolm to himself, as he walked up to the -stranger, and confronted—Antonio Morio, the _soi-disant_ seneschal of -the Princess Pezzilini! - -“Self-preservation is the first law of nature. What have you to say why -I should not forthwith pitch you into the sea, Signor Antonio?” inquired -Malcolm, sternly. - -“This, Mr. Montrose!—that, so help me Heaven, I will not betray you, nor -that sweet young lady in the cabin,” answered the man, not in broken -English, but in such good vernacular that it might have been his mother -tongue. - -“Why are you here?” - -“That is my secret! Torture should not wring it from me. Pitch me into -the sea if you like, Mr. Montrose! I’d quite as lief, you would! I shall -say no more.” - -Full of thought, Malcolm walked away from this man, whom he observed was -as pale as death, and looked as if recently recovered from some nearly -fatal illness. - -“The wind is rising,” said the captain; “I fear we shall have a gale.” - -Malcolm hoped not, and went below to carry such refreshments as the -vessel afforded to Eudora. After she had partaken of them, she expressed -a wish to go up on deck, and Malcolm assisted her to ascend. - -“Oh, dear friend! if you could conceive the rapture of moving in wide -space, breathing free air, and looking upon the boundless sea and sky -once more!” exclaimed Eudora, sinking upon the couch of rugs and -cushions that Malcolm had prepared for her upon the deck. - -He sat down at her feet, and began to tell her of their destination, and -that immediately upon their arrival it would be necessary for them to be -united in marriage, and that then they would sail for America, and -commence life together. - -Eudora listened with calm delight. - -But while they talked the wind was rising rapidly and lashing the waves -into fury. The little vessel began to roll so heavily that Eudora was -driven below for safety. Malcolm guided her down into the cabin. - -The wind was now so high that they were compelled to take in the sails, -and the voice of the captain was heard shouting at the head of the cabin -stairs: - -“For God’s sake, Mr. Montrose, come up and help us, or we are lost.” - -Malcolm secured Eudora as well as he could, and hurried up on deck to -render assistance. - -The storm came on apace. The sky was now as dark as night. The -froth-capped waves rushed like foaming steeds before the lashing of the -wind. - -The little vessel, driven back on her course, was forced to tack and -scud under bare poles before the gale, and towards the coast from whence -she had sailed but a few hours ago. All the afternoon the little craft, -struggling bravely for her life, was driven furiously before the winds -and waves. - -As evening deepened, the sky darkened to a blacker hue, and the gale -increased in violence. The captain and his mate never left the deck for -an instant. Malcolm gave all the aid he could, but went below -occasionally to reassure Eudora. - -“I am not afraid, dear Malcolm. How could any one who has passed through -what I have, be afraid of anything else that could happen in this world? -Go on deck and help to save the vessel, and think no more of me,” was -her constant answer. - -Ah! she did not know that they were being driven swiftly back upon the -coast of England, to which they were already fearfully near. - -The night was now dark as the grave. Not a ray of light was to be seen, -except the phosphorescent sparkling of the leaping waves. On—on—the -little vessel plunged through the black fury of the tempest. The men had -lost all control over her, and merely waited for death, while she was -whirled, tossing and pitching, now whelming in the black waves, now -lifted towards the sky, and ever carried onward towards the lee shore. -While fate was thus imminent, Malcolm had brought Eudora from the cabin, -and bound her firmly to himself, so as to leave his limbs free for -struggling with the waves. And thus they awaited their doom. At length -it came. The vessel was slowly lifted on a mighty wave, and dashed with -a stupendous shock upon the sands; and in the same instant all were -struggling for life in the black and furious waves. - -Malcolm was a strong swimmer; but he never could explain, because he -never knew, how he and his companion reached the shore that terrible -night. - -He only knew that while the black chaos still roared around him, he -found himself high on the beach, stunned and exhausted, with the -dripping and drowned form of Eudora in his arms. - -Fishermen from the cliffs above were hurrying down with lanterns to -render assistance to the shipwrecked mariners. - -Two of these came towards him and with homely words of sympathy, took -charge of him and his drowned Eudora, and bore them off to a cottage on -the cliff. - -“She is dead! quite dead!” moaned Malcolm, in a voice of despair that -sounded like content, as he gazed upon the cold, still form that the -fisherman’s wife had laid upon the rude cottage bed. - -“Not she, sir; we’ll bring her to presently, if you’ll go in t’other -room and leave her to us,” said the kind dame. - -Malcolm turned into the kitchen, where the fisherman supplied him with a -suit of dry clothes and a glass of brandy that had never lost its flavor -by passing through the custom-house. - -And then, while Malcolm sat before the kitchen fire, waiting anxiously -to hear some report of Eudora’s state, the fisherman relighted his -lantern and went out to see what further aid he could render to the -sufferers. After an absence of half an hour he returned, and seating -himself beside his guest, inquired: - -“How many on you might ha’ been aboard that craft, master?” - -Malcolm informed him. - -“Well, then they’re all landed alive.” - -“Thank God!” - -“Aye; but whether they are all saved, that is another matter, master. -Some on ’em are badly hurt; and one on ’em mos’ particular badly hurt, -poor fellow! nigh upon killed, I should think. He’s lying in the next -cottage.” - -Malcolm uttered some few words of sympathy, but his whole heart was with -Eudora. He could think of no one else. At length the fisherman’s wife -appeared to relieve his anxiety. “The young lady had come round,” she -said, “and had inquired after the gentleman, and being told that he was -safe and well, she had taken a quieting drink and gone to sleep. And now -could the gentleman do better than to follow her example? There was a -good bed in the room up-stairs that was heartily at his honor’s -service.” - -Malcolm thanked the woman, and followed the man, who led him up-stairs, -to a humble attic, where he stretched himself upon a hard bed. But -notwithstanding the weariness and exhaustion of his body, the excitement -and anxiety of his mind kept him from sleep until near morning, when he -was aroused by a loud knocking at his door. It was the fisherman, who -entered, deprecatingly saying: - -“Excuse _me_, master, but _might_ your name be Mr. Montrose?” - -“Yes; what is the matter?” demanded the young man, in a voice so -startled as to seem angry, for he dreaded some evil to Eudora. - -“Why, then, master, the poor man as were so badly hurt last night, which -we think he is dying, is very particular anxious to see you, sir.” - -“Which of them is he? What is his name?” - -“Antony More, sir.” - -“Antonio Morio!” exclaimed Malcolm, springing from the bed, and quickly -preparing to visit the dying man, whom ten minutes after he found lying -upon a poor cot in the next hut. - -“What can I do for you?” inquired Malcolm, seating himself beside the -man. - -“First send all these people from the room, as our interview must be a -private one,” answered Morio, or More, as we shall hereafter call him. - -Malcolm made a sign to the fisherman’s family, who withdrew from sight -only to plant themselves at convenient listening-posts without. - -“They say the poor young lady is saved from the wreck. Is it true?” - -“Yes.” - -“I’m glad to be sure about it; for if she had escaped to France, or if -she had perished in the waves, I should have died and made no sign. I -should have been faithful to the friend who has ruined me, even though -she would have consummated that ruin in death, and offered me up the -last of the holocaust of victims sacrificed to her evil passions. But -now that that poor girl is thrown again upon these shores, to suffer for -another’s crimes, and that I am dying, I dare not carry to the grave the -secret that might save her; or face my Judge with her innocent blood on -my soul!” - -Malcolm bent over the dying man, and listened with suspended breath, -fearing to ask a question, or to make an observation, lest he should -arrest the confession that was trembling on his lips. - -“The theologians are all wrong in supposing the great principal evil to -be a male—it is a female. Satan is a woman—I am sure of it, and many -another man must know it also. An evil woman gains a spell over a man’s -senses, and then a power over his soul, that is like diabolical magic. -The man may know her, scorn her, hate her, but he cannot escape from -her. Sometimes he goes mad and kills her, and gets himself hanged for -it, and finds freedom, purchased even at that price, an infinite relief. -Such an ascendancy one fatal woman gained over me. For years I have been -her dupe, her slave, her tool. She has been my god, for at her command I -have broken all the laws of the Divine One—all, all! At her command I -would have - - “‘Marched to death as to a festival!’” - -The man paused from exhaustion; but after a few moments of silence, -continued: - -“Why she wished to destroy the house of Leaton I do not know, but I -became her blind tool in that work of destruction——” - -“Name this woman!” exclaimed Malcolm, under his breath. - -“I cannot; I know neither her name nor her country. She bears half a -dozen aliases, and speaks with equal facility half a dozen modern -languages—” - -“You mean the Italian Princess Pezzilini?” - -“I mean the mysterious woman who has successfully imposed herself upon a -few guileless country families as that illustrious lady. I first met her -many years ago at Rome, where I was in the suite of the English -Ambassador, and she in the household of the Princess Gentilescha -Pezzilini. When the Palazza Pezzilini was burned by the mob, she -purloined the family jewels and papers, and fled with me to Paris, -where, with the aid of her documents, she succeeded in passing herself -upon Lord Leaton’s retired circle as the illustrious lady who had really -perished in the burning palace. She accompanied them to England, -bringing me in her train. You know what followed. Why she wished to -exterminate the whole race of her benefactors from the face of the -earth, I never knew. She used me without trusting me, or confided in me -only so far as was absolutely needful. And when she had no further use -for me, she turned her death-dealing powers against me to get me out of -the way. Death was dealt to me insidiously, slowly, and cautiously; but -still I knew that it _was_ death, and that it came from her hand. Even -then I was too much under her spell to denounce her; but I escaped from -her, and fled for my life when I embarked in the vessel. Judge how glad -I was that the poor innocent girl was escaping too!” - -“But to do that young lady justice, you are aware that this confession -must be made on oath before a magistrate, in the presence of witnesses, -with every circumstantial detail, and reduced to writing.” - -“I know that, and have already sent to summon the proper persons,” -moaned the man, who now seemed thoroughly exhausted. - -Malcolm gave him drink. And in a few minutes afterwards a justice of the -peace, attended by his clerk, arrived at the hut. A magistrate in a -populous district is inured to startling revelations. Therefore this -worthy justice sat calmly through the terrible statement made upon oath -by the dying man, and reduced to writing by the clerk. The document was -signed by Antony More, and witnessed by Malcolm Montrose and another. - -The necessary warrants were then issued, and the magistrate departed, -leaving a constable in charge of the dying witness, whom the doctors -pronounced unfit for removal. - -Malcolm Montrose hurried to the cottage where Eudora lay concealed, to -comfort her with news of the revelation that would completely vindicate -her fair fame. - - - - - CHAPTER XXXIII. - THE DENOUEMENT. - - “And well my folly’s meed you gave, - Who forfeited, to be your slave, - All here and all beyond the grave! - You saw another’s face more fair, - You knew her of broad lands the heir, - Forgot your vows, your faith forswore. - And I was then beloved no more.” - - -The whole conversation at Abbeytown turned upon the subject of the -accident at the prison. It was well ascertained that the fire had -originated in the clothes-room. But the flames had been extinguished -before any very material damage was done to the building. No one was -injured, and no one was missing, except Eudora Leaton, who was supposed -to have perished in the flames or to have escaped in the confusion. - -Annella Wilder, on her fevered bed, raved of conflagrations and -tempests, and deadly perils by fire or flood. And the two old ladies -scolded all the women for mentioning the burning prison in her presence. - -“For how could she have known anything about it but for their gabbling -in the sick room?” inquired Mrs. Stilton. - -The admiral was divided between anxiety for the recovery of his -grand-daughter and aspiration for the love of the Princess Pezzilini! -Yes, despite his own bitter matrimonial reminiscences, his threescore -years, and the constant supervision of the two sybils, “that boy” had -become the bond-slave of the Italian princess. In addition to the -beauty, accomplishments, and fascination of the woman, there were other -strong reasons for this infatuation. The admiral, like most self-made -men, had a profound veneration for hereditary greatness. And her assumed -title of “princess,” even though it only represented the ill-defined -rank of an _Italian_ princess, threw a halo over the Pezzilini that -enhanced her value a hundred-fold. - -Then the admiral was of an heroic temper, and her perilous adventures -charmed his mind. He was also excessively benevolent, and her -misfortunes melted his heart. - -Thus it happened that the admiral was kneeling at the feet of the -“princess,” in the recess of the bay window, when the officers arrived -with the warrant for her “highness’s” arrest. - -The “princess” was calmly incredulous; the household were astonished; -the admiral was furious! It was a mistake, an absurdity, an outrage; but -the persecuted princess was in England, the land of civil and religious -liberty, thank Heaven! and should have justice done her, so he said. - -He ordered out his own carriage to take her before the magistrate, and -insisted on escorting her. The officers made no objection to these -arrangements, stipulating only that they should occupy the remaining two -seats in the carriage, so as to keep their charge in view. In this -manner the _soi-disant_ princess was taken to the town-hall, where the -magistrates were then sitting. The examination occupied a very long -time, yet the case was so clearly made out against the adventuress that -she was fully committed for trial. And the same day a report of the -proceedings was dispatched to the Home Secretary, with a petition in -behalf of Eudora Leaton, falsely convicted of poisoning her uncle’s -family, and reported missing since the fire. This was met by a respite -of the sentence until after the trial of Madame Pezzilini should either -confirm or refute the testimony upon which the latter had been indicted. - -The assizes was still in session, and the trial was fixed for an early -day. - -Antony More, to the surprise of every one, survived his great injuries, -and was able to appear in the court as a witness against her. His -testimony was clear, conclusive, and corroborated by certain facts -produced in evidence. The trial occupied three days, at the end of which -the self-styled princess was convicted and sentenced. She received her -doom with the cool self-possession she had displayed throughout the -whole proceedings. Only once she betrayed a momentary emotion. -Throughout her short imprisonment she had been frequently visited by an -elderly woman, whose relations to her were unknown. Soon after being -placed in the condemned cell, she was visited by this woman, upon whose -bosom she threw herself in a transient burst of feeling. - -“Do nothing rash, my mother—my most injured mother. Keep your own -counsel, for I will never betray you!” - -The next instant she was as calm and self-possessed as ever, but the -wardress had overheard her words. - -When the visitor had departed, the prisoner was carefully searched by -the women, but no instrument of self-destruction was found upon her, and -she was permitted at last to lie down and rest, guarded by the wardress. - -On the night succeeding the conviction of the strange adventuress, the -Lord Chief Baron Elverton was seated alone in his apartment at the -Leaton Arms, pondering over the subject of the most inexplicable -criminal trial at which he had ever presided; for though the guilt of -the accused had been established to the satisfaction of the Jury, yet -her motive for the deed was still a deep mystery. - -Jealousy, revenge, avarice, ambition, the usual incentives to such -crimes, seemed totally wanting in this case, and why she had -exterminated her benefactor’s family was still a secret. - -While the baron pondered over this subject, the door was opened and a -visitor announced. - -It was a woman of majestic appearance, clothed in deep mourning and -closely veiled. - -She advanced to the table, at which he was seated, and threw aside her -veil. And oh, what a countenance was there revealed! - -It was a fine face, still bearing the vestiges of magnificent beauty, -but it was the thunder-blasted beauty of the ruined archangel! - -“Again!” cried the baron, with a shudder of horror, as he met her dark, -splendid eyes, now blazing with the fires of insanity. - -“Ay, again! for the third and last time since your sin, I stand before -you, Baron Elverton!” replied the stranger. - -“In the name of Heaven, what is your will with me?” - -“To sum up—_just judge!_” - -“I know not what you mean beyond this, that it must be some new -diabolism!” - -“Do you know who you have condemned to death to-day?” - -“No, beyond the fact that she was an adventuress with a half dozen -aliases, a murderess, who merited breaking upon the wheel rather than -any milder form of death!” - -“Ah, she was very wicked, was she not?” - -“A double-dyed, diabolical traitor to destroy her benefactors, and -without even any apparent motive for the deed!” - -“But perhaps she could not help it. Treachery and ingratitude were -hereditary with her, were in her blood, were given to her at her birth.” - -“What dark meaning now lurks under your words?” - -“Listen, Baron Elverton, while I tell you. More years ago than I care to -count, the sinful woman who confronts you now for the last time was a -sinless child—the only child of a poor old widowed country curate. She -became, at seventeen years of age, the nursery governess of your little -sisters. You saw and admired her beauty. You made her your wife by a -secret marriage.” - -“Woman! why do you recall these follies after all these years?” - -“To lead to the end! You made Harriette Newton your wife by a -clandestine marriage, but you were a few months under age, and the -marriage was not binding unless you should choose to make it so after -your majority. Alas! before that time arrived you had repented of your -‘low’ marriage, and grown tired of the humble woman whose peace you had -destroyed. When your secret was discovered you humbled yourself to your -offended father; you promised never to see the ‘girl’ again; you -suffered her to be sent back with ignominy to break the heart of _her_ -father, for the poor old curate never held up his head again; he died -before his daughter became a mother—” - -“Harriette, I was a boy then—” - -“A boy with the hardened heart of a veteran sinner! Your father died; -you came into your estates; and I, with my daughter in my arms, threw -myself at your feet, and entreated you to acknowledge us as your wife -and child—” - -“And then I would have done it, Harriette.” - -“Aye, for a moment nature made herself heard above the clamor of pride, -ambition, selfishness! You would have yielded, you would then and there -have restored us to our places in your heart and home, but you were -prevented!” - -“Aye, I was prevented!” - -“And who was it that hindered you in that act of justice? Your bosom -friend and confidant, _Henry Lord Leaton_! He it was who, in that moment -of your better feelings, laid his hand upon your shoulder, and bade you -pause and reflect; told you that marriage with an inferior was always a -snare and a curse to both parties; that I was unfitted for the sphere of -life to which you would have raised me; that by such a marriage you -would be humiliated and wretched, and I misplaced and miserable; bade -you remember the fate of the ‘Ladye of Burleigh,’ and take warning, and -advised you to repudiate and provide for us! ‘Provide for us!’ I think -even _he_ saw that I would have seen my child slowly starve to death in -my arms rather than have taken one crumb from the father who refused to -acknowledge her as his legitimate daughter!” exclaimed the woman, with -her eyes suddenly kindling. - -“He was a high-toned, honorable man; he meant well by you and me.” - -“Especially by me and my child, whom he consigned to a life of misery, -dishonor and reproach!” said the woman, in withering scorn. “Enough! by -his advice and his assistance, you succeeded in annulling your juvenile -marriage and repudiating your wife and child! Once more we are turned -from your door. I had a long illness, during which, I think, my soul -must have left my body, and the spirit of a fiend entered it. For, a -loving, suffering, forgiving woman, I fell into that fever, but I arose -from it the avenger of my own sex, the destroyer of yours!” - -He knew that her words were the ravings of insanity, and yet they seemed -to curdle his blood. - -She continued: - -“Were there not fallen angels enough in this pandemonium of a world that -you might have spared the poor old curate’s little daughter? What excuse -had you for her destruction? Love? Bah! Love does not destroy its -object! Passion? Passion is of the soul, and your soul was smothered in -selfishness even in your infancy! You feel a single glow of human love -or passion, who from boyhood have been a monster of egotism! But I did -not come here to deal in invective—I came to wind up accounts with you -for ever. Enough that I arose from that bed of illness a spirit prepared -for any work of evil! Every door was closed against me—every road barred -except that which leads down to death and perdition! I do not intend to -amuse you, baron, with the life of a lost spirit. I was not far from you -on that grand day when you led the Lady Elfrida Gaunt to the altar; and -my curse that arose to Heaven interrupted the marriage benediction. I -was near you also on that other proud day, when bonfires blazed and -bells were rung, and oxen roasted in honor of the christening of your -heir, and my curse neutralized the blessing of the babe. Then I pressed -my own discarded child to my heart, and recorded a vow of vengeance upon -two men and all their race, even though it should take me a long -lifetime to work it out. How long I pursued you secretly, how often I -failed, need not here be told. One day I found myself in Paris, among -congenial spirits, where a career opened before me; where evil is -organized into a perfect working system, having its constitution and -by-laws—its forms of government and schools of training—its lovely girls -and handsome boys, educated into accomplished women and men to become -the sirens and satyrs of society. Of this secret band I became a member. -Men called me beautiful and gifted. I went upon the stage, not from -necessity, but to facilitate my intercourse with a certain set of -wealthy dupes, for I still continued a bond member of the secret -society. Years passed and I became a celebrity. At last I met the aged -and decrepit General de la Compte. He offered me marriage and I accepted -him. He had a daughter but a few months younger than my own. He died in -the second year of our marriage, leaving me to bring up the two girls. -When these young women had reached a marriageable age, your son, grown -to manhood, appeared in Paris—” - -Here the woman paused, and looked wistfully into the blanched face of -the old man; then, with a dreadful smile, she said: - -“But you know the story—” - -“Woman of Belial, yes!” - -“But you do not know whom you have doomed to death to-day.” - -“Ha! There is something more than meets the ear in this reiterated -question! Whom do you mean?” - -“Your own daughter! She who, but for your black treachery, would now be -ruling in your halls, heiress of Elverton, instead of lying in a -prison-cell, a convicted felon!” - -“Great Heaven! this is most horrible! But then—but then—if this story is -true, the communication that you made to my unhappy son, upon that fatal -night which drove him in madness from his home, a fugitive and a -wanderer over the face of the earth, and turned the fair home into a -Gehenna of remorse and despair was false—must have been utterly false!” -exclaimed the baron, in uncontrollable agitation between the horror he -felt at being told that the criminal he had just condemned to death was -his own discarded daughter, and the joy that rushed upon him with the -thought that another and a deeper curse was removed from his house. - -His condition between these two excessive and antagonistic emotions -bordered upon insanity. - -“Ah!” muttered the woman to herself, with an expression of perplexity -and pain traversing her fine features as she passed her hand over her -brow; “I did not mean to betray that fact; but my brain! my brain; I am -not well!” - -“Harriette!” exclaimed the baron, excited beyond all measure, as he -arose and dropped his hand upon her shoulder, “Harriette, as you hope -for God’s pardon in your dying hour—” - -“I do _not_ hope for his pardon!” interrupted the woman, gloomily. - -“TELL ME, who is she that lies doomed to death in yonder cell?” demanded -the baron, without noticing her interruption. - -“I have told you! your daughter and mine! the rightful heiress of -Elverton, if justice had been done!” - -“And she whom my son married—” - -“I have unwillingly betrayed that secret too I take it, since you have -it! Your son’s wife is the daughter of the late General de la Compte, by -his first wife, and was, therefore, _not_ within the prohibited degree -of kindred according to the marriage code. Our daughter never married; -she was destined to another doom; to work her mother’s will; to avenge -her mother’s wrongs. For this I kept her always near me; won her whole -heart; absorbed her will; mastered her spirit. Whatever she has done in -this world has been done for me, and often blindly by her. She had but -one human affection—filial love. To-day the daughter stood before the -father’s face to receive from him the doom of death. But the doom was -unmerited.” - -“Woman! what do you tell me?” - -“She was guiltless of the death of the Leatons!” - -“Who, then, was the destroyer?” - -“_I!_” shouted the monomaniac. “I, THE AVENGER! I, who, in the same hour -that I turned away from your triumphant wickedness, with my discarded -child pressed to my bleeding heart—I who, in the same hour that was -transformed from a woman to a fiend, vowed a vow of exterminating wrath -against two men, with all their race, and sold my soul to Satan for the -power of accomplishing the work! Had not Satan failed me at the last, -the race of Leaton would have been extinguished in blood and shame. That -of Elverton, would have lived in misery and dishonor—worse than death -and perdition.” - -“Woman, you wildly rave! Come to your senses—collect yourself, explain; -you say that your daughter was guiltless; that _you_ were the criminal; -if this is not a mere trick to attempt to defeat the ends of justice, -how do you explain away the direct evidence of Antony More, who swore -that he was employed by the so-called Princess Pezzilini to procure the -drugs of which the Leatons died!” inquired Lord Elverton, who, amidst -all the violent emotion that shook the bosom of the man retained the -mental calmness of the judge. - -“Antony More was a fool and a beast; the slave of a slave; the mere tool -of her who was but the tool of her mother. I put into the hands of my -daughter a card with the name of the drug I wanted written upon it. I -said to her, ‘Give this card to your dog, Antonio, and tell him to -procure the drug secretly and bring it to you; when you get it, pass it -secretly to me.’ This was done. Afterwards, she privately admitted me to -the house on various occasions by night; and so the work was -accomplished; and the last Leaton would have perished on the scaffold -for the murder of the others, but that Satan failed me at the very last! -It was necessary to get rid of Antony More; but I was not quick enough -about it. He took the alarm and fled, and you know the result—a -shipwreck, a confession, and the arrest, trial, and conviction of Agnes. -But Agnes is guiltless! guiltless even of purloining the jewels and -documents of the Princess Gentilescha Pezzilini, which were really given -into my hands for safe custody during the time of trouble; and only -after the burning of the palace and the death of the princess were they -used by me for the furtherance of our plans. For the rest, whatever -Agnes might have suspected, she never certainly knew why I wanted the -_Fabæ Sancta Ignatii_, or for what purpose I kept myself concealed in -the neighborhood and gained admittance to the abbey only in the dead of -night. That dolt, Antony More, complained that she never took him into -her confidence! How could she, when she had nothing to confide to him? -But she is guiltless, and must not perish! She was the only human -creature that was ever true to me; but she must not die for me! Baron -Elverton, I came here to denounce myself as the destroyer of the Leaton -family! You know your duty; do it!” - -“Yes,” he said, “whether you are mad or sane, it is equally necessary -that you should be placed in custody; and to-morrow this affair shall be -investigated. If your unfortunate daughter should be proved really -guiltless, justice must be done her at any cost to myself or to you! And -you, wretched woman! must take your chance between the doom of death and -the living grave of Bedlam!” said the Baron, as he rang the bell and -summoned the proper officers. - -And ten minutes afterwards the woman was in custody of the police. - -Early the next morning inquiries were set on foot. They were too late to -avail the unhappy, blind instrument of a mother’s vengeance. The -_soi-disant_ Princess Pezzilini was found dead in her bed. A small -locket ring, that fitted tightly upon her finger, was open; but instead -of some minute likeness of a friend’s face, or small lock of a lover’s -hair, it contained only a tiny glass cavity, which being subjected to -scientific experiments, was supposed to have contained a certain deadly -poison, one drop of which was sufficient to have produced instantaneous -dissolution. - -Yes, “like the scorpion girt with fire,” she had stung herself to death! - -In due time the criminals were brought to justice and paid the penalty -of their crimes. - -When the turbulent emotions excited by these later events had somewhat -subsided, Malcolm Montrose and Eudora Leaton were quietly married at the -village church. - -Annella Wilder, who had recovered from her severe illness, attended as -bridesmaid. Norham Montrose officiated as best man. Admiral Sir Ira -Brunton gave the bride away. - -After the ceremony they set out immediately for Southhampton, whence -they sailed for India, where Montrose had received a high official -appointment, and where, for the further restoration of Eudora’s peace of -mind, he had determined to fix their future residence. - -Up to the hour of their departure one trouble had weighed upon the mind -of Malcolm. That grief remained unspoken, yet found its most eloquent -expression in the earnest gaze he sent into Annella’s eyes as he pressed -her hand in a last adieu. She understood, and replied to his look, by -saying: - -“I know what it is that you would say if you dared! but you are widely -mistaken. _I did not set fire to the prison!_ Not even to have saved -Eudora’s precious life would I have endangered hundreds of other lives. -No, desperate as my plan of rescue was, it was not so criminal as that! -What the nature of my original project was it is needless now to say, -since it was forestalled by accident. It is enough for me to admit that -I had concealed myself in the building that night for the purpose of -carrying out my plan of rescue when the alarm of fire startled me as -well as others. My first thought was of Eudora and her safety, and I was -rushing through the black and suffocated lobby, in which her cell was -situated, when I was met by the governor, who, in the double darkness of -night and thick smoke, mistook me for the only person who had any -business there—Nally, the old turnkey of that ward. Thus I got -possession of the key of the cell, and was enabled to keep my word with -you. I did it without crime. Take that comfort to India with you.” - -“God bless you, Annella!” exclaimed Malcolm drawing a deep inspiration -with a sense of infinite relief, as he pressed her hand and bade her -farewell. - -The long-severed pair of Edenlawn—long-severed through the crudest -misrepresentation—were at length re-united. The world, who neither knew -the cause of their severance nor of their re-union, ascribed both to -caprice; but the contented family at Edenlawn cared little for its -misapprehension. - -Strong suspicion of foul play on the part of the unfortunate and guilty -Madame de la Compte had brought Hollis Elverton again to England, but -her cunning had baffled his unaided attempts at investigation, while the -very nature of his wrongs prevented him from calling in the aid of the -detective police, and thus accident alone brought the guilty to justice. - -With the full approbation of their mutual friends, Norham Montrose and -Alma Elverton were married, and, at the desire of all parties, fixed -their abode at Edenlawn, where Alma’s “hunger of the heart” is at length -fully satisfied, for in her the circle of human love is complete. She -lives in the rich enjoyment of father’s, mother’s, husband’s, and -children’s affection. She is the centre of their household, the darling -of all hearts and eyes, the consolation even of the grave old man, who, -retired from official life, passed his time in reading, prayer, -meditation, and deeds of mercy, and who is less proud of Alma as his -heiress, and the future Baroness of Elverton, than fond of her as a good -and lovely woman. - -The last marriage that we have to record is that of Lieutenant Valerius -Brightwell, R. N., and Miss Annella Wilder, which took place quite -recently with great _eclat_. As the young couple were the joint heirs of -Admiral Brunton, and as the bride was very young, and the bridegroom on -the point of sailing on a distant service, it was arranged that they -should fix their permanent residence at the Anchorage; and so, should -old Mrs. Stilton be still unable “to conquer her chronic malady of -living,” we shrink from surmising how many degrees of descendants she -may have to look down upon. - -Mrs. Corder and her thirteen children are made comfortable by the -liberality of Eudora. The worthy little widow owns the neatly-furnished -house and the well-stocked shop in which she lives happily and does a -flourishing business. Her elder children are apprenticed to profitable -trades, and the younger ones are put to good schools. Mrs. Corder was -always so happy, even in her adversity, that she could scarcely be said -to be more so now in her prosperity. - -Allworth Abbey remains untenanted, closely shut up and in charge of the -housekeeper, Mrs. Vose, who prefers to live at the lodge, and who will -not even be bribed to show the inside of the building,—no, not even to -the most curious and importunate of tourists. - -The Barony of Leaton remains in abeyance. - -Malcolm Montrose, on the part of his wife, draws the large revenues of -the Abbey estates that are flourishing under the care of an able -steward. - -Whether Mr. Montrose will ever advance his wife’s claim to the Barony of -Leaton, or whether Eudora will ever have nerve enough to return to the -scene of her terrible sorrows, remains an open question. - -In the sunny land of her birth she is in the possession of all the -happiness she is capable of enjoying—the love of a devoted husband, -beautiful children, and faithful friends; an honorable position, an -ample fortune, and good health. As for the rest, the scars of those -early, deep wounds, they may possibly never be effaced in this world. As -long as she lives on earth, perhaps some subjects and some memories will -cause her cheek to blanch and her blood to curdle with a deadly -soul-sickness; but we commend her, with all the stricken in heart and -wounded in spirit to that Benignant Power, which being “almighty to -create,” is also ALMIGHTY TO RENEW. - - - THE END. - ------------------------------------------------------------------------- - - - - - TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES - - - 1. Silently corrected obvious typographical errors and variations in - spelling. - 2. Retained archaic, non-standard, and uncertain spellings as printed. - Also retained Chapter XI, “Runaway” in the Contents; “Wanderer” - in the body text. - 4. Enclosed italics font in _underscores_. - 5. Denoted superscripts by a caret before a single superscript - character. - 6. 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