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+*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79290 ***
+
+
+
+
+                          THE FATAL MARRIAGE;
+                                  OR,
+                            ORVILLE DEVILLE.
+
+
+                                   BY
+
+                     MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH.
+
+    AUTHOR OF “ISHMAEL,” “SELF-RAISED,” “THE MISSING BRIDE,” “A NOBLE
+    LORD,” “RETRIBUTION,” “A BEAUTIFUL FIEND,” “HOW HE WON HER,” “THE
+ CHANGED BRIDES,” “TRIED FOR HER LIFE,” “THE BRIDE’S FATE,” “THE LADY OF
+   THE ISLE,” “CRUEL AS THE GRAVE,” “FALLEN PRIDE,” “THE WIDOW’S SON,”
+  “ALLWORTH ABBEY,” “THE LOST HEIRESS,” “THE FAMILY DOOM,” “THE GYPSY’S
+   PROPHECY,” “THE ARTIST’S LOVE,” “THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD,” “VICTOR’S
+   TRIUMPH,” “THE CURSE OF CLIFTON,” “THE FATAL SECRET,” “THE FORTUNE
+  SEEKER,” “THE SPECTRE LOVER,” “THE MAIDEN WIDOW,” “THE TWO SISTERS,”
+ “FAIR PLAY,” “THE BRIDAL EVE,” “VIVIA,” “THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS,” “THE
+    LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW,” “THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN,” “THE PHANTOM
+ WEDDING,” “THE MOTHER-IN-LAW,” “THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER,” “THE DESERTED
+ WIFE,” “THE CHRISTMAS GUEST,” “THE WIFE’S VICTORY,” “LOVE’S LABOR WON,”
+                   “THE THREE BEAUTIES,” “INDIA,” ETC.
+
+              “_’Tis an old tale, and often told;
+                But did my fate and wish agree,
+              Ne’er had been read in story old,
+              Of maiden true, betrayed for gold;
+                Who loved or was avenged like me._”—SCOTT.
+
+                             PHILADELPHIA:
+                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
+                          306 CHESTNUT STREET.
+
+
+                            COPYRIGHT.—1882.
+
+                       T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS.
+
+
+
+
+                               CONTENTS.
+
+
+            CHAPTER                                       PAGE
+                I.— The Outlaw’s Daughter                   21
+               II.— The Outlaw’s Home                       35
+              III.— The Outlaw                              41
+               IV.— Passion                                 52
+                V.— Passion and Temptation                  67
+               VI.— The Old Manor-House                     90
+              VII.— The Lady Adelaide Deville               98
+             VIII.— Which is the Wife?                     111
+               IX.— The Fair Bride                         119
+                X.— Lionne                                 152
+               XI.— Interview between Adelaide and Lionne  179
+              XII.— Self-Sacrifice                         194
+             XIII.— At Bush Creek                          200
+              XIV.— Discovery of the Flight                208
+               XV.— Betrayer and Betrayed                  218
+              XVI.— Orville and Lionne                     222
+             XVII.— The Midnight Walk                      234
+            XVIII.— The Rescued Wanderer                   236
+              XIX.— Lionne                                 248
+               XX.— Adelaide                               261
+              XXI.— Lionne and the Indian Witch            278
+             XXII.— Lady Adelaide’s Woe                    302
+            XXIII.— Adelaide’s Consolation                 313
+             XXIV.— Lake Island and Castle                 332
+              XXV.— Death at the Fete                      343
+             XXVI.— The Spectre at the Feast               349
+            XXVII.— The Cleaving Curse                     358
+           XXVIII.— Vengeance                              370
+             XXIX.— An Act of Madness                      380
+              XXX.— A Houseless Night Wanderer             384
+             XXXI.— The Stranger’s Fate                    399
+            XXXII.— The Wife                               405
+           XXXIII.— Strange Meetings                       415
+            XXXIV.— Melpomene                              424
+             XXXV.— The Meeting                            436
+            XXXVI.— Storms                                 449
+           XXXVII.— The Crisis                             456
+          XXXVIII.— The Lioness and the Lamb               461
+            XXXIX.— The Curse of an Accomplished Vow       465
+               XL.— The Avenger                            469
+              XLI.— Conclusion                             479
+
+
+
+
+                          THE FATAL MARRIAGE.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER I.
+                         THE OUTLAW’S DAUGHTER.
+
+     Oh, seldom in hall or court are seen
+     So queenly a form, so noble a mien,
+       As, freely and smiling, she welcomes them there,
+     But her eye has a glance more sternly wild
+     Than even that of a forest child
+       In its fearless and untamed freedom should dare.—_Whittier._
+
+
+It was near the close of a sultry day, late in the month of September,
+1755, that Lieutenant Orville Deville, a young officer of Braddock’s
+provincial corps, urged his weary war-horse up the steep western ascent
+of the “Ridge of Spears,” one of the most difficult and dangerous of the
+mountain ranges in the western part of old Maryland.
+
+Behind him, at some short distance, rode toilsomely his faithful
+servant, Nero.
+
+As they gained the summit of the mountain an upward-glancing ray of the
+sun, striking full upon them, brought out each individual of the group
+in distinct relief.
+
+The young soldier seemed not more than eighteen years of age.
+
+His figure was tall, and finely proportioned; his features were cast in
+the purest classic mould; his complexion was fair as that of the fairest
+lady; his clustering curls were of a pale golden color, and his dark
+eyes were fringed with lashes of the same delicate bright hue. This
+really beautiful countenance was saved from the slightest suspicion of
+effeminacy by the whole character of its expression,—by the flash of the
+falcon eyes, the curve of the eagle nose, the curl of the short upper
+lip, the upward protrusion of the well-turned chin, the stately carriage
+of the head, the erect position of the body, and in short by the general
+and unmistakable air of conscious strength, invincible courage, and
+almost insufferable arrogance, that distinguished his whole bearing. He
+wore the blue-and-buff uniform of the provincials, and sat on his
+chestnut thorough-bred with the stately grace of a prince of the blood.
+
+His negro servant, Nero, was an unmixed African, somewhat past
+middle-age, whom the birthright service in his young master’s family had
+endowed with certain pleasant privileges of familiarity which would
+scarcely have been tolerated in an alien, but which were excusable in an
+old and tried domestic. For the rest, Nero possessed the usual traits of
+his race and caste, somewhat exaggerated in the individual, namely,
+unconquerable self-esteem, invincible cheerfulness, irresistible wit,
+ardent affections, and an immutable attachment to his master and his
+master’s family.
+
+To be the personal attendant of Mr. Orville Deville, Lieutenant in His
+Majesty’s provincial corps and heir of River-view in Maryland he
+considered just the greatest honor that could be enjoyed by a person of
+his color. In fact, Nero seemed to consider that there was but one
+greater man than his master’s servant, and that was his master’s SELF.
+Nero wore the buff-and-blue livery of a provincial officer’s retainer,
+and was mounted on a bay that had once been a draught-horse at
+River-view, and was more distinguished for strength of build than
+elegance of shape.
+
+As they drew rein at the summit of the mountain, Orville took from his
+saddle-pouch a pocket-telescope, arranged it, and pointing it eastward
+took the sweep of the horizon.
+
+The features of the landscape were grand and simple. Below his
+stand-point fell a precipice of rocks, broken with waterfalls and spiked
+with those stiff and bristling cedars that gave the range its name of
+the “Ridge of Spears.”
+
+From the foot of this mountain eastward stretched a green valley of
+interminable forest-land, veined with broad rivers, waved with hills and
+dales, and reaching to the base of the distant Blue Ridge that was
+distinctly marked against the gray horizon.
+
+“This is assuredly the ‘vast wilderness,’ the ‘boundless contiguity of
+shade,’ for which the poet sighed,—only I do not see the ‘lodge’ that
+forms so necessary an item even in the poet’s paradise,’ said the young
+man, as he gazed out upon this most unpromising prospect.
+
+“Lodge? Marse Awful, honey, was yer looking out for any lodge?” inquired
+the groom, riding nearer to his master.
+
+“Not with any expectation of seeing one, Nero,” replied Orville,
+lightly, running up his telescope.
+
+“Don’t shut him up yet, Marse Awful, chile, till yer jes’ turns an’
+looks at dat ere big black cloud, and see what it means.”
+
+Orville wheeled around, adjusted his glass and took a sweeping view of
+the western prospect.
+
+Its features were very similar to those on the east—that is to say, a
+wooded valley, diversified with hill and dale and river, stretched from
+the base of the mountain, westward to the Cumberland heights,
+immediately over which the setting sun, breaking through a black cloud,
+projected level rays of golden light, that for the moment kindled all
+the valley in a prismatic conflagration.
+
+“_Dar!_ what you t’ink o’ _dat_, Marse Awful, honey?” inquired the
+negro, when he thought that his master had gazed about long enough.
+
+“I think, Nero, that there is no doubt but we shall have a storm before
+we find shelter for the night.”
+
+“_Dat’s_ ’couraging,” coolly remarked the black.
+
+“There is not,” continued the young man, as he swept the landscape with
+his glass, “there is not a sign of a human habitation in sight—not a
+roof, not a chimney, nor even an eddying curl of smoke to mark the
+presence of man!”
+
+“Dat’s more ’couraging nor de oder!”
+
+“Nero!”
+
+“Nero! an’ allus Nero! It used for to be ‘Uncle Nero;’ but since he done
+gone to the wars, he done put heself on to his diggerty an’ calls his
+old sarvint, as is ole ’nough to be his daddy, Ne-ro! but it ’comes him!
+’deed it really do! he do look like any young prince a-speakin’ to his
+primest minister, when he lifts up his nose and says—Ne-ro,” thought the
+old negro, as he looked half in reproach, half in affectionate
+admiration, upon his haughty young master.
+
+“Nero, I say!” repeated the latter.
+
+“Well, sar, yes, here I is,” exclaimed the old man, approaching.
+
+“Nero, we shall have to camp out all night.”
+
+“Now de Lor’ forbid! How we dem gwine ’camp out all night’ widout any
+_camp_?—an’ a thunderstorm acomin’ along of a soaking rain, an’ you not
+fully ’covered of yer wouns’s!”
+
+“There is no help for it, I am sure; so the best thing to be done now,
+is to look out for the most convenient spot for the purpose.”
+
+“An’ find a water-prof tree for a roof an’ a sof’ rock for a pillow!
+What do you ’spose de fair Lady Adelaide say to dat?”
+
+“Nero, you are privileged,” replied the youth, who, arrogant as was his
+nature, yet allowed to his old attendant somewhat of that wild liberty
+of speech accorded by a king to his court-jester.
+
+“I am ‘privileged!’ I wonder ef how he thinks it’s a great privilege to
+be ’lowed to sleep on a downy stone underneaf of a thunder-cloud
+coverlet?—ef so ‘I waive de privilege,’ as I once hear one gemman say to
+anoder.”
+
+“Come, come, sir,” impatiently exclaimed the young gentleman—“look to
+yourself! what are you thinking about?”
+
+“I were a-thinking ’bout my _privileges_, marster,” demurely replied the
+old man.
+
+“Well, now think about finding an encampment for the night. The sun has
+set; and look! how that cloud is spreading and darkening!”
+
+“Yes, marster; it will make a good ample blanket to cover us bime-bye,
+when we find sof’, ’lastic, gravelly beds.”
+
+“Rascal!” said the young man, half smiling, “get down and see to my
+saddle-girth and tighten your own, for we must descend the mountain to
+find a resting-place, and the steep is really very difficult.”
+
+“Yes, marster, honey: but I makes no doubt as we shall _get to de bottom
+of it—somehow_,” said the negro, drily, as he looked down the fearful
+precipice, where jagged rocks, spiked cedars, treacherous sliding stones
+and rushing waterfalls, alike threatened interruption, or distruction to
+the daring adventurer.
+
+“True; it _is_ a very dangerous pass,” said the young gentleman,
+replying to his servant’s look, “but what then? you and I are used to
+these things: we have shared many dangers together.”
+
+“Y-e-s—y-e-s—,” said the old man, hesitatingly, “_we_ have shared
+danger, but _you_ have shared all de glory, which shows de unequality of
+human fortunes.”
+
+“Are you discontented, sirrah?”
+
+“No, I’m _not_ a discontented sinner! but I hopes I’se a philosopher,”
+said the old man, bridling.
+
+“Then let your philosophy regulate our horses’ accoutrements, or the
+storm will be upon us before we reach the base of the mountain. Come,
+come, let us hasten!”
+
+“Marster, chile, de longer we is in getting to de foot o’ dat same
+mountain, de better for our state o’ health. ‘Slow an’ sure’ holds good
+dis time, sartin. What Lady Adelaide gwine do long of a crippled
+bridegroom?”
+
+“Silence, sirrah!”
+
+“Oh, I can be a silent sinner, ef yer likes; but dat don’t change
+nuffin,” grumbled the old man, as he dismounted and tightened his
+horse’s girdle, and then went and performed the same service for his
+master.
+
+“Now then,” said the young gentleman, “keep a tight rein on your horse,
+Nero, or he will be likely to stumble and cast you over his head.”
+
+“God knows my arms is almos’ pulled out’n der sockets now, wid keepin’ a
+tight rein on him,” replied the darky, as he prepared to precede his
+master, for the purpose, if possible, of finding a path down the
+precipice.
+
+At that moment a low muttering of thunder reverberated through the sky,
+and was echoed sullenly from all the caverns. The black cloud driven
+before the wailing wind, overcast the whole heavens; its shadow fell
+darkly over the whole mountain, and heavily upon the hearts of the
+travelers. As the youth looked up a single large drop of rain fell full
+upon his forehead. Again the thunder rolled over head, and was re-echoed
+from the gorges.
+
+“It is coming—it is upon us,” exclaimed the young soldier, looking
+around less in dismay than in admiration at the sublimity of the
+gathering storm. But just as the second peal of thunder rolled away, and
+died in silence among the distant dales, _another_ and a very different
+sound was heard—a sound full of hope and promise—in fact a huntsman’s
+horn, winding the sweet, clear, short notes of the _recall_.
+
+Both master and man drew rein to stop and listen, and look in each
+other’s faces with joy.
+
+“There is at least a prospect of shelter. Some stanch sportsman who has
+been out all day, warned by the rising storm, is now returning home by
+this pass. Good! we will join his company.”
+
+“Yes, marster, sartin, glory be to the Lord! but aint it reyther airly
+in the season for a huntsman to be about?” inquired the negro, in doubt.
+
+“The last of September. Well, yes, rather, as you say—at least we on the
+Potomac should think so; but I suppose these wild mountaineers do not
+adhere very rigidly to the laws of woodcraft. We will wait until this
+huntsman comes up. By my life a sweet note!” said the young gentleman,
+as the hunting-horn was heard again, sounding nearer.
+
+But just then a crash of thunder, attended by a glare of lightning,
+broke over the earth. The air shook, the horses trembled under their
+riders. Yet, when the shock was passed, and the smoke, as it were,
+cleared off, again was heard the silver notes of the huntsman’s horn
+winding the recall.
+
+“Trallal lalla! Trallal lalla! Trallal lalla! Tralleura—leura—leu!”
+
+“A _very_ sweet note!” exclaimed the youth.
+
+“I wish he would hurry along,” said the servant.
+
+And, as if in an answer to his prayer, the horn suddenly wound up its
+notes and ceased, and the sound of a horse’s hoofs were heard
+approaching at full gallop from the opposite or western declivity of the
+ridge.
+
+“Ah! he is mounted. So much the better, we shall reach shelter all the
+sooner.”
+
+“And he has a whole pack of hounds at his heels! Listen, marster, I hear
+the pattering of their feet!”
+
+“We hear every thing in these echoing passes.”
+
+“I wish we could see as well, marster; you has good optics—can you see
+him?”
+
+“No; he has not yet appeared above the edge of the ridge,—yes! there he
+is!” said the young man, as an equestrian figure was seen rising upon
+the edge of the mountain.
+
+When, just at that instant, a blinding glare of lightning seemed to set
+the whole heavens and earth in flames, and a deafening peal of thunder
+broke and rolled crashing down the abyss of space, followed by a sudden
+darkness that seemed to have swallowed up all nature in original night
+and chaos!
+
+For a full minute the young soldier remained transfixed to the spot
+
+But, in the mean time, the equestrian hunter, through storm and
+darkness, gloom and deadly peril, had reached his side; for as soon as
+the thunder had rolled away, and howled itself to death in the distance,
+and the black cloud was lifted——
+
+Orville Deville looked up, and saw, with astonishment, in the person of
+the supposed huntsman—a young girl, a beautiful, wild creature, well
+mounted on a spirited black horse, accoutred, cap-a-pie, as a huntress,
+and attended by a pack of stanch hounds.
+
+For a moment the young soldier stood gazing in silent admiration.
+
+Yes! For she who thus ominously heralded by lightning and thunder had
+suddenly broken upon his sight, was beautiful, beyond possibility of
+comparison with any woman whom he had ever before gazed upon.
+
+She was a brilliant brunette, of not more than fifteen years of age,
+with a slight, elegant, and graceful form, that sat her horse with equal
+ease and command. Her features were irregular, as those of every
+characteristic or bewitching face must necessarily be; her complexion
+was of a warm, rich olive, ripening into a ruddy bloom upon the round
+cheeks: her shining hair, her flashing eyes, quaintly curved eyebrows
+and long eyelashes, seemed intensely black. But that which gave
+individual character to the enchanting face was this combination,—eyes
+too full of lightning, and lips too plump and red, indicating a nature
+at once tender and spirited, loving and fiery; one of those characters
+that seldom or ever follow a common-place career, or fill an ordinary
+station; one who, according to circumstances, may become devoted and
+heroic, or sensual and vindictive; that may be developed, in this world,
+into heroes or into criminals, and become in the next—angels or devils!
+
+The costume of this beautiful wild creature was picturesque. A
+riding-habit of black merino fitted perfectly her elegant figure; a
+riding-hat of black felt, adorned with one black plume, shaded her
+sparkling face; gray-gauntlets with deep cuffs, recently donned, covered
+her hands. From the right-side saddle-horn hung a game-bag well filled,
+and the silver pipe whose sounds had preceded her approach. Lastly, in
+her right hand, she carried a light fowling-piece.
+
+Such were her dress and accoutrements; but ever from them the eyes of
+the spectator came back to look upon her beautiful strange face, with
+all its dark and bright promises. Intellect, passion, will,—all were
+here in their undeveloped strength—what should life make of them and of
+her?
+
+None of these questions, however, passed through the mind of young
+Orville Deville as he gazed for a moment, entranced, upon the beautiful
+wild maiden before him. In her singular, bright countenance he saw only
+its marvellous beauty, felt only its wondrous fascination. He did not
+even speculate upon the circumstance of meeting in the mountain
+wilderness this bright young girl in the garb of a sportsman. He felt
+only her “glamour” that was momentarily growing upon him.
+
+For a moment they gazed upon each other—he with ardent admiration, she
+with surprise and curiosity.
+
+Then suddenly recollecting himself, he lifted his tasselled cap, and
+bowing deeply, even to the flaps of his saddle, said:
+
+“Young lady, I am Lieutenant Orville Deville, of his Majesty’s
+Provincials, returning with my servant from the fatal field of
+Braddock’s lost battle. I have missed my way, and would crave of your
+courtesy some direction to the nearest place of shelter.”
+
+With the fearless gaze of a young Amazon, the wild girl looked at the
+speaker, as though she would have read his history, character, and
+purpose in his face. She hesitated to reply.
+
+Old Nero looked upon both with infinite disgust—“Why de debil don’t
+Marse Awful speak _plain_? De young thing don’t unnesstan’ de fus word
+he say. Why can’t he ax her—Young gall, for goramity’s sake, tell us
+whar we can run in out o’ de storm?”
+
+Nero was wrong. She understood the speaker: she only paused to read
+him—as if ever a young girl read aright a young man whom she began first
+by admiring. The scrutiny, however, seemed to satisfy her, for she
+answered him by saying, in tones which he thought the clearest and
+sweetest that he had ever heard,
+
+“At the foot of the mountain, sir, is my father’s house: he will make
+you welcome to a supper and lodging.”
+
+“Dar! _dat’s_ somefin like talk, now!” said the black to himself.
+
+With another and a deeper bow, and with his eyes, whose admiring gaze he
+could scarcely restrain, fixed upon her face, the young man replied:
+
+“I earnestly thank you, and gladly accept your kind proffer.”
+
+And so saying, with a smile and a wave of the hand, he backed his horse
+and gave the young girl the pass.
+
+But instead of going forward, she turned her sunbright face over her
+shoulder and looked in the direction of the way whence they had all
+come.
+
+“Pardon me; you are waiting for some one?” suggested the young man, with
+a just perceptible tinge of—what? yes, early as it was in their
+acquaintance—of incipient _jealousy_!
+
+“No, sir, I am waiting for no one; but since I have been so lucky as to
+meet you, perhaps you would not mind doing me a small favor?” said the
+young huntress, turning her graceful head, and lifting her dark eyes to
+his face.
+
+“A thousand with delight! Speak, bright one: we are at your orders,”
+exclaimed the gentleman, earnestly pressing closer toward her steed.
+
+“Marster in hebben, ef de ’fernal fools don’t mean ter stand here and
+larver der furnel nonsense all night, wid de rain jes ’bout ter come
+down. Lord! Lord! Lord! Lord! now she’ll take jes as long ter larver
+back again!” mentally ejaculated the old negro, in distress.
+
+She did not, however. Eying the young officer shyly yet proudly, she
+answered promptly and to the point:
+
+“Well, sir, since you are so good, I must tell you that to-day, on the
+other declivity of the mountain, I was so fortunate as to shoot a young
+buck, which, however, I had no means of bringing home.”
+
+“Humph! dat aint de _onliest young buck_ as you’ve shot to-day I’ll take
+_my_ oath,” significantly commented the old man.
+
+“Well, beautiful Diana, I should applaud that feat in one of your sex,
+did admiration for the bright girl leave room for admiration of the keen
+huntress,” exclaimed the youth, scarcely able to withdraw his fascinated
+eyes from their gaze of adoration.
+
+“Sir!” ejaculated the untamed creature, suddenly flashing upon him her
+black, scintillating and sparkling eyes. She evidently had not caught
+the sense or spirit of his courtly speech.
+
+Her unsophisticated perplexity must have confused Orville Deville, could
+any thing have embarrassed that self-possessed young gentleman; he
+replied:
+
+“I await your commands, bright Diana.”
+
+“My name is not Diana. It is Lionne, if you wish to know it; but that is
+not what I was talking about. The buck I struck lies some half a mile
+back. I should thank you if you would let your man go with me and bring
+it before him on his horse.”
+
+“Oh! Lor’ goramity, ef she don’t mean to keep me out’n de storm all
+night, long o’ her _buck_!” whined the old man, to himself.
+
+Apparently Mr. Deville disapproved the proposition; for, after some
+seconds delay, he gently inquired:
+
+“But would you linger longer in the storm?”
+
+“What!—a _soldier_ and AFEARD?” suddenly hissed the wild creature, in
+his ear, with a look and tone that might have become Lady Macbeth, when
+uttering the same words.
+
+So startling was the effect of the change that transfigured her whole
+countenance, that the old negro, taken by surprise, suddenly backed his
+horse, and, with the superstition of his race, exclaimed:
+
+“Dis gal’s de berry debbil in female ‘parrel! I doesn’t wonder, I
+doesn’t, as she comed wid thunder an’ lightenin’ She don’t bode us no
+good—_she_ don’t!”
+
+The half savage thing laughed loudly at the effect she had produced upon
+the negro, and then turned her black eyes, flashing with fierce fun,
+upon his master.
+
+But that hero was apparently above being startled by trifles, or even by
+the prodigy of hearing this beautiful demi-barbarian, this young
+huntress of the mountain wilderness, quote Shakspeare. Thinking only of
+himself, and the implied doubt of his manhood, he answered with some
+hauteur:
+
+“Madam, I was consulting only your own comfort, most assuredly not my
+convenience!”
+
+“Quits!” she gayly replied. “But there was no need to pause. The
+gust—for I cannot call _this_ a storm—is over, or nearly so. Look! the
+Storm King is vanquished! Behold the oriflamb of his retiring host!” she
+said, pointing to the flaming western horizon, where the thunderclouds,
+broken into a thousand wild fragments, like rent banners of purple,
+crimson, and gold, seemed sinking in a sea of blood.
+
+The eyes of the young soldier followed her finger, and turned in
+admiration from the gorgeous sunset scene to the irradiated face of the
+girlish enthusiast, whose picturesque and poetic language was as strange
+to him as every other circumstance relating to her.
+
+“‘The Storm King is vanquished,’ as you said. It has scarcely thundered
+or lightened since you appeared upon the mountain; therefore you must be
+the Joan who has vanquished the terrible invader,” he said.
+
+“My name is no more Joan than Diana, sir; I am Lionne, as I said
+before.”
+
+“But why should you be called Lionne?”
+
+“I cannot tell you, sir; I was not consulted at the christening!”
+
+“Well, Diana, Joan, or Lionne, you are the most bewitching creature I
+ever met; but tell me, then, is the storm really over?”
+
+“You are not used to our mountain gusts or you would know that it is.
+They are upon us and gone ere one can say it lightens, almost. See, sir!
+the rain has rolled down to the valleys,” she said, pointing to where
+the vale, dim in the evening gloom, looked dimmer still with low lying
+mist or falling rain.
+
+Orville Deville gazed with curiosity and interest upon this strange
+aspect of Nature.
+
+Never before had he looked upon a shower from such an elevated point of
+view. Its effect was singular.
+
+Upon the mind of the old black it was terrific.
+
+“Who de debbil ebber see de rain a-fallen underneaf ob dem before? Dis
+is witchcraft,—pure, debblish witchcraft,—and _she’s_ de witch! I wish
+me an’ Marse Awful was ’livered ob bofe ob dem, I does!” he mentally
+exclaimed, with chattering teeth.
+
+“Now, if we had gone on,” continued Lionne, “we should have ridden right
+down into the rain; but as it is, by the time we get our buck and
+return, the shower will be over in the valley. And so,” she said,
+turning her sparkling black eyes upon the discontented face of the old
+negro, “you have lost nothing by the change, uncle.”
+
+“Me! oh yes, thanky, mist’ess! _same to you, ma’am, ’deed_!” exclaimed
+the terrified black, rather incoherently, as he sprang his horse away
+from the dangerous enchantress.
+
+“We will hurry, if you please, sir,” said the huntress, turning her
+horse’s head, and riding back upon the road, followed eagerly by the
+young officer, and reluctantly by the old man.
+
+A ride of ten minutes down the western declivity of the ridge brought
+them to the spot, a little to the left of their path, where in a thicket
+the game lay,—a fine half-grown deer.
+
+Mr. Deville dismounted, and assisted his servant in raising and laying
+the carcass across the shoulders of the negro’s horse. Then both sprang
+into their saddles, turned rein, and began to re-ascend.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER II.
+                           THE OUTLAW’S HOME
+
+            It was a lodge of ample size
+            But strange in structure and device;
+            Of such materials as around
+            The builder’s hand had readiest found.—_Scott._
+
+
+As they cantered over the mountain-top, the full moon rising in the
+east, shone upon their forward pathway, flecking with silver light one
+side of every tree, and every jutting rock.
+
+Lionne rode foremost, seemingly bent only upon getting home.
+
+Orville Deville followed close behind, his attention fixed upon the
+elegant equestrian figure, beautiful horse, and beautiful girl before
+him.
+
+Nero brought up the rear, at a respectful distance. Not only was the old
+creature shy of the enchantress ahead, but also he was very much
+embarrassed by the carriage of the buck on the shoulders of his steed.
+And when they began to descend the narrow path leading down the
+precipice, the difficulty grew greater; the legs and antlers of the
+animal, carried crosswise on the horse, were continually catching in the
+cedar bushes that bordered each side of the track, seriously obstructing
+his progress, and severely trying his patience. At such times, while
+disentangling his “freight,” his eyes would be fixed in indignation upon
+the beautiful witch in advance, and his ire would break forth—
+
+“Consarn dis trick, I do say! Marse Awful’s ‘witched! nothing shorter! I
+hopes we’ll get well out’n it, that’s all! Wonder what he tinks Lady
+Adelaide would say to _dis_? Wouldn’t catch _her_ rantypoling over the
+mountains wid a pack ob hounds at her heels like the Witch o’ Window!
+Dar! look here now!” he exclaimed, pulling and jerking at the antlers
+that had this time got entangled in the top of a pine sapling.
+
+In this manner they slowly descended the declivity. When about half way
+down, the musical murmur of water flowing over a rocky bed came to their
+ears.
+
+“That,” said Lionne, drawing rein and turning her head to speak to her
+companion,—“that is the sound of the creek that washes the foot of this
+ridge. It is called the ‘Singing Stream,’—and rightly, I think. Do but
+listen to its melodious murmur!”
+
+“Is the voice of the river so musical? I do not know, for the supernal
+melody of _one_ voice has spoiled me for all others!” answered the young
+man in a low, significant tone.
+
+“And whose voice is that?” inquired the huntress.
+
+An ardent gaze and expressive silence answered.
+
+Lionne touched up her horse and rode onward.
+
+“Ef yer ain’t a-gettin’ on swimmingly with the witch-girl, young massa,
+_I’ll give up_. What will Lady Adelaide say to that?” mentally
+ejaculated old Nero, who had caught up to them, and witnessed this
+little passage of gallantry.
+
+Meanwhile Lionne cantered down the track, closely followed by her
+escort.
+
+A quarter of an hour more of riding brought them to the foot of the
+mountain, and to the borders of the singing stream. Now flooded with the
+moonbeams, it seemed a river of soft light flowing on between the base
+of the hoary ridge and the dark evergreen woods on the other side.
+
+The party drew rein to pause and gaze for an instant upon the lovely
+sylvan scene; and then—
+
+“Turn to the left,” directed their beautiful guide, as she led the way
+down the banks of the stream.
+
+A ride of a few hundred yards brought them to a rough-hewn stone house,
+large in size, but only of one story, built against the foot of the
+precipice, and fronting the creek. A low wall of rough-hewn rock, like
+that of which the house was constructed, enclosed a small yard. Between
+the front of this wall and the banks of the stream there was barely room
+enough for two horsemen to ride abreast.
+
+Drawing rein at the gate, Lionne alighted and invited her companions to
+dismount and follow her into the house, whose aspect, on nearer view,
+was dark, close and repellant.
+
+Opening the door, that was placed between four front windows, she
+called—
+
+“Vulcan!”
+
+“Here, mistress!” growled a voice like that of a bear, as a back door
+opposite opened, and a dwarf—a _huge_ dwarf like a short giant—made his
+appearance. He stood about four feet in his shoes, but what he lacked in
+altitude was made up in width; he was as nearly square as it was
+possible for a human form to be, as if some wizard had placed his hand
+upon the head of a very tall man, and pressed him down until his height
+ran all to breadth.
+
+Even Orville gazed in wonder upon this strange monster.
+
+As for poor old Nero he felt sure he was ruined! After staring in a
+helpless panic, he suddenly dropped upon his knees and began zealously
+to pray.
+
+“Oh! Lor’ goramity, have marsy on us! It is de debbil! It is de debbil!
+it is de debbil! de witch has delibered us to de debbil, as I knew she
+would—so I did! Oh! goramity! we’se lost, done for, ruinated an’ gibben
+ober to sudden struction!—have marsy on _us_! Deliber us from dis
+beautiful ’ceiving witch-girl, and dis mons’ous, ugly debbil!” All this
+was delivered in a low voice, unheard by the others, whom, between his
+invocations, the terrified creature furtively watched. The little
+dialogue that was going on among them did not tend to calm his nerves.
+
+“What do you want, Lionne? and who are those?” growled the monster, in a
+discontented voice.
+
+“These are strangers——”
+
+“I see that!” interrupted the beast.
+
+“Well, they are—an officer and his servant, who have lost their way in
+the mountains and are in need of supper and lodging, and whom it is my
+will to see well attended, do you hear! See to it! And first of all go
+show the servant where to put his horses,” replied the girl, in a voice
+of authority that enforced observance.
+
+“Yes, Lionne. Come, fellow, get up!” grumbled the great brute,
+approaching the panic-stricken negro and grasping his shoulder.
+
+But Nero, with protruding eyeballs, sprung from under his hand, as
+though he had been shot from a gun, ran, and fell upon his knees before
+his master, crying:
+
+“Oh, sabe me! sabe me, marster! it is de debbil! it is de debbil! an’
+’deed an’ ’deed I aint ’pared for to go!”
+
+“Be silent, idiot! do you not see that it is the young lady’s servant?”
+exclaimed Mr. Deville, sternly.
+
+“‘Young lady,’ _oh_! ‘Servant,’ _oh_, it’s the debbil and de witch!”
+whimpered the old man, with grave face and shaking teeth.
+
+“Vulcan! leave this man here to recover his senses, and go yourself and
+stable the horses; you will find them with mine at the gate; carry the
+buck around to the back shed and hang him up,” said the girl, promptly.
+
+“Yes, Lionne—_Gur-r-r-r_!!” he added, grinning and snarling at poor Nero
+as he passed him, and throwing that victim into a new spasm.
+
+“Be so good as to sit and wait here till I return,” said Lionne,
+pointing to a settee, and then opening a door on the left, through which
+she disappeared.
+
+In an instant after, Deville heard a deep-toned, manly voice, inquiring—
+
+“What has kept you out so late, Lionne?” and her reply—
+
+“The chase, my father! I have been unusually successful!”
+
+“Mad girl!”
+
+“Ah, sir, do not reproach me!”
+
+“I do not, my child! You have none of the pleasures of civilization, of
+refinement, such as might become my daughter!”
+
+“Nor miss them! nor know of them, even, my father!”
+
+“Ah! poor one! before men gamble in politics and stake their _all_, they
+should think of others depending upon them, whose lives may be ruined!
+For myself, I care not! but when I think of what you _should be_ and
+what you _are_——”
+
+“——Me! would I be other than I am! ‘the free, wild, joyous Lionne,’ that
+you call me? Ha! ha! ha! ha!”—her merry laughter rung through the house.
+
+“So I have called you; but—no matter!”
+
+“Father! tell me once for all, what is all this great good that I have
+lost? Who were _you_ in the world? What _is it_ that you have forfeited?
+And _how_ have you forfeited it?”
+
+“Not now—but sometime, sometime, I will tell you, Lionne!—I will tell
+you why I have been hunted like a wild beast from society, finding no
+security for life until I had reached this mountain fastness.”
+
+“Sometime you will tell me! God grant it may be soon. But, father, when
+I approach this subject I forget all others. I came to tell you that I
+have brought strangers home with me.”
+
+“Strangers! Lionne! are you mad, then, indeed?”
+
+“No, father.”
+
+“In the name of all the saints, who are these strangers?”
+
+“An officer in the army and his servant.”
+
+“A king’s officer! Girl, you are positively frantic!”
+
+“No, father, this is a provincial officer, returning from Fort——”
+
+“——A provincial! worse and worse! Lionne! you are betrayed! _we_ are
+betrayed! you have unconsciously led the hunter of man to his prey!”
+
+“Father! father! _no_, I say, if ever I read stainless honor on a human
+brow, I read it on this young gentleman’s; he is, therefore, what he
+reported himself to be—an officer returning from the fatal ambuscade
+into which Braddock’s army fell,” said Lionne.
+
+“Show him in! I cannot bear suspense. I will soon know.”
+
+Lionne opened the door and beckoned Deville, who was deeply blushing at
+playing the part of a spy, though it was that of an involuntary one.
+
+He arose to follow.
+
+Nero sprang up and caught the skirt of his coat, crying out—
+
+“Oh, Marse Awful! for Lor’s sake, don’t leave de poor old nigger
+behind—don’t. I’m worse scared ’an when I fell down flat o’ my face, an’
+kicked an’ hollered in de Indian’s amber-scalps!”
+
+“Be silent, fool, and let go my coat!”
+
+“Let him come,” said Lionne, kindly, though scarcely able to repress her
+laughter.
+
+“Come, zany, then, since the young lady is so good as to permit you,”
+said Mr. Deville, half angrily.
+
+“‘Young lady’—_oh-h-h_! I wouldn’t ax to follow arter the witch inside,
+ef I w’a’nt ten t’ousand times worse afeared o’ the snarlin’ debbil
+outside. _Ur-r-r!_” muttered Nero, with a shudder, as he crept close
+behind his master.
+
+And thus they entered the inner room and the presence of their
+mysterious host.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER III.
+                              THE OUTLAW.
+
+              He seemed a stalwart knight and keen,
+              That had in many a battle been;
+              His eyebrow dark, and eye of fire,
+              Showed spirit proud and prompt to ire;
+              Yet lines of thought upon his cheek
+              Did deep design and counsel speak.—_Scott._
+
+
+It was a large, square room, with a low ceiling and walls darkened by
+age or smoke. Being a back room, the only two windows looked plumb upon
+the side of the mountain against which the house had been built, and
+which could be reached from them with an outstretched arm. From the room
+no glimpse of the sky was visible.
+
+The ample fireplace opposite the windows was well supplied with great
+logs, that smouldered with a subdued heat that the dampness of the house
+and the chilliness of the late September evening rendered acceptable.
+From the centre of the low ceiling hung an iron lamp, directly over a
+substantial round table of black oak. Upon this table lay several heavy
+books. Beside it, in a rude oaken arm-chair covered with bearskins, sat
+an individual in marked contrast with all his surroundings.
+
+He was a man considerably past middle age, of a tall and powerful form,
+with a fine, stately head, thickly covered with long, black hair,
+threaded here and there with silver, which, with his grizzly black
+beard, framed-in in a fine aristocratic face, with high, aquiline
+features, pale complexion, and anxious expression.
+
+His dress was one of faded splendor—a rusty black velvet coat, heavily
+embossed with tarnished silver lace, black velvet knee-breeches, and
+black cloth gaiters, fastened with dimmed silver buttons.
+
+He sat facing the door, with one hand resting on the open volume upon
+the table, and with his haughty head raised in expectancy.
+
+As the strangers entered he arose and stood awaiting their approach.
+
+“My father, this is Lieutenant Deville, the benighted traveler of whom I
+told you,” said Lionne, presenting the guest.
+
+Surprise and involuntary deep respect held the young man silent as he
+made a profound bow to his mysterious and distinguished looking host.
+
+The latter extended his hand, saying, with stately and somewhat formal
+courtesy—
+
+“You are most welcome, sir, to such poor entertainment as our mountain
+lodge affords.”
+
+“I should apologize for this enforced intrusion,” began the young man.
+
+“Sir, please to be seated,” gracefully interrupted the host setting
+forward a rough deal-chair, and adding, “it is very se’dom that this
+unfrequented neighborhood affords us the pleasure of a passing guest.”
+
+With a second bow young Deville placed his hat upon the table, and took
+the offered chair.
+
+“You were with Braddock’s troops at the disastrous ambuscade on the
+march to Fort Duquesne, my daughter tells me,” said the host,
+courteously.
+
+“I was so unhappy as to see that gallant officer fall and his troops cut
+to pieces,” replied the guest, with a scarcely repressed groan.
+
+“And—you were wounded?” added his host, with an expression of grave
+sympathy.
+
+“You may say dat, ole marse, for he was jes’ putty nigh _kilt_,” came a
+voice from an obscure part of the room.
+
+And host and guest both looking up saw old Nero, who had reared himself
+up in the angle of the corner, where he stood, still and solemn as an
+old-fashioned clock.
+
+“Who is that curiosity?” asked the _eyes_ of the host.
+
+“It is my servant, sir,—a spoiled old rascal,” replied Orville Deville;
+then turning to the delinquent, he said—“Who gave you leave to speak,
+sir?”
+
+“Nobody didn’t, Marse Awful, honey, ’caze nobody wasn’t axed; but no
+offence wasn’t meant to no one; and so ef ole marse dar, want to know
+any thing ’bout you’re bein’ wounded, der aint no soul can tell him
+nuffin about it ’cept ’tis me; _you_ can’t, Marse Awful, ’caze you
+didn’t know nuffin ’tall till twas all ober! dar!”
+
+Orville Deville frowned with confusion and anger; but his host, with a
+smile said—
+
+“Will my guest do me a favor? Will he let this original genius come
+forward and relate his own and his master’s adventures? for I know,” he
+added, gracefully, “that my young soldier will scarcely do himself
+justice in his own narrative.”
+
+Deville bowed with a smile that chased away the frown, and turning again
+towards his servant, said—
+
+“You meet with great indulgence here, blockhead! Since you are so
+favored, come forward and answer this gentleman’s questions.”
+
+Thus exhorted, old Nero, who felt much reassured by the stately and
+kindly presence of the master of the house, approached and stood hat in
+hand.
+
+“You say your master was severely wounded?”
+
+“No, ole marse, honey, I didn’t say nuffin like dat! I said how he wer
+putty nigh _kilt_!”
+
+“Tell me about it.”
+
+“I’se gwine to, honey; I’se gwine to, chile; ’deed I is, ole marse; only
+you jes gimme time to memorize my own mind. Well, you see, ole marse,
+when we fuss fell in long o’ de amber-scalps——”
+
+“The _what_?” interrupted the host, knitting his brows in perplexity.
+
+“De _amber-scalps_, marster.”
+
+“He means the ambu_scade_,” put in the young gentleman, half laughing
+and half vexed.
+
+“Sartin, ole marse, dey _called em scalps_, any how, which der was no
+end to dem same taken. Well, as I was sayin’, when we fuss fell in long
+o’ de amber-scalps—_scades_, I mean, de bushes was so thick and
+’structing dat Marse Awful——”
+
+“_Whom?_”
+
+“Marse Awful, honey, my young marster dere——”
+
+“What a name!”
+
+“He means _Orville_, my Christian name,” again put in the young officer.
+
+“Awful or _Offal_, it’s all de same, ole marse, only ef you dem keeps
+puttin’ me out, you’ll make me forget to remember all about it, and now
+I shall have to go back to de beginnin’!” said old Nero in high dudgeon.
+
+“Well, go on, you shall not be interrupted again,” said the smiling
+host.
+
+“Thanky, ole marse. Well, so when we fuss fell in long o’ de
+amber-scalps—_scades_, I mean—de bushes got so thick and ‘structed up,
+wid de unwisible bullets a-cuttin’ all about, dat Marse Awful—_Offal_, I
+mean—gets off’n his horse, an’ tells me to lead him back for safe takin’
+care of. An’ Marse Awful plunges right into de thick o’ de bushes an’
+bullets an’ smoke. An’ I leads my hosses back ‘cordin’ to orders.
+
+“Bymeby, I hears de debbil to pay, axin’ your pardon, ole marse! Fuss
+’twas only ‘sping! sping! sping!’ o’ de bullets as dey whistled about
+troo de trees; den clouds o’ smoke an’ an awful smell o’ brimstone!
+
+“A little while arter, an’ den de groans o’ de sufferin’!
+
+“Den, at long-last, deep silence.
+
+“Den right out’n dat silence, a suddint, univarsal, horrorobel howl, as
+ef all de debbils in all de pits had bust out o’ de bowels o’ de yeth to
+once. It was de ’fernal amber-scalps—_scades_, I mean, at dere debblish
+work!
+
+“Ebery bone in me shuck, only to hear dem! I staid dere trimblin’ an’
+trimblin’ hours an’ hours! Den, arter all was quiet, I t’ought how I’d
+go see ef I could see any thing o’ my young marster; caze eberyt’ing was
+so awful still, it made me feel worse dan de hellobulloo, itself, fur it
+seemed jest as ef all de hull yeth was struck wid death. So I tied my
+horses and went stealing’ along in de shade.
+
+“I hadn’t gone more’n a quarter o’ a mile when, glory be to Marster in
+hebben, what sights I see! Slaughtered men strewed about underneaf de
+trees an’ ‘mong de bushes like de dried leaves of autumn! I turned ober
+two or three as looked like my young marster, only dey wa’n’t him! Lor’,
+it was hours an’ hours o’ s’archin’ ’fore I come upon him ’way in de fur
+eend o’ de ground. Dar, under a lonesome hemlock tree, I seen Marse
+Awful, layin’ out stiff and still for dead! Jes as I was a goin’ up to
+him, a big red debbil ob an amber-scalp come sneakin’ troo de bushes,
+an’ creeps up to him, an’ takes him by his long, fair hair, an’ holds
+his head up, an’ den fumbles in his own belt, an’ den draps him for a
+minute an’ fumbles again!
+
+“I knew well ’nough what de red brute was arter—he was arter his knife
+to whip off my young marster’s scalp—scade I mean.
+
+“So, ‘No you don’t,’ sez I to myself. So I had no weepon but a quart
+bottle o’ sperrits o’ turpentine, as I brought along in my coat pocket
+for a misery in my back;—which it is de best thing for rheumatiz as ever
+was, as likewise to cure horses and clean guns—so I whips out my bottle
+o’ sperrits o’ turpentine an’ creeps on to Mr. Redskin.
+
+“But ef you’ll please to believe me, marster, though I trod soft as any
+cat, ef dat debblish sharp-eared amber-scalp didn’t hear me. He let go
+my marster’s hair, turned sharp roun’, and wid a yell and a howl as mos’
+druv de soul out’n my body, he lept at me!
+
+“But I was ready for him. I lif’ my big bottle o’ sperrits o’ turpentine
+in bof’ hands, an’ let him have it wid all my might an’ main.
+
+“CUSH—SWANGLE—PANG! right into his furnel face an’ eyes!
+
+“YOW-HOO-OO-OO-OO!!
+
+“May I nebber hear sich an unyethly howl as dat dere cussed amber-scalp
+guv, as he fell back an’ drapped his knife.
+
+“In one half a minute he’d a been up ag’in, ef I had guv him de chance;
+but in one second, you see, old marse, I lept upon him, snatched up de
+knife, put its point to his t’roat, an’ bore wid all my might, till I
+had pinned him to de ground an’ de handle stopped de blade from gwine
+further!
+
+“Den I left go an’ run an’ picked up Marse Awful, laid his head up ober
+my shoulder, an’ made off fur de horses as fast as ebber I could. It was
+a dreadful tug; an’ I was on de p’int o’ drapping him (cause you see,
+ole marse, _I_ thought how he wer’ _dead_, an’ my only motive for
+carryin’ of him along was to give him Christian berryin’ wid de hair on
+his head), when I hear behind me a crashin’ an a gurgling; an’ lookin’
+ober my shoulder, lo an’ behold, dere was de cussed infunnelly
+amber-scalp, as I left for dead wid de knife stickin’ in his t’roat,
+a-leaping arter me wid de blood a-gushing from his mouth!
+
+“Yes, as I was ’bout to drap my marster, an’ fall down an hollow
+(’cause, you see, I hadn’t another bottle o’ sperrits o’ turpentine to
+smash in his eyes), _he_ begins to reel an’ totter, an’ den he falls
+forrid on his face an’ rolls ober, an’ draws up an’ stretches out, an
+rolls ober agin, an’ lays stock still!
+
+“Den I tought he mus’ be dead; dough I wouldn’t trust him for a long
+time; but laid marster down an watched.
+
+“While I was watchin’ de cuss of an amber-scalp, I hears a groan close
+by me an’ der was my master wid his eyes open!
+
+“My Lord, I was more scared dan oberjoyed. ‘Peared to me all de dead was
+comin’ to life agin! I mos’ spected to see Braddock’s cut up troops come
+marchin’ back. Still, I _was_ oberjoyed, too.
+
+“‘Marse Awful, chile,’ sez I, ‘is yer alibe?’
+
+“‘_Oh-h-h!_’ sez he.
+
+“‘Is yer alibe, honey?’ sez I.
+
+“‘_Oh-h-h-h-h!_’ sez he.
+
+“‘Can yer speak, honey?’ sez I.
+
+“‘_W-a-t-e-r!_’ sez he!
+
+“Well then thinkin’ as how no dead man wouldn’t call for no water, I
+made up my mine as how he mus’ be alibe.
+
+“‘I’ll get it for you, marse,’ sez I.
+
+“But fuss I went to look at de ’fernal amber-scalp. I seen he was layin’
+berry still; but I darsent trust him, no how; so I felt berry oneasy in
+my mind, an’ ’solved to tote my marster off soon as ebber I guv him a
+drink.
+
+“‘_W-a-t-e-r!_’ he kept whinnin’, like a sick puppy. Beg yer pardon,
+Marse Awful, honey, but ’deed you _did_.
+
+“Well, I went to look for water. Dat was soon found—a perty little
+stream runnin’ along an’ singing, ‘drink, drink, drink,’ as plain as I
+can speak. Dar was de water; but where was any thing to dip it wid? His
+hat was gone; an’ mine—well, what wid sweat, an’ grease, an’ dust, mine
+wa’n’t so ober an’ above nice to drink out’n. I even t’aught how his
+boots was cleaner’n my hat; so I went to him an’ pulled off his boot an’
+dipped it full of water, an’ hel’ up his head an’ put it to his lips.
+
+“An’ all de time Marse Awful was drinkin’, I had my eye cocked on to de
+’fernal amber-scalp, which red cuss neber moved ag’in, as I knows on: ef
+he _did_, it was arter _we_ come away!
+
+“So, arter my marse had drank his fill an’ took a long breaf, I lif’s
+him up an’ lays his head on my shoulder an’ totes him off to de hosses.
+When we gets dere—
+
+“‘_B-r-a-n-d-y!_’ sez my marster.
+
+“Dere was some in his saddle-bags, an so I lays him down on a sof’ rock,
+and gits it out an’ puts it to his lips. When he had tuck a good, deep
+swig, an’ drawed a good, deep breaf—
+
+“‘Help me onto my horse,’ sez he.
+
+“So I ‘beyed orders, an’ put him in his saddle.
+
+“But ef ebber you see a dead corpse ridin’ horseback, _he_ looked like
+_it_. Well, by de blessin’ o’ hebben an’ a miracle on de yeth, at las’
+we had de good fortune to ‘rive at a squatter gemmen’s log-cabin, where
+Marse Awful guv way an’ fainted soon as ebber he got down off’n his
+horse, and where he laid ill for six weeks, ’fore ebber he was able to
+’sume his journey.
+
+“An’ dat’s de way how I save my young Marse Awful—_Offal_, I mean—from
+losin’ of his scalp,—_scade_, I should say only in de ’citement ob de
+narrative I doesn’t allus memorize to speak proper, so I hopes ole
+marster’ll excuse me,” concluded Nero, with a profound bow.
+
+“We will applaud you,—a,—what is your name?”
+
+“Nero, marse! ’deed it is, chile—Nero!”
+
+“Then, _Nero_, you are quite a _hero_! Another Eneas!”
+
+“’Neas? who he, marse?”
+
+“Another hero who carried off his father on his back from burning Troy,
+as you did your master.”
+
+“Did de amber-scalps—scades—burn Troy, marster?”
+
+“Well, yes, or very much the same sort of devils, though they were not
+redskins, or savages,” smiled the host; then turning to Mr. Deville he
+said, with grave earnestness, “I fear, sir, that you have not yet fully
+recovered your wounds.”
+
+“In truth, no; but, being very anxious to return home, I set out just as
+soon as I was able to sit my horse,” replied the young gentleman.
+
+“And you have been exposed, in this invalid condition, to the
+storm;—your garments are wet,” remarked the elder gentleman, now for the
+first time noticing the steaming coat of his guest.
+
+“A little damp; there was not much rain on the mountains,—it passed off
+to the valleys; the storm was mostly thunder and lightning. Pray give
+yourself no trouble, sir,” said the young soldier, observing that his
+host took a staff that rested against his chair and thumped loudly upon
+the floor.
+
+“Nevertheless, you will do me the favor to change your clothing,”
+replied the host.
+
+His summons was answered by the entrance of the dwarfed giant.
+
+“Vulcan, show this gentleman into my chamber, and serve him with dry
+clothes,” said his master.
+
+The giant ducked his huge head, disappeared for a moment, then
+reappeared with a lamp, and stood waiting.
+
+Lieutenant Deville, understanding that he was to follow this strange
+guide, arose and left the sitting-room.
+
+Nero prudently remained near the host, who, as I said, inspired him with
+confidence.
+
+Vulcan led the stranger-guest into the hall, at the back of which a
+broad but rudely-built staircase conducted them to an upper hall
+corresponding exactly to the lower one.
+
+Opening a door to the left, he admitted the young man to a chamber
+immediately over the sitting-room that they had quitted.
+
+This apartment was furnished with Spartan simplicity—an iron
+camp-bedstead, a deal clothes-press, a wash stand, with fixtures, and
+two chairs completed its appointment. The windows, in a line with those
+below, looked out upon the same dark mountain-side. In the fireplace at
+the opposite end of the room, a wood-fire was already kindled.
+
+The dwarf-giant went to the clothes-press, took out a faded suit of
+maroon velvet and laid it on the bed, and stood in silence waiting
+orders.
+
+Mr. Deville quickly doffed his damp garments, which Vulcan seized and
+hung across the back of a chair before the fire. He then put on the dry
+suit, and announced himself ready to return below.
+
+Vulcan took the candle and led the way down-stairs, and young Deville
+re-entered the sitting-room. His host received him with a smile, and
+offered the vacant chair, which he immediately took.
+
+One circumstance perplexed, and even embarrassed young Deville—though
+his host received him hospitably, entertained him cordially, conversed
+with him freely, yet he had not announced to him his name! Was it from
+forgetfulness, distrust, or caution? or was it in the expectation that
+_he_—Deville—would ask it? It might be the latter. At any rate, the
+young man resolved to act upon the supposition, for he found it
+excessively awkward to maintain a lengthened conversation with one whose
+name he did not know. He commenced, and with his most persuasive smile
+and deferential tone, he said—
+
+“I have yet, I believe, to learn the name of the honored host who has so
+promptly extended the shelter of his kindly roof to the stranger.”
+
+A dark cloud gathered upon the brow of the man addressed. He passed his
+hand once or twice over his forehead, and then, removing it, fixed his
+eyes calmly upon the questioner, and answered—
+
+“I am called Delaforêt.”
+
+His guest bowed. “I shall never forget the name,” he said.
+
+But then he mused—“So, my beautiful dark huntress is named Lionne
+Delaforêt! a pretty name, and like her. Stop! it means something, too!
+It means ‘lioness of the forest!’ There is some subterfuge here. He said
+he was ‘called’ _De-la forêt_! He did not say his _name_ was such!
+True—he is ‘of the forest;’ but that is not his name. There is some
+mystery here! into which, by the way, I have no right to pry,” added the
+young gentleman, in conclusion.
+
+His transient revery was broken by the entrance of Vulcan, who thrust in
+his huge head, opened his mouth with one word—“Supper!” and disappeared.
+
+“Come, Mr. Deville,” said he “of the forest,” rising and leading his
+guest across the hall to the spacious kitchen immediately opposite.
+
+There, at the head of a great oak table, the beautiful Lionne presided
+over a substantial supper of coffee, home-made bread and butter, and
+venison steaks.
+
+Soon after supper the guest retired to dream of Lionne.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER IV.
+                                PASSION
+
+        Even so quickly may one catch the plague.—_Shakspeare._
+
+
+“Lionne! Lionne!”
+
+After a night of feverish dreams, half rapture, half torture, Orville
+Deville awoke with this name upon his glowing lips.
+
+He awoke with pale cheeks and heavy eyes, smouldering beneath their
+languid lids with suppressed fire, like burning coals under their vail
+of white ashes; he awoke with beating brain, and burning heart, and
+quivering pulses, in real fever, the combined effects of ill-healed
+wounds, exposure, fatigue, and passional excitement.
+
+He threw off the heated coverlets, arose, and looked out from the
+windows.
+
+No glimpse of the sky could be seen—nothing but the gray rocks and
+dwarfed cedars of the perpendicular mountain side, within three feet of
+the windows, met his view.
+
+It was the illustration of his thought. Even such a barrier—so hard, so
+firm, so dark, so immovable—separated him from the heaven of his dreams.
+
+And that barrier—what was it? worldly considerations? _He_ was the
+descendant of one of the oldest families in old England, and the heir of
+one of the richest river estates in the province of Maryland. And _she_,
+the beautiful wild enchantress who had so suddenly enthralled his soul,
+who possessed his whole being like a passion, a fever, a burning fire,
+was not of society, not even of the civilized world; she was a
+demi-barbarian, a mystery, a witch. She had no accomplishments, no
+education beyond the knowledge of the few books in her father’s limited
+library. What would his aristocratic friends have to say to such a one
+as she was? Worldly considerations! pshaw! walls of paper and less than
+paper, walls of cobweb before the impetuosity of passion.
+
+What then was the barrier, that, like this mountain, could never be
+moved? Was it HONOR? Honor was the one jewel in his casket upon which he
+piqued himself; the one talisman of power that governed all his
+self-willed nature; the one attribute which he never would permit to be
+questioned by man or woman; the gem more precious than life, which he
+would have redeemed with life. Its quality had been recently well proved
+in the hour of extreme danger.
+
+Ah, yes! his honor had stood the test of _personal peril_—would it stand
+the test of _passion_? It had been proof against _danger_—would it be
+proof against _temptation_? Will he arise and flee, or will he remain
+and tamper? For oh, he will be furnished with a good excuse to stay; the
+enemy of souls never leaves a man without such a pretext to do wrong.
+
+“The woman who hesitates is lost,” says the proverb.
+
+But the man who hesitates _prefers_ to be lost.
+
+While Orville Deville gazed out upon the gray precipice of rocks that
+hid the sky from his view, and inwardly upon the frowning barrier of
+honor that stood between him and the heaven of his desires, a slight
+rustling noise near his feet arrested his attention. Looking down, he
+saw old Nero creeping out from under the bedstead.
+
+“What are you about there, idiot?” inquired the young man, in a tone of
+vexation.
+
+“Yer needn’t get mad nor likewise call me names, Marse Awful; I darsent
+sleep on de shake-down in de back shed along o’ dat big square debbil,
+as I’m worse afeared on ’an ebber I was of an amber-scalp; so I jes
+stole away las’ night an’ creeped in here arter you was asleep, an’ hid
+mysel’ underneaf your bed, wher’ I could sleep conformable,” replied
+Nero, as he came out and shook himself.
+
+“Well, since you _are_ here, go down-stairs and bring me water and
+towels, and endeavor to save our kind entertainers as much trouble as
+possible by making yourself useful,” said his master.
+
+“Yes, chile, jes’ as soon as ebber I puts dese chunks togedder, to liben
+de fire a little bit. It’s rale dampish in dis ole barn ob a place,”
+replied Nero, going to the chimney-place and bringing the great brands
+together, and blowing them until he had raised a blaze.
+
+Then he went out, and in due time returned with hot and cold water,
+towels, and his master’s regimentals, that had, in the meantime, been
+well dried, brushed and pressed.
+
+Orville quickly made his toilet, and, impatient for a sight of his
+bright enthraller, descended the stairs to the lower room, where he
+found his recluse host, sitting just where he had sat the night
+previous, and looking pale and worn, as though sleep had not visited his
+eyes.
+
+He arose, however, with graceful courtesy, and welcomed his guest.
+
+“I hope you rested well, and find yourself refreshed this morning,” he
+said, as he offered a chair.
+
+“I thank, you sir,” was all that the young man could with truth and
+discretion reply.
+
+“And yet,” said the host, looking at him attentively, “I do not think
+you _did_; you seem feverish and ill; you have exposed yourself too soon
+after convalescence, and fatigued yourself too much; you have to fear a
+relapse; you must lie by and rest for a few days.”
+
+“I thank you, again, sir, very earnestly; but I must get into the saddle
+and take the road within the present hour.”
+
+“And if you do, young man, you will make a much longer journey than you
+have calculated upon—even from this world to the next! I, who tell you
+this, am an indifferent skillful surgeon, and I see that your case is
+critical,” replied the recluse, taking his wrist,—“a full, bounding, but
+irregular and spasmodic pulse! You must stay and be nursed.”
+
+Now, truly, the young soldier would have fled this temptation, if only
+this fine excuse to stay and face it had not been offered. As it was, he
+was satisfied to feel forced to remain.
+
+“How were you wounded, and where?” inquired his host, with his fingers
+still upon the pulse and his eyes fixed upon the face of the invalid.
+
+“It was a gunshot wound through the right side of the chest, sir; the
+bullet has never been found and extracted; I think it is lodged against
+the right shoulder-blade,” replied the young man.
+
+“That was a great evil; but what could you expect of having only an
+ignorant squatter for your nurse and physician?”
+
+“The man was very kind, sir; and, after all, shall I be better off,
+remaining here, taxing your great kindness, since here I shall be
+equally far from surgical aid?”
+
+“Well, yes; somewhat; for though our mountains furnish no physicians,
+yet, as I told you, I am not, my self, a bad surgeon; if I have a little
+science, a life of vicissitudes and necessities has given me some skill;
+after breakfast you shall put yourself under my treatment and I will
+look at your wound.”
+
+With the audible sigh of one who yielded to destiny, and the secret,
+deep delight of one forced to stay where he passionately desired to
+remain, Orville Deville tacitly accepted his host’s proposition.
+
+He had scarcely settled himself in his seat again, before the door
+opened and Vulcan came to announce breakfast.
+
+The recluse and his guest repaired to the kitchen, where they found the
+same substantial oak table drawn into the middle of the floor and laid
+for the morning meal. The service was of the rudest description—there
+was neither table-cloth nor napkins; the crockery was, of course, blue
+delf, and the cutlery was of the commonest iron with horn handles; yet a
+certain immaculate cleanliness atoned for all other deficiencies.
+Coffee, corn-bread, sweet butter, and broiled rabbits, formed the
+staples of the breakfast.
+
+None of these things interested our hero; he was too ill at ease to feel
+hungry; he looked around in anxiety for her, in search of whom only he
+had cared to come into the kitchen. She was not to be seen.
+
+“You are looking for Lionne; she will, no doubt, join us presently; in
+the meantime, draw up to the table,” said the unsuspicious host.
+
+And even as he spoke, the door connecting the kitchen with the front
+room on the same side of the hall opened, and Lionne appeared, bearing
+in her hand a bowl of snowy honey-comb, which she placed upon the table.
+Then giving their guest a gay “good-morning,” she took her place at the
+head of the board.
+
+And if Lionne had seemed bewitching in her hunting-dress of the day
+before, oh, how lovely she looked in her womanly, home dress of this
+morning!
+
+It was a costume of severe simplicity—just a close-fitting, crimson
+boddice and skirt; her glossy, raven black hair, with all its rippling
+ringlets, was waved off around each blushing cheek, and gathered in a
+rich mass at the back of her head; that was all. There was no ornament,
+nor refinement of the toilet, not even a white collar or ruffle about
+the rounded throat; yet how well she could dispense with the aid of
+dress! How beautiful those masses of glossy black ringlets, rippling off
+from the blooming cheeks; those large, languishing, dark eyes, under
+their fringe of long, black lashes; those full curved, crimson,
+passionate lips; that ivory throat; that swelling bust; that rounded
+waist!
+
+“What will you be helped to, Mr. Deville?” said the host, interrupting
+his delicious reverie.
+
+“I thank you; yes, sir, if you please,” rather irrelevantly replied the
+young man, holding out his plate, and, in the abstraction of his mind,
+permitting it to be loaded with a portion of every dish on the table,
+until at length the host stared with surprise, and the demented guest
+himself came partially to his senses, blushed for his strange
+forgetfulness, and straightway addressed himself to the business and
+conversation of the table.
+
+“Our guest will become our visitor for a few days, my dear, until his
+wound is well healed,” explained Mr. Delaforêt.
+
+“We shall be very happy,” replied Lionne, with a bow and a bright smile,
+as, the breakfast being over, she gave the signal to rise from the
+table.
+
+The gentlemen, leaving Lionne in the kitchen, adjourned to the
+sitting-room, where Mr. Delaforêt caused his patient to sit in the
+leathern chair, while he examined his wound.
+
+“The case is not so bad as I had feared,” he remarked, when he had made
+some little progress in the investigation. “The bullet, if it ever
+lodged against the shoulder-blade, has been dislodged and worked
+downwards, just as likely as not by the motion of your horse in riding
+these several days past. It is its change of place that has caused you
+accession of pain and fever; but its shifting is highly favorable; it is
+now in a situation to be reached; it is just below the right
+shoulder-blade; you may feel it from the outside,” concluded the
+volunteer surgeon, as he guided the finger of his patient around to the
+spot where, sure enough, the bullet could be felt like a round pebble
+beneath the skin.
+
+“My daughter,” said the host, going to the door and calling, “prepare
+quickly some lint and linen, and bring it here with a basin of warm
+water.”
+
+Then coming back to his patient, he said:
+
+“It will take no more scientific instrument than a simple penknife to
+relieve your shoulder of this uncomfortable intruder, sir.”
+
+And opening the blade, he cut the skin and the bullet dropped into his
+hand! He laid it before his patient.
+
+“Even so slight a thing may bring a man death!” said the young soldier,
+taking it between his finger and thumb, and looking at it with interest.
+
+“Yes,” said the host, with a smile, “it is a dangerous denizen of one’s
+body! This might have caused _your_ death even yesterday, or to-day!
+Suppose, for instance, that, when you were so imprudently jolting
+forward on your journey, this bullet, when dislodged by that motion, had
+taken another direction, and had fallen upon some vital part, as it
+might easily have done?”
+
+“What then?”
+
+“Aye, what then! You would have been a dead man! I have known such
+cases. But here comes the child, Lionne, with the dressings for your
+wound.”
+
+Lionne came only to the door, handed in all that was needed, and
+retired.
+
+The slight, external wound whence the bullet was extracted was dressed
+with lint, and the invalid was put upon a simple regimen to cool the
+fever of the inner irritation. And then the self-elected physician
+promised that, if his patient would rest quietly for two days, he might
+walk about a little on the third; and he placed his small collection of
+books at the service of Orville.
+
+For an hour or two the time hung heavily upon the hands of the young
+soldier.
+
+But when Lionne came in, bringing her work,—some coarse, strong,
+twine-netting,—and sat down quietly near her father, all was changed!
+
+The young invalid felt that he could sit forever, reclining in that
+leathern chair, and watch her from under the fringes of his half-closed
+eyes—drinking in, through them, draughts of passional intoxication! For
+the present this was sufficient; this was delicious! He knew nothing of
+the delirium—the madness—that must follow!
+
+As passed this day so passed the next. And then dawned the third day,
+when the patient had permission, if he pleased, to walk about.
+
+It was the first day of the golden month of October. Mr. Delaforêt was
+shut up in his private room, engaged in writing, as his daughter
+informed their guest.
+
+Orville Deville, pleading utter ignorance of the mountain-paths, invited
+Lionne to become his guide for the prescribed walk.
+
+The forest maiden yielded a prompt and cheerful assent, and they left
+the house for their ramble.
+
+Behind them arose the frowning precipice; before them flowed the smiling
+river; beyond that stood the waving woods in all the gorgeous glory of
+their autumnal foliage.
+
+“I know of no more beautiful walk than this between the precipice and
+the river; only, if we go far, the path becomes narrow and almost
+impassible; for in some places the water washes the perpendicular side
+of the rocks, and in others actually flows under it; so that you would
+have to wet your feet in crossing; but you would not mind _that_,” said
+the hardy mountain-maiden.
+
+At any other time he would have minded it; for, with all his courage,
+our young soldier was, in some respects, rather a dainty gentleman. But,
+no, he could not brook to appear before this beautiful young Amazon in
+the character of a “carpet-knight.”
+
+With a disdainful smile he dismissed the idea that he should care about
+wetting his feet, and set out to follow his bright guide.
+
+In the course of that momentous walk they made great progress towards
+more intimate acquaintance.
+
+Without intrusive inquiries, Orville Deville, in the course of
+conversation, then and afterwards, learned many significant facts in
+regard to the history, characters, and circumstances of his bright young
+hostess and her father.
+
+Like glimpses of a pre-existence, seen in dreams, or like descriptions
+read in books, Lionne said she vaguely remembered living in another
+home, and being called by another name.
+
+Rather more distinctly she remembered living a long time in what must
+have been a great ship, and crossing an almost endless piece of water,
+which must have been the Atlantic Ocean.
+
+Then came many wanderings; and then, at last, this mountain lodge, where
+they had been living eight or nine years.
+
+Her father never could bear to talk of their past lives, so she knew
+nothing certainly. Her father, she continued, passed much time shut up
+in his private chamber; he both wrote and received many letters; he had
+means for all their needs; he mailed and received all his letters and
+bought all their provisions from Winchester, a town in the valley, some
+thirty miles distant, to which Vulcan, who had been with them ever since
+she could remember, went every week.
+
+She, Lionne, had never been to Winchester, nor anywhere else since they
+had come to this lodge; she had no female companions, never had any. Her
+father had taught her to read and to write; she had read Rippon’s
+History of England, Chaucer, Spencer, and Shakspeare, that was all, only
+she liked Shakspeare best, and knew many of the plays by heart.
+
+Her father had taught her to ride and to shoot; he used to be her
+constant companion in these field and forest sports, or rather, she used
+to be his; but of late years, he better liked the quiet of his chamber,
+and she, who could not abandon these out-door amusements, was now
+obliged to pursue them alone.
+
+“Alone! ah my beautiful huntress, how blest I should esteem myself in
+the coveted privilege of becoming your companion, your attendant, your
+groom, upon these excursions!”
+
+“Should you?” exclaimed Lionne, in innocent surprise. “Oh, I am sure if
+_that_ could afford you the least gratification——”
+
+“Gratification—it would afford me delight!”
+
+“Well, sir, only wait until you are able to ride!”
+
+“Ah, dear Lionne! what condescension! _what_ favor!”
+
+“Favor!” she exclaimed in simple wonder, “_what_ favor? unless it is you
+who confer the favor; for I am sure that it is very, very good in you to
+offer to become my escort, and to say that it would make you happy to be
+so.”
+
+“Here is a child of nature, who has never been spoiled by flattery,”
+thought the young man. Then aloud he said:
+
+“Bright Lionne! is it possible no one has ever informed you what a
+privilege, what a favor, what a blessing it is to be permitted only to
+walk or ride by your side?”
+
+She turned upon him a curious look.
+
+“I do not understand you, sir. Of course, no one has ever told me; there
+was no one to tell me any such thing, even if it were true. Favor?
+Privilege? Blessing?—only to walk beside me? How could that be?”
+
+“Ah, beautiful one! is it possible you do not know?”
+
+“Oh, of course, I know that company is good; that even you, now that you
+are away from all your dear friends and fine acquaintances, would rather
+walk with me than quite alone. That is easily understood, for I myself
+am very glad to have you with me.”
+
+“Are you, Lionne?”
+
+“Yes, indeed. I reckon you would think so if you knew how lonesome I
+feel at times.”
+
+“No mother, no sisters, no brothers, no companions! It is easily
+comprehensible,” said the young man, communing with himself; then aloud:
+
+“So you are often lonesome, Lionne?”
+
+“Oh, yes! feeling as if I had not a friend or companion in the wide,
+wide world; though that is wrong, I know, for I have my dear father and
+Vulcan, to say nothing of Nox.”
+
+“Nox?”
+
+“Yes, my horse—a good companion, though he does go upon four legs. I am
+ungrateful to forget my friends.”
+
+“Then you only feel lonely when you are depressed in spirits?”
+
+“No; but when I am elevated also. It is true, sir. I am lonely in all my
+moods,—lonely in low spirits and lonely in high spirits, and never more
+so than when from the mountain-top I look around upon the heavens and
+the earth, and with the heart swelling in my bosom, long for some one
+near to whom to say, “How glorious this is!”
+
+“Solitary child of nature and the wilds! That explains all—even these
+strange confidences to a stranger,” thought Orville, as he gazed upon
+her.
+
+They had now reached the rapids and a bend in the river, where it was
+necessary to go round a curve and jutting rock, that arose immediately
+from the edge of the water. The need of picking their way and jumping
+from stone to stone over the foamy water, held them silent for a few
+moments until they had passed the rapids and reached a foothold on the
+beach. Then again Lionne spoke:
+
+“I am going to show you a beautiful grotto, known only to me. Father
+never cares to wet his feet and has never been along here, so he is
+quite ignorant of the existence of this grotto; and as for Vulcan—just
+fancy him with his elephantine hoofs, springing from rock to rock as we
+did over the rapids!”
+
+“And this famous grotto is—how far off?”
+
+“Turn about! face the mountain now and see if you can find it,” said
+Lionne, archly.
+
+He smiled in response, and looked up and down and along the ridge—a
+great perpendicular precipice of gray rocks thickly quilled with
+bristling cedars.
+
+“No, bright riddler. I give it up. In that wilderness of prickling
+evergreens I never could discover it.”
+
+“Make three steps in a bee-line, directly from the spot upon which you
+stand, to the precipice, and lay your hand upon the rock.”
+
+He laughingly obeyed her.
+
+“Now have you found it?”
+
+“No, lady bright.”
+
+“Yet it is just before you,” she said and laughing gayly she came
+forward, took his place, rolled away a stone, tore away some moss and
+dried leaves, parted a group of low bushes, and revealed the mouth of
+the cavern.
+
+“Enter!” ordered Lionne, in a voice of mock tragedy. And the young man,
+giving in to her humor, bowed his head and passed in.
+
+It was no dark and gloomy cave. From numerous irregular crevices in the
+rocks that formed its sides and ceiling, its size and shape could be
+easily seen. It covered about an acre of ground. Its form was oval; the
+floor, nearly flat, was formed of the solid rock; the walls and ceiling,
+also of rock, glittered with a thousand prismatic hues, the
+predominating one being from brilliant metallic atoms profusely mixed in
+the rocks and strongly resembling golden sands.
+
+Orville regarded this appearance with curiosity, interest, and wonder.
+Lionne saw this and laughed gayly, crying in the mock tragedy to which
+she was so addicted,
+
+“There’s ‘_Speculation_ in those eyes that thou dost GLARE withal!’ But
+don’t trouble yourself; this’s not a gold mine, though when I first
+discovered it I felt _sure_ it was; so sure that I chipped off a piece
+of the rock that was full of that glittering substance and took it home;
+and, without saying any thing about my precious grotto, I asked my
+father if that was not gold. He examined it, smiled in my face, and told
+me that it was just mica—nothing else.”
+
+“Are you so fond of gold, then?”
+
+“Why, yes, for my father’s sake; for he seems to lack some great thing.
+And from all that I can read in books, GOLD is the one great earthly
+power! For myself I do not crave it; for indeed I should not know what
+to do with it. I have every thing I need.”
+
+“Except a companion,” said the youth.
+
+“Ah, yes,” sighed Lionne, casting away her straw hat and seating herself
+on a fragment of rock; “always, of course, except a companion. I have
+never been so lonesome anywhere as I have been in this very cavern; for
+I had not even Nox here! At times my very heart has seemed to cry out
+for some one to speak to. I am so glad that we met on the mountain. I
+wish you would stay with us always,” added the wild, untaught creature.
+
+He had been standing there, gazing upon her beautiful form in its
+attitude of careless ease and grace, her hands clasped over her knees,
+her stately head raised, her rich black tresses partly gathered into a
+knot at the nape of the neck and partly escaped, and rippling, in
+disheveled ringlets, down each blushing cheek; her glowing, humid lips
+apart; her dark, languishing eyes fixed—even while she answered him—upon
+the heaven beyond the mouth of the cavern.
+
+Her enticing beauty, her innocent disclosures, her unconscious ardor,
+the solitude, the opportunity, the temptation, all were too potent for
+the principles of our unstable youth. One moment’s hesitation, given to
+two restraining powers,—to fidelity on the one hand and bashfulness on
+the other,—and then, drawing his breath hard, he stealthily crept
+towards her, dropped at her feet, possessed himself of her hand, pressed
+closer to her side, sought her eyes, and breathing quickly and fiercely,
+whispered:
+
+“Lionne! Lionne! Lionne! I am here, in answer to that cry of your heart,
+Lionne. I am he whom you need I am your own! I love you! I am at your
+feet! Look at me!”
+
+With a rebounding spring, that rang sharply upon the rocks, she sprang
+upon her feet and stood gazing upon him in wild affright.
+
+His words, his warm, quick, fierce breath, his gaze, his tone, his touch
+had been a revelation to the wild mountain maiden—had thrilled every
+fibre of her ardent, sensitive frame—had filled her soul with delight
+and terror.
+
+He softly arose and extended his arms towards her, pleading—“Lionne!
+Lionne!” in tones as soft and wiling as the notes of Orpheus’s lute.
+
+She stood in the attitude of suspended flight, covertly watching him
+from the corner of her eye.
+
+“Lionne! Lionne!” he prayed, going towards her.
+
+With the leap of a young catamount, she was out of his reach, and near
+the mouth of the cavern, where she paused, palpitating, prepared for
+flight, watching him from the corner of her eye, kindly, yet
+distrustingly, as though loth to leave him, yet terribly afraid of
+falling under his power.
+
+He saw her hesitation, lost his reason and ran towards her.
+
+But like an arrow from the bow, she sped through the mouth of the
+cavern!
+
+And the next instant he saw her spring from stone to stone over the
+foaming waters of the rapids, and disappear around the jutting rock.
+
+And while, discomfited, humiliated and angered, the young man wandered
+slowly back to the house, Lionne, running, springing and leaping,
+quickly reached home, and avoiding all encounter with the inmates of the
+lodge, fled to her chamber, fastened the door and stood in the middle of
+the floor, flushed, palpitating, radiant—exclaiming—
+
+“Oh! I am so frightened and—and so happy!”
+
+Orville and Lionne did not meet again that day. Well would it have been
+for them, and for all they loved then or ever loved, had they never seen
+each other more.
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER V.
+                        PASSION AND TEMPTATION.
+
+            The cold in clime are cold in blood!
+              Their love can scarce deserve the name;
+            But theirs was like the lava flood
+              That boils in Etna’s breast of flame!—_Byron._
+
+
+Oh, the new heavens and the new earth! oh, the beauty of the world and
+the glory of the sky! This is not my rhapsody, dearest reader, but the
+rhapsody of Orville and of Lionne, when love had transfigured the
+universe before them!
+
+“Half willing and half afraid,” now approaching, now receding, they had
+gradually come to understand themselves and each other.
+
+The restraining principle of fidelity on his side, and of reserve on
+hers, had yielded to the impetuous power of passion.
+
+While the recluse father was buried in his dreams and schemes and
+correspondence—political, radical, revolutionary—who could tell?—the
+neglected, motherless daughter was wooed and won.
+
+First, Orville, not again to frighten this shy forest-maiden, practised
+an instinctive reserve—a reserve that was not premeditated but
+impulsive, and that piqued Lionne into resentment at his
+indifference—resentment that could not escape his attention, and that
+flattered his pride.
+
+Cautiously he made his advances; shyly she evaded and—encouraged them.
+
+He coaxed her out to walk along the margin of the water, or over the
+wooded hills of the opposite shore, or up the sides of the precipice.
+
+He persuaded her to ride with him, over the mountains and through the
+heavily timbered valleys between.
+
+He prevailed on her to sail with him as he steered along the sinuous
+windings of the Singing Stream, and under the shadow of the
+forest-covered mountains.
+
+And to hunt in his company through all the country.
+
+Ah, those walks, and rides, and sails, and hunts! Ah, those hills, and
+vales, and woods, and waters! What tales they heard! What tales they
+might have told!
+
+They might have told how the huntress was hunted! how the enchantress
+was enchanted! how the lioness was tamed!
+
+Mr. Delaforêt, if that was his name, saw nothing of this. When he came
+down from his room, he usually found either Lionne or Orville in his
+sitting-room. He never missed both at the same time or found both
+together. Consequently there was nothing to suggest the fact that they
+passed much time in each other’s society.
+
+Old Nero saw it all! Negroes are by their very natures intently
+observant and intensely sympathetic in the affairs of love; where they
+are trusted they are the most secretive of confidants, the most faithful
+of partizans, the most devoted of co-adjutors. And where they are not
+trusted they find out every thing for themselves, and use their own
+pleasure in concealing or betraying the mystery.
+
+Thus, old Nero discovered the contraband-courting carried on by his
+young master. After soliloquizing several monologues upon the question
+of what will Lady Adelaide say; and after all, coming to the conclusion
+that his young master had no sort of right to keep any secrets from him,
+he determined boldly to enter upon the interesting subject with Mr.
+Deville.
+
+So one noon, when Lionne was in the kitchen, preparing dinner, Mr.
+Delaforêt was in the sitting-room and Orville Deville was sauntering up
+and down under the trees before the house, old Nero leaned up against
+the trunk of an elm and attracted his proprietor’s attention by a loud—
+
+“Hem!”
+
+“Well!” exclaimed Mr. Deville, with an impatient start.
+
+“She’s brighter nor Lady Adelaide!”
+
+“Who asked for your opinion, you old scoundrel?”
+
+“And, likewise, handsomer, ‘cordin’ to my taste!”
+
+“You are an impudent old varlet!”
+
+“But she aint so high edicated an’ accomplish’!”
+
+“What do you mean, you old rascal?”
+
+“I’m boun’ to say how she knows nuffin’ ’bout de wee mown-seers, an’
+see-seen-noors, an’ dimmy-simmy-quivers, dat is to say—de French an’
+’talian langwidges and de music!”
+
+“How dare you, you old villain, talk in this manner to me?”
+
+“Easy, marster, honey; easy, chile; I talks to you for your own good,
+’deed I does; ’cause I wishes of you well, chile. Now, see here,
+honey—sollum betroffed is sollum betroffed! Still, it aint by no means
+marriage! An’ so ef yer had been ’cline to break off ’long o’ Lady
+Adelaide, you mought o’ done it: but to go an’ bring a ‘sgrace on top o’
+all your cullered people by marryin’ of a young savidge as knows nuffin
+of de wee-mown-seers an’ see-seen-noors an’ dimmy-simmy-quivers!”
+
+“You exasperating old fool, don’t you suppose I will strangle you!”
+broke forth the young man in fury.
+
+“Can’t help of it, ef you do, Marse Awful, honey! I sabed you from de
+amber-scalps, an’ you may repay me wid deaf if you like. You may choke
+me dead, but you can’t stop my talkin’, nor likewise smodder de
+trufe—case what does de poec say?—
+
+        ‘Yer may crack, yer may shiver de wase if yer _pleases_,
+        But de smell o’ de roses will stick to de pieces!’
+
+Dar!”
+
+“You are an idiot; it is no use to mind you!”
+
+“’Cisely so, marster.”
+
+“But there is one thing, sir, that your idiocy must understand! You are
+never again to take the liberty of mentioning this young lady’s name in
+connection with this subject, either before me or any one else!”
+
+“_Which_ young lady, Marse Awful—Lady Adelaide, or Miss Lionne?”
+demurely inquired Nero.
+
+“_Either_ young lady, sir! I am tired of hearing you! I wish to have no
+more of it!”
+
+“Myself wishes yer may have no more of it, marster, honey,” said old
+Nero, sanctimoniously.
+
+The young man, dissatisfied with himself, and consequently with all the
+world, continued to walk up and down the yard.
+
+And old Nero, with a sigh, entered the house.
+
+The trial between passion and principle! Who, in one form or another,
+has not witnessed it? The struggle between avarice and justice, ambition
+and integrity, love and fidelity?
+
+“Oh, that I had never met this witching girl, or that my life were not
+bound by an irrevocable bond! To fly from her is death! to remain
+is—perdition!” such was the refrain of all Orville’s thoughts as he
+paced thoughtfully up and down the yard.
+
+As yet both loved, and both were innocent! Again and again, with all the
+eloquence of fervent passion, had he breathed to her his love. And she
+had listened, unrebukingly, silent, but inexpressibly happy!
+
+He whose hand was irrevocably pledged to another had breathed no hint of
+marriage to her.
+
+Yet his silence upon this subject gave no uneasiness to her, the wild
+child of nature, to whose pure spirit marriage seemed love, and
+therefore, of course, love seemed marriage.
+
+To her wild solitude no experiences of the world’s wickedness had come.
+Never in her life had she heard of other than lawful love. To her
+fervent soul that little word of four letters stood for the purest,
+highest, and holiest of all that is pure, high and holy.
+
+It was the synonym for religion, for heaven, for God. And is it not
+really so? for “God is love.”
+
+She, wild enthusiast, believed in this celestial love!
+
+It was now late in October. Orville’s wounds were perfectly healed,
+health and strength had returned; he had now no excuse to trespass
+farther on the hospitality of his kind host.
+
+The necessity for departure was imminent, yet he found no power to
+depart.
+
+Duty urged him to fly. Temptation held him bound. With no strength to
+break his bonds, he lingered near Lionne, losing self-control in the
+conflict.
+
+This terrible struggle between passion and principle could not last. The
+madness must come to a crisis. It is written that the Spirit of the Lord
+shall not always strive with man. Thus there fall a dark hour in which
+the angel of salvation fled sorrowing away front this tempted soul!
+
+It was the twentieth of October, a glorious day, when mountains and
+forests, arrayed in all the gorgeous, variegated foliage of the season,
+glowed in the golden haze of Indian summer.
+
+Early in the morning, Lionne had lured him out for a hunt. And they two
+rode on over the mountain crest, preceded a short distance by Nero, who
+had the hounds in charge. Beneath them lay the earth, rejoicing in this
+refulgent light.
+
+To Orville, Lionne seemed the very incarnate spirit of this scene. By
+virtue of her splendid beauty and fearless spirit, a very queen over the
+mountains, streams, and forests around her.
+
+To possess this queen for his wife! oh, to possess her!
+
+He scarcely dared turn his eyes upon her bewildering face and form as
+she rode beside him.
+
+The stately little head, with its royal forehead, the slender, arched
+eyebrows, the dark eyes smouldering and flashing beneath their long
+lashes, the glowing cheeks, the crimson lips,—the whole rich, ripe,
+refulgent countenance, half-vailed by the long, glittering, black
+ringlets that flowed down each side her face; half shaded by the sable
+hat and plumes that drooped over her brow; the rounded bust and slender
+waist; the graceful attitude, the still more graceful motions; the
+glance, the tone, the smile were all too potent for his principles.
+
+No! he dared not look upon _her_. Would that he had not dared to parley
+with himself! but no! he communed with himself in this manner:
+
+“Here is the girl who attracts my whole nature with an irresistible
+power! More beautiful, more graceful, more intellectual, impassioned,
+and spirited than any creature I have ever before known!
+
+“Her touch, her glance, her tones have power to thrill my whole nature!
+her smile flashes into my soul a delirium of joy! what rapture would not
+her full possession impart!
+
+“And this enchanting creature loves me! loves me! she, loves me! for
+when I feel the dizzy ecstasy that her shy glance imparts, I also feel
+the power that I possess over her! intoxicating power that yet I may not
+use.
+
+“And this bewildering being might be mine but for _that bond_! that
+fatal bond forced on my life in childhood!
+
+“_Is_ it binding? _should_ it be binding? should a betrothal, solemnized
+at the instance of their guardians between a boy and girl who met then
+for the first time and never afterwards met again, be binding upon
+either party?
+
+“It ought not! It shall not! I will ignore the serious farce performed
+at the death-bed of the Earl of Lennark, and I will marry the woman of
+my choice!”
+
+While thus Orville communed with himself, Lionne silent, thoughtful,
+melancholy, rode beside him. At last rendered uneasy by his long
+continued silence and his sombre aspect, she said in a low voice:
+
+“You are either not well, or not happy, Mr. Deville.”
+
+“No, I am neither well nor happy!” he replied in a deeply-troubled tone.
+
+“And wherefore?” she shyly inquired.
+
+“Lionne! Lionne! I love you!” he answered, in a deep and thrilling
+voice.
+
+She did not reply; she dropped her head upon her bosom and cast her eyes
+down beneath his ardent gaze. She had lately learned—she knew not
+wherefore—to blush and shrink and tremble at his declarations of love.
+
+“Lionne! you do not answer me!” he exclaimed, with an impassioned
+vehemence.
+
+“Alas! what would you have me to say?” she murmured, in an almost
+inaudible voice.
+
+“Lionne, I love you! I adore you! I worship you! Yes! with all the
+strength, passion, yes, _life_ of my soul! Lionne! I lay my heart, hand,
+name, and fortune—all that I am and have, or may become, or may
+attain—at your beloved feet! Lionne! in return for my whole heart’s and
+soul’s and life’s devotion, only say that you can love me!”
+
+She raised her glorious eyes to his, in one quick and quickly-withdrawn,
+earnest, impassioned, devoted gaze, that spoke more than her beautiful
+lips could ever have uttered,—then dropped them and blushed to the very
+edges of her hair.
+
+It was enough! He caught her hand and pressed it to his lips and heart.
+He whispered—
+
+“Lionne! we are fifteen miles from your home. There, in the valley below
+us, lies Winchester. A two-hours ride will bring us to the town—” he
+paused and she glanced up at him in perplexity, hesitation and
+questioning.
+
+“Love! love! do you not understand me? In that town of Winchester there
+is a county-clerk’s office and an Episcopal clergyman!”
+
+Still on her face that look of earnest inquiry.
+
+“Dearest Lionne! in that town of Winchester, within the next three
+hours, you can make me the proudest, the happiest, the most perfectly
+blessed being under the wide canopy of heaven!”
+
+Now a look of devoted interest deepened the meaning of her beautiful
+countenance.
+
+“Dearest, most adored Lionne, in that town of Winchester, before the
+ascending sun shall have attained his meridian, you may have placed me
+at the acme of my aspirations! You may have become my wife!”
+
+“Your wife!”—the words were half uttered, half aspirated, as the light
+of a deep, intense and vivid joy rose and beamed from her beautiful
+countenance and then died out beneath the burning blushes that
+overspread her face.
+
+“Yes, worshipped one, my wife! Lionne, in a few days I must leave this
+place! There is a foreboding in my heart that unless I make you now my
+own, something may intervene to separate us forever! Therefore to-day,
+my beloved, I would, with your sweet consent, place between us that bond
+which may not be broken except by crime or death! Dearest, will you
+consent to this?”
+
+“But—my father?” she murmured in a low voice.
+
+“Your father, my best beloved, likes me well; knows my social position;
+has had some chance to judge my character; your father would not object
+to me as a son-in-law,” replied the young man, with the slight hauteur
+of one who even in an hour of passionate love could not forget his
+social superiority over this daughter of the wilds.
+
+“No, he would not object, but he should certainly be consulted,” said
+Lionne, in a low and tremulous voice.
+
+“Lionne, my beloved, have confidence in me.”
+
+“My father should be consulted, however,” she said.
+
+“Listen to me, dearest. Age is cold and deliberate, and makes no account
+of the warmth and impatience of youth and love. Your father, with all
+his faith in me and approval of my suit, would, nevertheless, from mere
+etiquette, require time to reflect; then he would insist upon formally
+consulting my friends, who, however highly they should applaud my
+choice, would also, by reasons of ceremony, demand time for
+deliberation; then would come a question of marriage-settlements; then
+lawyers and the law’s delays; then contracts; then at long, long, last,
+supposing nothing should intervene to prevent it, when we should both be
+sick with ‘hope deferred,’ would come the late wedding.”
+
+“Well?” she murmured, seeing that he paused.
+
+“Well! I could not bear this long delay! Lionne! Lionne! my love! my
+fate! hear me! Be my wife at once; and then, when you are irrevocably
+mine, we will ask the old man’s blessing, and he will give it, since he
+has no real objection to me. See, Lionne, I do not entreat you to
+forestall your parent’s wishes, for they would be in our favor; but I
+only beg you to forestall all their ceremonious delays and tedious
+solemnities. Dearest Lionne, hear me, grant my prayer, and I will thank
+you now, and bless you a thousand years hence, in heaven, for the
+grace!” he said, pale and panting, as he pressed her hand and leaned
+towards her.
+
+“Hush! the grace, the favor, is mutual. I am yours, Orville,” she
+murmured, in a low, almost inaudible, yet heart-thrilling tone, as she
+lifted her splendid eyes for an instant to his face, and then dropped
+them suddenly, amid bright blushes.
+
+A gleam of wild joy, almost of frenzied exultation, lighted up his face
+as he exclaimed,
+
+“Forward, then, dear one,” and putting spurs to his horse, sped onward
+towards the town.
+
+Her black mare kept up, neck and neck, with his flying steed. They
+overtook and distanced old Nero, who looked after them in stupid
+amazement a moment, and then exclaimed:
+
+“Hi, what de debble dat? What done broke loose now? Oh, I see; dey is
+a-ridin’ of a steeple-chase. It’s my hopes as my young marse may get
+home ’dout havin’ of his neck broke, _dar!_ sides which, I don’t mean to
+break _mine_, _dar_!”
+
+And so saying old Nero restrained his horse’s inclination to follow, and
+subdued him to a walk.
+
+Meanwhile the erring young couple reached Winchester.
+
+He conducted her to the quiet inn, left her in a private parlor, and
+then went out to procure the license and find a clergyman.
+
+After an absence of half an hour he returned with the document, and
+accompanied by a clergyman to whom he formally presented Lionne.
+
+Then, exhibiting the license, he took the hand of his bride and stood
+up.
+
+The minister commenced the ceremony, and in ten minutes pronounced the
+young pair man and wife.
+
+Orville, beside himself with triumph, led her to a settee, where she
+sat, pale, with a joy too intense for smiles.
+
+Orville had scarcely remunerated and discharged the minister, (who had
+filled out and handed to Lionne a marriage-certificate,) and had not had
+time to turn and speak to Lionne before a clattering was heard outside,
+and through the front windows old Nero was seen to roll himself down
+from his saddle and enter the hall.
+
+And the moment after he appeared at the parlor-door, with a deep bow
+and—
+
+“Am you in want of _me_, young marse?”
+
+“No—yes! you may go and see to feeding and watering the horses, and on
+your way out, send the host hither.”
+
+“Yes, sar!”
+
+“And listen! don’t you dare to stop and gossip!”
+
+“Sartainly not, sar!” said Nero, with an injured air, as he withdrew.
+
+When the host came, a waiter of refreshments was ordered: but of these
+the youthful couple partook but slightly, while waiting for their
+steeds.
+
+When they were reported ready, Orville and Lionne, mounted and attended
+by Nero, rode homewards.
+
+There was no hunting done that day! The only chase had been a “love
+chase,” but that had been successful!
+
+They reached home just as the sun was sinking behind the mountain ridge,
+and casting a long, black shadow over the old stone-house at its foot,
+and over the waters of the Singing Stream. A shade of superstitious
+foreboding darkened the brightness of Lionne’s joy, as she gazed upon
+the deep gloom that shrouded her father’s house. Her cheek grew paler
+than its wont.
+
+“I hope it’s not an omen,” she whispered.
+
+He who watched her every look, and listened to her every breath, heard
+this almost inaudible murmur.
+
+“‘Omen!’ dear love! how can that shadow be an omen, which falls upon the
+house every evening alike at the sinking of the sun?”
+
+“But every evening we do not ride home in its shadow! Whenever we have
+returned heretofore, we have found the homestead bathed in sunlight, or
+in moonshine! And this evening of the day upon which we have plighted
+our troth forever, we ride home in _the shadow_!”
+
+“Beautiful witch! what make you out of that?” smiled the gay bridegroom.
+
+“I know not! My blood is freezing! My heart is curdling! Orville!”
+
+“Lionne!” he cried, seizing the rein that had fallen from her hands, and
+gazing into her face that had suddenly grown haggard with horror, as at
+some tremendous vision!
+
+“_Lionne!_” he cried again, throwing himself from his saddle, and
+lifting her from hers.
+
+She stood upon the narrow space between the line of her father’s low
+stone-wall and the steep banks of the river. She stood with her hat
+fallen off, her black dishevelled ringlets streaming down each side the
+awful beauty of her pale, inspired young face, her dark robes flowing in
+long, sombre folds down her lithe, majestic figure—she stood as might
+have stood the awful priestess of Apollo, when the power of the god was
+upon her, forcing her to gaze in pain upon the terrors of the future,
+and to utter in anguish oracles concerning them!
+
+“LIONNE!!” he exclaimed once more, slightly shaking her arm.
+
+She raised her hand and swept it once or twice slowly across her brow,
+then turned and looked upon him with the air of me awakening from a
+dream.
+
+“It is past!” she said, with a sigh of deep relief.
+
+“_What_ is past? my own Lionne!”
+
+“Oh, the vision!”
+
+“The vision?”
+
+“The wilderness! the storm! the houseless woman with the wild hair and
+maniac eye!! the perishing babe!!!”
+
+“My own Lionne, you astonish me!”
+
+“Hush! listen! we of the house of Delaforêt are said to be endowed with
+a fatal gift, that of second-sight!”
+
+“What ancient folly, dearest love! the world has outlived such notions!
+Science now terms second sight, epilepsy, catalepsy, optical illusion,
+or insanity!” smilingly replied Orville.
+
+“What care I _what_ science terms that fearful phenomenon? I care not
+for the name, but for the _thing_, since it is prophetic! Oh, Orville!
+Orville! all evil omens attend our loves! We first met amid thunder and
+lightning!”
+
+“Blessed be the storm that brought us together!”
+
+“The first time you pressed me to your bosom, your dagger’s point, worn
+through its sheath and shifted in your belt, pierced my arm!”
+
+“Accursed be the steel that wounded you, my own love! I had rather it
+had been sheathed in my own heart!”
+
+“And to-day! to-day! you married me—did you know it?—with a
+mourning-ring!!” and she held up to his view a circlet set with jet.
+
+“Blessed forever the ring that bound us together! Dear love, it was my
+sister’s; I wore it for her sake; it was the only one at hand, and I
+placed it on your finger, and thus converted the mourning-circlet into
+the happy bridal ring!”
+
+“Oh, I do not know; but it seems to me that we have erred! Ah! I wish
+that we had first obtained my father’s consent and blessing—that we had
+been _sure_ we were right—and then, whatever should come, we could be
+resigned!”
+
+“‘Whatever should come we could be _resigned_?’ Dear Lionne, why are all
+your anticipations sorrowful?”
+
+“I know not, unless it is because I have sinned! But what’s done is
+done!’ I will shake off threatening images. What indeed can the vision,
+or the imagined vision, of the wilderness, the night-storm, the
+wandering maniac and the murdered child have to do with _our_ future?
+Listen! our poor beasts are neighing with impatience; they want their
+stables and their oats; let us go in and leave them to the care of Nero,
+whom I see approaching,” she concluded, with a forced smile.
+
+They entered the stone house by the wide hall-door.
+
+Lionne flew up stairs to doff her riding-habit, before attending to tea.
+
+Orville entered the sitting-room, where he found the recluse buried in
+his books and papers.
+
+“Had a good day’s sport?” inquired Mr. Delaforêt, as the young man drew
+up a chair and seated himself.
+
+“Excellent!” replied Orville.
+
+“Bagged any birds?”
+
+“Yes; a young eaglet of the mountains.”
+
+“Ah! a rare bird and rather unprofitable,” replied the unsuspicious
+host.
+
+Lionne appeared and summoned them to supper, which was served, as
+always, in the spacious kitchen.
+
+The meal passed as usual,—Lionne demure, bright and attentive.
+
+Orville exultant, yet self-possessed and thoughtful.
+
+The recluse absent, meditative, and unconscious of all surroundings even
+to the very tea that he was slowly sipping.
+
+When supper was over the host retired to his room, his papers, and his
+unknown plans.
+
+Orville and Lionne arose and went into the hall.
+
+Lionne approached the door of the sitting-room, as if to enter; but
+Orville laid his hand upon her arm, saying, with a gentle assumption of
+authority—
+
+“No, dearest; you are MINE now! Come! the night is beautiful! See!” and
+he led her to the hall-door, “the full moon is just rising behind the
+hills beyond the river. Soon its beams will fall upon the Singing Stream
+converting its waters to living, fluid silver. How softly and brightly
+its light will steal into our grotto! Come, love! let us go to the
+grotto!”
+
+Taking her mantle from a rock near, he wrapped it carefully around her
+shoulders and led her forth.
+
+Too used was Lionne to be forgotten by her father to suppose now that
+her absence would be noticed.
+
+They opened the gate and passed out.
+
+No fairer scene did nature ever show than that which lay before and
+around them.
+
+On their left hand arose the gloomy mountain range, extending for miles
+north and south until it curved out of sight.
+
+On their right hand flowed the bright river, flashing in the moonlight.
+Beyond it were the wooded hills, in the beautiful, deep glow of autumn.
+
+Before them wound the narrow, rocky, foamy path, scarcely promising a
+safe foothold between the mountain and the river.
+
+Lionne, as most accustomed to the path, flew past Orville, and,
+springing from jagged rock to rock over the boiling rapids, or clinging
+to the ragged evergreens that quilled the precipice, she led the way.
+
+They reached the grotto, rolled away the stone and let in the moonbeams,
+that lighted up the interior until it shone like an immense basin of
+silver.
+
+On returning to the house, they saw by a light gleaming in the recluse’s
+study that he was yet engaged in his tireless vigils.
+
+The next morning, just as the rising sun peeped over the top of the
+wooded hills beyond the river, Lionne left her room, and while the
+household was yet buried in sleep, crept down the stairs to the front
+yard.
+
+There she found Orville dressed and waiting for her.
+
+“My Lionne! my bride! my wife!” he exclaimed, approaching and drawing
+her to his bosom.
+
+She yielded her face to his fervent kisses, and then, as soon as she
+could catch her breath, she inquired, amid rosy blushes—
+
+“Will you tell my father to-day?”
+
+“No, sweet love.”
+
+“To-morrow, then?”
+
+“No, bright one!”
+
+“You said that after we should be fast married and secure from any one’s
+breaking the bond between us, you would tell my father! we are married;
+now, then, dear Orville, keep your word with me and tell him!”
+
+“I said that after we should be united, I would inform him; but I did
+not say _immediately_ after.”
+
+“Yet, dear Orville, I intreat you, do not delay this tardy justice to
+him any longer. I wish that we should be completely happy. We cannot be
+so while there is evil mixed up with our love!”
+
+“_Evil_, Lionne?”
+
+“Alas, yes! I, at least, feel remorse weighing down my heart while I
+keep so great a secret from my dear father!”
+
+“Lionne! I have been mistaken in you!”
+
+“What mean you, Orville?” she asked, uneasily.
+
+“You do not love me!” he replied, bitterly.
+
+She looked at him for one moment with an expression, oh how eloquent!
+yet how entirely untranslatable in language.
+
+“Well?” he inquired.
+
+“I have no words in which to answer that, Orville! Indeed, I might
+say—‘I love you;’ but that would not express enough; for I also love my
+father, but not like you! I might say with truth, that, were it
+necessary, I would die for you; but _that_ does not express all; for so,
+upon occasion, could I die for him,—_him_ whom I forsake for you! Ah,
+then, how can I tell you?—time will show!”
+
+It needed not that time should be subpœnaed to witness this fact!
+
+Her splendid, dark eyes, burning with her soul’s living fire, her
+flushed cheeks, through which the warm blood ebbed and flowed, her rich,
+full tones, vibrating with the heart’s deep passion, were eloquent with
+the very life of love!
+
+“You love me! you say so! yet you say, at the same time, that because
+your father is not immediately admitted into our confidence, you cannot
+be happy! that _remorse_ distresses you! Let me tell you, Lionne, that
+love suffers the presence of no rival passion by its side! it expels
+every other passion from the heart, which it alone fills, or failing to
+do that, love flies! Is there love in your heart and does it allow
+footing to a morbid compunction?”
+
+“Orville, dear Orville,” she whispered, “your words are true. I feel
+them to be so. It is, therefore, that I would have love reign alone in
+this heart that is all your own! would expel every other passion,
+remorse before them all! To do this, I would remove the cause! I would
+see my father, and win his forgiveness of my fault and his blessing upon
+our union! Oh, Orville, I do wish that we should be completely happy!
+Having the ‘one thing needful’ for happiness,—the one priceless pearl of
+love,—it seems to me so unwise that we should fail of perfect bliss
+through means of one little error! one little error so easily remedied!”
+
+“Why let that trouble you?”
+
+“Because I cannot help it. Listen,—suppose a young queen, blessed with
+youth, health, beauty, wisdom, boundless wealth, power, and
+dominion—all, in short, that could combine for the good, happiness, and
+glory of any human creature—yet, suppose she wore a pinching shoe or
+galling necklace, could she be at ease until it was removed?”
+
+“What a fancy! What has that to do with it?”
+
+“I, crowned with your love, am that queen who hath all things. Yet the
+secret I keep from my father is the pinching shoe, the galling necklace
+that will not let me be at ease. Oh, Orville, when will you tell him?”
+
+“When the proper time comes, fair one. Rely upon that.”
+
+“And when will that be?”
+
+“I cannot tell you, since I do not know, love!”
+
+She suppressed the cry of pain that arose to her lips; but she could not
+control the cloud of trouble that rolled over her beautiful, dark face.
+
+He saw it, but governing his feelings of vexation, he put out his hand
+and drew her to his bosom, laid her bright head, with all its glittering
+ringlets against his breast, and combing her tresses with his fingers,
+stooped and whispered:
+
+“Be at peace, sweet one. In this matter, henceforth, you have no
+personal responsibility whatever. ‘What’s done is done!’ ‘What’s past
+remedy is past regret.’ No woman is at the same time under bonds to both
+father and husband; she passes from the protection of the former to that
+of the latter. You left your father for me,—even had that been wrong it
+is _done_, and cannot be undone. Now new duties invest you; now you no
+longer belong to him, but to me, your husband, who proudly claims all
+your love and duty, and holds himself in all things responsible for you,
+it is _I_ who must deal with your father. Leave all to me.”
+
+“I WILL,” she said, suddenly, with impassioned devotion, as he pressed
+her to his heart.
+
+“Now, then, my sweetest love, will you do as you promised at our
+marriage ceremony? Will you—will you—_will you obey me?_” he whispered
+in her ear.
+
+“Oh, yes!” she aspirated, hiding her blushing face upon his bosom; “did
+I not _vow_ to do so? did not the minister _exhort_ me to do so? does
+not my heart _force_ me to do so? and will it not be the sweetest,
+sweetest pleasure of my life to obey my dear husband, my love, my
+leigelord?”
+
+“Always and in all things, Lionne?” he whispered.
+
+“Always and in all things,” she said, lifting her beautiful head. “Soul
+and body, I am yours! without one atom of self-reservation, yours!
+wholly yours! dispose of me as you will, love, lord, husband!” and with
+impassioned devotion and perfect self-surrender, she yielded herself to
+his fervent embrace. While pressing her to his bosom, he stooped and
+whispered:
+
+“The household will soon be astir, my love—we must be prudent—we must
+seem to-day like civil, indifferent acquaintances, and so disarm
+suspicion; but to-night, when all the family shall have retired to rest,
+steal forth and meet me in the mossy grotto.”
+
+No answer.
+
+“Will you do this?”
+
+Still no answer.
+
+“Sweet _wife_, you _must_ do this! now answer.”
+
+“Yes!” in a low and thrilling tone.
+
+Once more he strained her to his heart, pressed a fervent kiss upon her
+lips, sighed and released her. They parted. He strolled through the gate
+and down to the banks of the Singing Stream. And she went into the house
+to attend to her domestic duties.
+
+“DAR! what de name o’ de Lor’ Lady Adelaide say to _dat_! I ’clare! dese
+young men ’dout any sort o’ princerpuls!” exclaimed old Nero, who, from
+behind a rain hogshead at the end of the house, had been the unseen
+spectator of the dumb show of this lovers’ meeting and parting.
+Fortunately for the young pair, no word of their conversation had
+reached the old man’s ears.
+
+The next evening was spent in the sitting-room, first over a game of
+whist in which Lionne and Orville played against Mr. Delaforêt and
+“dummy,” and _lost_. And then the tragedy of “Fazio, or the Italian
+Wife’s Revenge,” was read aloud by Orville Deville, and at its
+conclusion gave rise to a discussion upon love, jealousy, treachery and
+revenge.
+
+There was quite a warm debate, and each expressed decided opinions, pro
+or con.
+
+All except Lionne! she listened, burned, glowed and sparkled, but said
+nothing.
+
+“How think _you_, Miss Delaforêt,” said Orville, fixing his eyes upon
+her, with a deep and searching gaze. “Is the woman whose trust has been
+betrayed by him she loves, justified in delivering him over to death?”
+
+“Surely that is no question to ask a young girl! How can she possibly
+answer it?” mildly inquired the host.
+
+“Nevertheless I would have her reply,—nay I would even drive it home and
+make it a personal one,” persisted Deville, keeping his eyes fixed with
+a commanding expression upon the countenance of Lionne. “How say you
+then, young lady? Were you by chance in the Italian wife’s
+position,—were your love and trust utterly betrayed by the man you
+loved,—would you deliver him over to death? We wait your answer.”
+
+“Were my love and trust utterly betrayed by the man whom I _had_ loved,
+(for I cannot imagine love outliving faith,) I should—” she paused.
+
+Both looked at _her_; but _she_ seemed to have forgotten the presence of
+all others, and to speak as to her own soul.
+
+“No, I should not give him over to death.” As she said these words in a
+low, deep, calm tone, her aspect grew terrible! her bosom rose and
+swelled, her face lightened vividly, then darkened and darkened until it
+grew black as night and storm, with evil passions. “No, I should not
+_kill_ the miscreant! _What!_ Suffer the deepest wrong that a woman
+could possibly suffer—a wrong that would blast my whole being, and
+change for me this fair world into a howling wilderness,—and—strike the
+traitor one sharp death-blow, that should in one instant end his
+punishment and my revenge? WHAT! Give him the repose of the grave, and
+load my own soul with blood-guiltiness, and my life with incurable
+remorse? No, no, no, no! it is stupid to _kill_ for vengeance! No! but
+_my_ revenge should be as long as our natural lives! With all the
+ingenuity of human intelligence, all the perseverance of fate, I would
+track him through the world! It should be the study of my nights, the
+work of my days, the cure of my grief, the interest, excitement and
+passion of my life to make _his_ existence one long, long, long agony!
+Aye! until he should howl for death to snatch him from torture! That
+should be my revenge!”
+
+All shuddered who heard and saw her.
+
+“What a young demon!” exclaimed Orville to himself.
+
+Yet as he gazed upon the awful beauty of her dark and stormy face, he
+felt with a sort of terrible ecstasy his whole nature irresistibly
+drawn, fascinated, towards her. He gazed upon her as one gazes upon the
+horrible beauty of some dark, unfathomable abyss. He felt his very brain
+turning—his very soul becoming absorbed by her witchcraft.
+
+Her father gave vent to his thought in a brief speech—
+
+“Lionne, you are mad!”
+
+Her face cleared in an instant. Radiant sunshine chased every cloud
+away! With an enchanting smile she said—
+
+“You force me into an imaginary position, and compel me to tell you how
+it acts upon me. I obey you, and you shudder! But what must _I_ have
+felt to be able to make you shudder? Friends, friends, do not try that
+experiment again!”
+
+Soon after this the circle separated for the night.
+
+When all was still, Lionne stole out to keep her appointment with
+Orville.
+
+It was in the course of their sweet, confidential talk that night, in
+the grotto, that Orville suddenly said to her—
+
+“Lionne, you could never become the ruthless avenger you pictured to us
+to-night!”
+
+“Hush! oh, do not speak of it! It comes to me like a presentiment! _I
+would!_ for such a foul wrong would turn me into an incarnate fiend!”
+
+Orville shuddered through all his nature.
+
+It was near daylight when they got home.
+
+The lovers’ parting came unexpectedly. The next day, at noon, Vulcan
+arrived from Winchester, bringing a letter for Mr. Deville, summoning
+him to the death-bed of his mother.
+
+Orville announced the grave news.
+
+Mr. Delaforêt expressed his sympathy, and gave orders for Mr. Deville’s
+horses to be got ready.
+
+Orville telegraphed Lionne, and stole to the grotto to take a private
+parting.
+
+He found her there before him, pale with anguish and with the effort she
+made to suppress her pain.
+
+“You are going,” she said.
+
+“I must.”
+
+“I know it! When will you be back?”
+
+“As soon, sweet love, as my duties will permit.”
+
+“How soon will that be?”
+
+“Probably in a month, possibly in a week.”
+
+“Promise me you will return as soon as you justly can.”
+
+“I _do_ promise.”
+
+“Swear it!” she said, breathing hard.
+
+“I _do_ swear it!”
+
+“By your father’s grave!”
+
+“I swear!”
+
+“By your mother’s dying-bed!”
+
+“I swear!”
+
+“By all your earthly hopes!”
+
+“I swear!”
+
+“By all your heavenly aspirations!”
+
+“I swear!”
+
+“BY OUR MUTUAL LOVE!”
+
+“By our mutual love I swear to you, Lionne, that, as soon as I justly
+can do so, I will return to you!”
+
+And then, after many fervent embraces, they parted, and each hurried by
+a different path to the house.
+
+The horses were ready.
+
+Orville took leave of his host and his household, mounted, and, attended
+by Nero, set out for Maryland.
+
+As he rode from before the door, a raven, suddenly flying from the
+forest, alighted on the chimney top of the old house, and croaked so
+dismally that Orville involuntarily turned his head and shuddered
+through all his frame. As he looked back, he caught a glimpse of Lionne,
+who was watching him from the window of her room. She, too, had heard
+the raven’s croak, and her face wore the pallid hue of death.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER VI.
+                          THE OLD MANOR-HOUSE.
+
+               Crowning a gradual hill the mansion swells
+               In old colonial grandeur.—_W. Mason._
+
+
+River-view, the ancestral home of the Devilles, was one of those fine
+old provincial mansions, of which scarcely a well-preserved specimen
+remains in America.
+
+It was situated on the north bank of the Potomac, on a heavily-wooded
+bluff.
+
+The house, a large, irregular building of gray rock, with a steep roof
+and many gables, was inclosed in a spacious yard, defended by a low
+stone-wall.
+
+Behind it rolled away the forest-covered hills of old Maryland.
+
+Before it, from the very wall, tumbled the moss-covered rocks to the
+water’s edge. And out beyond spread the magnificent prospect that gave
+the place the name of River-view: the beautiful Potomac, broad here as a
+bay, rolled in living light from north to south, as far as the eye could
+reach. Across it, under the line of the horizon, arose the dim, blue
+hills of Virginia. On the left, a little down the river, lay the lovely
+wooded island of St. George’s.
+
+The last proprietor of River-view, under the colonial government, was
+Alexander Davenport Deville, who had been educated in Scotland, and
+while there had married the Lady Elizabeth Lorne, the portionless
+daughter of a Scotch Earl.
+
+Mr. Deville brought his bride to River-view, where he lived tranquilly
+with her for eighteen years, and dying, left her with one son, Orville,
+aged about fifteen.
+
+As soon as the funeral was over the Lady Elizabeth, in compliance with
+the will of her late husband, conveyed her son to England to be
+educated.
+
+But, previous to entering the boy at Eton, her ladyship took him to make
+a visit to his uncle, the Earl of Lennark, who was then at his
+hunting-lodge in the highlands of Scotland.
+
+She found her brother on his death-bed, and in sore distress of mind
+upon two subjects.
+
+Firstly, upon account of his younger brother, Donald, the heir of his
+title and estates, who, having secretly embraced the cause of the
+Pretender, was now in France, helping to hatch conspiracies.
+
+Secondly, for the sake of his own and only child, the Lady Adelaide
+Lorne, now about twelve years of age, whom he was about to leave without
+protection, though happily not without fortune.
+
+Concerning the first subject, the Jacobite conspirator, her ladyship
+advised the earl to dismiss from his mind a matter which, being without
+remedy, should be without regret.
+
+Touching the second trouble, the motherless maiden, so soon fated to be
+left fatherless, the brother and sister put their heads together in
+close counsel.
+
+And this was the result:
+
+Young Orville Deville was an only son, fifteen years of age, healthy,
+handsome, talented, and heir of one the finest estates in the province
+of Maryland.
+
+The little Lady Adelaide was an only daughter, aged twelve, beautiful,
+graceful, amiable, and heiress in her mother’s right to about twenty
+thousand pounds sterling.
+
+Wherefore a betrothal between these two would not be so bad a plan,
+thought his mother and her father.
+
+For at first, betrothal only was intended; but upon reflection these
+plotters perceived that such betrothal would be in no degree binding
+upon the young people, should the latter in future object to
+consummating the same by marriage.
+
+Wherefore the wise ones concluded that a marriage-contract should be
+drawn up and signed, and a marriage-ceremony performed, between the two,
+to be consummated when the parties should arrive at a proper age for
+setting up housekeeping together.
+
+When this was decided upon, the children were called in from their play
+in the park.
+
+The mother took her son in hand, and made him comprehend as much as a
+boy of fifteen could of the eligibility of a union with the Lady
+Adelaide Lorne.
+
+Orville did not know that he had any objection; in general rather liked
+the new idea of being married; in particular was pleased to get a titled
+lady for his bride—titles were so very rare in the colonies! Yes, upon
+the whole, he thought he would marry Lady Adelaide, without making any
+ado about it.
+
+Lady Adelaide was summoned to the bedside of her father, and merely told
+that she was to be married to her cousin, Orville Deville. The maiden,
+too meek to express the astonishment she felt, retired to ask her old
+nurse, Elspeth, what it all meant.
+
+In short, in a week from this, all the preliminaries having been
+prepared, a solemn farce was played—a diabolical piece of wickedness was
+performed at the death-bed of the Earl of Lennark,—a boy-child of
+fifteen and a girl-child of twelve were gravely united in the holy bonds
+of matrimony. After which the male-child was sent in one direction with
+his servant, and the female-child sent in another with her nurse.
+
+And that night the Earl of Lennark, having, with the best intentions,
+done the last harm he could in this world, died, and went “to give an
+account of the deeds done in the body.”
+
+During the week of funeral obsequies the newly-married infants saw but
+little of each other; nor, to tell the truth, did they wish to do so. In
+their strange relation they had become painfully shy,—the boy,
+especially, had grown horribly afraid of the little girl.
+
+After the funeral solemnities were quite over, and the house restored to
+order, Lady Elizabeth Deville prepared to depart.
+
+Then indeed Master Orville received a tremendous shock of disappointment
+with the intelligence that he was still to go to Eton! that the awful
+event of his marriage had made no change in the previous arrangement!
+
+Here was a downfall!
+
+He had confidently expected that, being “married and settled,” he should
+go back to River-view, enter at once upon his estate, keep horses and
+hounds, give dinners and card-parties, hunt, drink and play; and, in
+brief, spend time, health and wealth, as a gentleman of quality should!
+Of becoming lover or husband, the lad never dreamed; of the little Lady
+Adelaide he never thought, except carelessly, that she might not be much
+in his way.
+
+It cost Lady Elizabeth a great deal of trouble, and the promise of
+unlimited pocket-money, to persuade Master Orville of the propriety of
+going to Eton.
+
+And reluctantly at last to Eton he went.
+
+Lady Adelaide, meek maiden, never dreamed of opposing her elders or
+superiors. She shed many tears at leaving her beautiful, wild
+Highland-home,—more tears still at parting from her father’s grave, and
+her old nurse, Elspeth,—and patiently followed her mother-in-law.
+
+Lady Elizabeth Deville was upon the whole a good and sensible woman;
+though, in some particular instances,—the baby-marriage, for
+example,—she had acted wrongly and foolishly.
+
+Her one predominant affection was maternal love; her one ruling passion,
+her son: her devotion to him reached idolatry.
+
+In him she could see no fault nor blemish.
+
+For him, if necessary, all persons, all possessions, all interests
+should be sacrificed.
+
+To him all wills should bend.
+
+In her far-reaching previsions, a wife for him, a daughter-in-law for
+herself, had been her greatest dread.
+
+A wife that might not worship him sufficiently, a daughter-in-law to
+make her miserable!
+
+Now, however, the great dread of her future was destroyed.
+
+The angel of her life was secured: a high-born maiden of her own blood,
+beautiful, intelligent, altogether lovely, and of such tender age and
+docile temper that she—the mother—could melt, mould, and shape her into
+a perfect model of a wife for her darling son—a perfect pattern of a
+daughter-in-law for herself.
+
+Honest mothers of marriagable sons, do you wish you had the same
+opportunity of forming and training satisfactory daughters-in law? Good
+women, don’t you try it! Nine hundred and ninety-nine times out of a
+thousand it would be a failure, and the thousandth time worse than a
+failure; for it would be, as this proved, an accursed success!
+
+To return.
+
+The youth at Eton, in study and in play, in cricketing, boxing, and
+boating, in school-boy fights and school-boy friendships, soon forgot
+his baby-bride.
+
+The maiden, returning home with her mother-in-law to River-view, was not
+permitted so to forget her boy-bridegroom.
+
+As a sensible woman Lady Elizabeth knew, that in order to mould and
+train this girl into a model wife and desirable daughter-in-law, she
+must first win her affections and confidence; being an amiable woman the
+lady found the task quite to her taste.
+
+During the long, long voyage out, no mother could have been more
+affectionate, solicitous and devoted to her only child than was this
+lady to her daughter-in-law.
+
+When the little maiden was sea-sick the lady nursed her with the utmost
+skill, tenderness, and patience; when home-sick, gathered her to her
+bosom, sympathized with, and consoled her; when weary of the long way,
+read to her; when books were exhausted, told her stories from long
+life’s readings, or gave descriptions, or related incidents, of the new
+world to which they were bound.
+
+The maiden was of a gentle, grateful, and affectionate nature, and soon
+learned to love the lady with all the strength of her warm, pure, young
+heart.
+
+Thus these two, before the voyage was over, formed a very tender,
+sincere, mutual attachment. This was perfectly natural—nay, inevitable.
+
+The girl never had known a mother’s care, yet instinctively longed for a
+mother’s love, and found it in Lady Elizabeth.
+
+The lady herself had never dreamed of the sweetness of a daughter’s
+affection, until she discovered the treasure in the grateful bosom of
+young Adelaide.
+
+The long voyage came to an end.
+
+They reached the shores of Maryland late in the evening; landed at
+River-view in the dark; and slept that night at home.
+
+Thus it was by morning light that Lady Adelaide first looked upon her
+home in the new world.
+
+Her chamber was the right-hand front room, on the second floor of the
+mansion, looking out upon the water.
+
+Lady Elizabeth’s apartment was the corresponding left-hand front room.
+
+A broad passage only separated these two chambers.
+
+Early in the morning Lady Elizabeth crossed the passage and entered the
+chamber of her daughter-in-law.
+
+She found Adelaide already up and dressed, and standing at the front
+windows looking longingly out. These windows reached from ceiling to
+floor, and opened on hinges like doors, out upon the upper piazza.
+
+Lady Elizabeth, after greeting the young girl, opened the window and led
+her forth upon the porch.
+
+From the house down to the river fell the rocks, now carpeted with moss,
+as green as emeralds. Beyond them rolled from north to south the
+glorious Potomac. Far across its waters, gray and dim with distance, was
+the shore of Virginia. On the upper hand the river curved, bay-like, out
+of sight. On the lower, it divided around the green and wooded island of
+St. George.
+
+Adelaide, an enthusiast in natural scenery, gazed in delight.
+
+“How do you like it, my love?” was the almost-needless question of the
+lady.
+
+“It is not Scotland,” was the half-admiring, half-regretful reply.
+
+“No, it is not your native land, my child! not the country of your
+birth; but we hope to see it the country of your deliberate choice.”
+
+“It is not even _like_ Scotland,” sighed the maiden.
+
+“No, here you miss the lakes and mountains of the Highlands; but then
+here you have magnificent breadths of landscape! Rivers, islands,
+forests are all on a majestic scale of grandeur.”
+
+“True; it is so different from Scotland,” and the eyes of the home-sick
+child filled with tears.
+
+The lady put her arms around the maiden’s waist, and kissed her tears
+away. Then pointing down the river she said—
+
+“Look, love! there, look far down beyond St. George’s Island, to where
+you see those two opposite points, beyond which rolls the bay,—that is
+the mouth of the river, and those are Point Look-Out and Point Smith.
+Midway between them, see that sail—making out to sea! It is our late
+ship. She goes to Annapolis next. Look—for in five minutes she will be
+out of sight.”
+
+Adelaide wiped her eyes, and watched the retreating ship.
+
+“She is gone! Now come to breakfast, love,” said the lady, leading the
+way.
+
+When the Lady Elizabeth had reached the door of the dining-hall, she
+turned and saw Adelaide standing pale and motionless as a statue—a look
+of pain and terror sweeping over her face. Hastening back, she caught
+the girl by the arm, and eagerly asked the cause of such a sudden
+transfiguration. It was some moments before Adelaide recovered from the
+strange fit; and then, with a moan as of pain and with hands clasped
+over her heart, she exclaimed—
+
+“Oh, my Saviour, what a fate!”
+
+“Why, what is the matter, child?” asked the Lady Elizabeth with much
+concern.
+
+“I have had a vision—a terrible vision! Is it not said that members of
+our family sometimes have the gift of second-sight? I saw a raging
+storm, and a young girl perishing therein—a cradle robbed of its
+treasure—a mother wildly searching for her babe! And I—oh, _I_ was
+there! I was myself a part of my own vision! Oh, my heart! my heart!”
+
+“Pshaw! Come into your breakfast, quick. The whole household will be
+alarmed by this fantasy. You are unwell, my dear.”
+
+They went to breakfast, and nothing more was said about the vision.
+
+Was there some mysterious sympathy between Adelaide and Lionne, that
+caused their “visions”—the revelations of their “second-sight”—to be so
+similar?
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER VII.
+                       THE LADY ADELAIDE DEVILLE.
+
+         “A maiden meek, with solemn, steadfast eyes,
+           Full of eternal constancy and faith,
+         And smiling lips, thro’ whose soft portals sighs
+           Truth’s holy voice with every balmy breath.
+         So journeys she along life’s rugged way,
+           Keeping her soul’s sweet counsel from all sight,
+         Nor pomp, nor vanity, leads her astray.
+           Nor aught that men call dazzling, fair, and bright.”
+
+
+Lady Elizabeth presented this “maiden meek” to her household as the Lady
+Adelaide Deville, the bride of their young master.
+
+“Name of de Lord, _dis_ child a bride!” exclaimed old Nero, the
+body-servant of the last master, and upon that account a privileged
+character.
+
+“And—dress’ in deep mournin’!” cried old Keziah, the confidential
+attendant of the widow.
+
+‘“Well, Lord! I allus hearn tell as how dey had curus customs in dem
+dere outlandish, unchristian countries beyant seas, but who’d ever o’
+thought as dey’d married childun?” cried old Nero.
+
+“And ’bove all things, in widow-weeds?” exclaimed old Keziah.
+
+“She was married at the death-bed of her father—she is in mourning for
+him,” kindly explained their mistress.
+
+“Poor lambkin!” said old Nero.
+
+“Dear little orphan-bride. But where is the bridegroom?” inquired old
+Keziah.
+
+“At school, of course. The young people are not to go to housekeeping
+together until they arrive at a proper age,” smiled the amiable widow.
+
+“Oh! dat make all de diffunce in de worl’,” admitted the old negroes.
+
+The subject of the colloquy had retired to a distance, and so heard
+nothing.
+
+That day the Lady Elizabeth began to settle the plan of present life for
+herself and daughter-in-law.
+
+First of all it was determined that the young girl should not be sent to
+school, but that she should pursue her studies at home, under the
+supervision of her mother-in-law.
+
+For this policy the Lady Elizabeth had several reasons, both positive
+and negative.
+
+She did _not_ wish that the young creature should enter the mixed
+society of a boarding-school, or make indiscriminate acquaintances, or
+form school-girl attachments that might in the future interfere with the
+singleness of her devotion to Orville.
+
+And she _did_ want the maiden as a companion; needed the occupation of
+teaching her as a pastime; and above all desired, as I stated, to melt,
+mould, and train this gentle girl into a model wife for her darling son!
+She had already succeeded in gaining the young creature’s affections.
+And for every other part of her work, the Lady Elizabeth was admirably
+competent, being certainly one of the most accomplished women of her
+age.
+
+The education of the orphan commenced.
+
+The mornings were devoted to what are called the higher branches of an
+English education, and to ancient and modern languages; and the
+afternoons to music on the harp and the piano, and to drawing, painting,
+and embroidery.
+
+And the teacher constantly stimulated her pupil by telling her that her
+young bridegroom, Orville Deville, would certainly become one of the
+most profound scholars, as well as one of the most accomplished
+gentlemen of his day, and that his bride should in those respects be
+worthy of him.
+
+This style of argument, that might have offended a high-spirited woman,
+only inspired this gentle girl to greater efforts.
+
+One day in the week was set apart for the study of domestic economy;
+for, as the teacher admonished her pupil, the wife of a Maryland planter
+was expected to be not only a lady of quality, capable of shining in the
+saloon, but also a notable housekeeper, competent to direct the details
+of cooking a dinner, or cleaning a room. And so, upon a stated day in
+each week, the gentle girl patiently gave her attention to making
+pastry, bleaching linen, or whatever else might be the assigned lesson.
+
+Nor was exercise neglected. Lady Elizabeth knew the full value of beauty
+to woman, and of health to beauty. So every morning at sunrise and every
+evening at sunset Adelaide, attended by old Nero, took an animating ride
+on horseback.
+
+In some of these inland rides the high-born maiden would sometimes
+chance to meet a wild, dark, gipsyish young girl, mounted and accoutred
+as a huntress, and attended by hounds.
+
+This gipsy called herself Kate Kyte—a single sister in a circle of
+brothers, wild hunters of the inland hills. This strange girl, this
+brilliant meteor of the forest, half fascinated the gentle Adelaide,
+who, ever after meeting with Kate Kyte, returned home with fresher bloom
+and brighter eyes.
+
+And thus visibly the maiden grew in health, spirits, and beauty.
+
+“How pleased Orville will be with your improvement, my love,” was ever
+the highest praise that Lady Elizabeth bestowed upon her charge.
+
+And naturally the maiden began to cherish a very exalted opinion of the
+young gentleman whose sentiments were thus constantly consulted—for
+whose approval such pains were taken, such preparations made. And she
+began to doubt that she ever, ever could be worthy to tie the shoes of
+Mr Orville Deville!
+
+Once she naively breathed this doubt to his mother, who cunningly
+replied:
+
+“Never fear, my pretty little love. Take pains; do the best you can, and
+then Orville, whose character is as amiable as it is exalted, will never
+complain: if your involuntary deficiencies grieve him, he will never be
+so unjust as to let you know it, my dear child.”
+
+“Ah, but the very thought of such a thing is dreadful, mamma; pray teach
+me how I may become in every manner worthy to be called—your
+daughter-in-law,” would be the answer of the docile girl, who thus in
+effect put her head under the heel of her mother-in-law.
+
+Meantime six months passed, and no letter had been received from the
+object of all this worship.
+
+Lady Elizabeth had written many times, exhorting the delinquent to write
+to her, and especially to the Lady Adelaide.
+
+At last, near the end of the year, two letters were received—one for
+each of the ladies. These letters were very eloquent, the finest
+passages in them having been, according to school-boy usage, freely
+purloined from the finest writers in the language. But the mother and
+daughter know nothing of this; they believed in them, admired and
+praised them, and set to work to answer them.
+
+“Oh, I never, never shall be able to write a becoming reply to this
+beautiful letter,” said Adelaide, in despair.
+
+“Take courage, my dear. Orville will not expect a girl of thirteen to be
+so accomplished a writer as himself,” said the vain mother. “And at all
+events, you know that you must make an attempt to write _something_.”
+
+“Oh, yes, I know, and I hope Mr. Deville will not quite despise my
+letter,” sighed Adelaide, as she went to her task.
+
+After spending a whole forenoon and spoiling a quire of paper, she
+brought a draft of the important document to Lady Elizabeth for her
+ladyship’s criticism.
+
+It was a simple letter, more respectful and modest than affectionate in
+tone.
+
+“This is all very well, my dear—very well indeed. But how is this? You
+sign yourself, ‘Your affectionate cousin, Adelaide Lorne,’” said the
+lady, looking up.
+
+“Well, mamma, what should I sign?”
+
+“How did _he_ subscribe himself?”
+
+“Oh, my dear mamma, you know! you read it!”
+
+“What was it?”
+
+“Ah, it humbles me to repeat it; but he was so very good as to write
+himself my ‘Devoted Admirer Orville Deville,’” said the maiden, blushing
+deeply.
+
+“Ah, that was well enough, because he is lover as well as prospective
+husband. But _you_ are more than his cousin; you are his bride. Your
+name is not Adelaide Lorne, but Adelaide Deville! Go, therefore, my
+dear, and copy your letter, and sign——”
+
+“What, dear mamma?”
+
+“‘Your Faithful Wife, Adelaide Deville.’”
+
+“Oh, I should not dare!” exclaimed the maiden, catching her breath.
+
+“Then you would rather dare to wound and offend Orville,” said the lady,
+with a very slight degree of coldness.
+
+“Oh no, no! I would do any thing rather than that,” exclaimed Adelaide,
+retiring with the letter, which she copied and signed according to
+orders.
+
+The letters were dispatched by special messenger to Baltimore, to go by
+the next outward-bound packet.
+
+The next morning, at sunrise, Adelaide, attended by her old groom, was
+taking her usual early ride, when just upon the outskirts of the forest
+she heard the approach of a chase.
+
+First on her right hand a fox burst cover, and sped like an arrow across
+the open country.
+
+Next a pack of hounds, with a low, long cry, broke the thicket and fled
+past on his track.
+
+Then started forth a band of well-mounted hunters, that hurled
+themselves like a storm across the country. There were six men and a
+girl—doubtless Kate Kyte and her brothers. But Adelaide could not be
+certain—they whirled so swiftly past—until the girl, who was the
+hindmost, suddenly wheeled her horse, came flying back, and confronted
+her. Then the young lady recognized Kate Kyte.
+
+“Good-morning,” said the wild one.
+
+“Good-morning; but you are losing—they will beat you!” exclaimed
+Adelaide, pointing to where the hunters hurled themselves down the hill
+and out of sight.
+
+“Let them! I had rather talk with you than ride to the hounds this
+morning! Adelaide, I wish you would come to see me, sometime when you
+are out riding! I have neither mother nor sister, nor any female
+relative at home; nor, to be true, do I want any. Yet I do wish you
+would shine in upon my lodge.”
+
+“I should be glad to do so, Kate. Which way shall I find it?”
+
+“On the other side of that covert from which we started the fox, you
+know, there is a brook——”
+
+“‘Bush Creek’—yes!”
+
+“Follow its course for a mile, and you will reach our lodge.”
+
+“I shall be _sure_ to come. In the meantime, Kate, if you are in the
+neighborhood, come to see me at River-view. I am the last arrival, you
+know, and it is my right to receive the first visit,” said Adelaide,
+with a pretty assumption of ceremony.
+
+Adelaide and her servant turned their horses’ heads homeward.
+
+“Why, how fresh your color! how bright your eyes, my dear girl!” said
+the lady, as she met her young charge on the front piazza.
+
+“I think it is from meeting Kate Kyte, mamma,” said the young lady,
+smiling.
+
+“Kate Kyte!”
+
+“Yes, mamma. To see her, always affects me like the sea-breeze or the
+mountain-air! Her free, lively, fearless manner is so exhilarating to
+me!”
+
+“Go, lay off your riding-habit and come into breakfast, my dear,” said
+the lady, with a slight degree of coldness in her tone. Then turning to
+old Keziah, she said, “Attend your young mistress to her chamber.”
+
+After breakfast, when the lady and her young charge were seated in the
+parlor at their morning avocations, Adelaide expressed her wish to go
+and see Kate Kyte at home.
+
+“I do not know, my dear, whether I can consent to your doing so. I must
+think.”
+
+“Is there any thing to be said against her, mamma?”
+
+“Against Kate personally? n-n-no, except that she has never had the
+benefit of refined female-society.”
+
+“Surely that was her misfortune.”
+
+“And not her fault—no! And yet such misfortune is apt to lead to faults.
+Katherine’s family were highly respectable; but her mother died when she
+was but four years old, leaving her and her six elder brothers to the
+sole care of their father.
+
+“He was a wild, rollicking, fox-hunting country-squire, who, after
+running through the greater portion of his large property, died a few
+years since, leaving only an old mansion, an ill-cultivated farm, and a
+few old negroes to his seven children. Kate has grown up a hoyden among
+her fox-hunting brothers.”
+
+“Poor Kate! She wants the company of a girl like herself; that is the
+reason she wishes me to visit her.”
+
+“Yes; but upon the whole, my dear, I do not desire the acquaintance for
+you. Not that I object to Kate—a girl of fourteen; but her
+brothers—rude, uncultured young men, of ages ranging from eighteen to
+twenty-six—are not desirable acquaintances for Lady Adelaide Deville.”
+
+“But, mamma, I promised Kate to go and see her. My word must be
+redeemed, you know. Therefore, with your permission, I must go to see
+her _once_, at least,” said the young girl, with gentle firmness.
+
+“She is not altogether the very soft wax I thought her,” reflected the
+lady, as she looked upon the mild but resolved countenance of the
+maiden.
+
+“Well, my dear, since it is so, you may go _once_, on condition that you
+make no more rash promises without consulting me,” said her ladyship.
+
+So, the next morning, Adelaide, attended, as usual, by her old groom,
+Nero, set out on horseback, to make her call.
+
+They followed the course of the narrow brook, that wound through tangled
+thickets between the hills, for about a mile, when they came to a rustic
+bridge of logs, so narrow as only to admit the passage of one horse and
+rider at a time. Across this bridge, on the opposite side of the brook,
+was a dilapidated red-brick house, in a yard shaded by old trees and
+enclosed by a ruinous brick wall.
+
+Adelaide and her attendant crossed the bridge and passed through the
+broken gateway into the yard.
+
+An old negro crone, in a dingy, striped linsey gown, with a plaid
+handkerchief tied over her head, and a face withered away until it
+resembled a dried prune, was stooping to the ground, engaged in
+gathering sticks, which she carried in her apron.
+
+“Hey, aunty! is Miss Katherine home?” inquired the young lady of this
+old beldame.
+
+“Who, honey?”
+
+“Your young mistress.”
+
+“Oh, no, chile! She done gone out wid de young men arter de houn’s more
+’an two hours ago,” said the crone.
+
+“Give her this, then, when she comes, and tell her that I am very sorry
+to have missed her, and that she must come to see me at River-view,”
+said Lady Adelaide, handing her card.
+
+“Yes, honey! Lor’s a messy ’pon me, what a putty gal you is, to be
+sure!” said the beldame, gazing after the young lady, as the latter
+turned her horse’s head, recrossed the bridge, and, followed by Nero,
+cantered down the banks of the brook.
+
+When they reached home, Lady Elizabeth was rejoiced by the news that the
+visit had been fruitless.
+
+“Now that you have fulfilled your promise, my dear, you must go no more!
+It does not well become the bride of Orville Deville to form promiscuous
+acquaintances,” said her ladyship.
+
+Thus it followed that the Lady Adelaide and Kate Kyte met no more except
+in their casual morning rides. And yet the fates of these two young
+women were inextricably intertwined. Who can resist destiny?
+
+Time passed.
+
+The lovely Lady Adelaide grew in beauty, grace, and wisdom. Letters from
+Orville came by every packet. Gradually that young gentleman had risen
+from copying to composing fine phrases; and his epistles, if less
+eloquent, were more honest in being his own productions. Adelaide,
+looking through his mother’s eyes, thought them perfection. Indeed, her
+poetic admiration of the youth, “grew with her growth and strengthened
+with her strength;” blended with all her thoughts, affections and
+purposes; colored her whole character.
+
+Had Orville Deville lived at home, so that she could have daily seen him
+as he really was, probably she never would have loved him.
+
+But she had just one short and favorable week’s acquaintance with him,
+and afterwards saw him only through the eyes of his mother.
+
+Thus Orville became to her the one bright ideal of all exalted
+excellence! her hero and paladin! her Crichton and Bayard! the
+admiration of her credulous childhood! the passion, the infatuation of
+her youth!
+
+This love, this adoration, this _worship_, as we may call it, had the
+happiest effect in the formation of her character. It incited her to
+self-examination and self-improvement. If, in her nature, she discovered
+any weakness, fault or folly, she set to work to eradicate it, that she
+might become more worthy of her hero.
+
+In this Adelaide made but one mistake—a fatal one, sure to end in
+bitterness—she substituted man-worship for the worship of God.
+
+When Lady Adelaide entered her sixteenth year, the Lady Elizabeth having
+conducted her education to the limit of her own acquirements,
+reluctantly concluded to place the young lady at a fashionable
+finishing-school in Philadelphia, where she could be instructed in
+dancing, waltzing, and other drawing-room accomplishments.
+
+It was while Adelaide was still at this school, dreaming of her absent
+bridegroom, and trying to make herself worthy of his love, that Orville,
+having completed his Eton course, came home to visit his mother,
+previous to his contemplated entrance at Oxford.
+
+Mr. Deville reached America at a crisis.
+
+General Braddock had landed with his army, and was now in Virginia
+engaged in organizing his Provincial troops, and preparing to march
+against the combined French and Indian forces upon the North-Western
+frontier.
+
+Every gentleman of importance resorted to his standard.
+
+Kate Kyte’s six brothers left her in a body.
+
+Young Orville Deville, fired with martial ardor or love of adventure—who
+could tell?—wished to offer his services to General Braddock.
+
+Lady Elizabeth, a mother as proud as she was fond, could not find it in
+her heart to keep her young hero back from what she sanguinely flattered
+herself would be, for him, a path of glory. And so, with a deep
+heart-ache, she gave her consent and called herself a Spartan mother.
+
+Orville applied for and received a commission in a Provincial company,
+and was ordered immediately to his post to drill.
+
+This disconcerted his mother’s plan, which was, that before the time of
+marching he should pay a visit to Adelaide at her school.
+
+So, without being allowed the opportunity of seeing his bride, the young
+man was compelled to take a hasty leave of his mother and join his
+company, which soon after marched for the frontier.
+
+How that doomed enterprise ended, history has recorded in letters of
+blood!
+
+Early in September, rumors of the defeat and death of General Braddock
+and the massacre of his fated army reached the Atlantic coasts,
+spreading consternation, sorrow, and maddening anxiety!
+
+“Who has fallen? Who has escaped?” were the terrible questions asked
+continually by every mother, wife, or sister who had a son, husband, or
+brother in the army.
+
+Brave Kate Kyte mounted her horse and rode away alone to the western
+wilds to seek her lost brothers.
+
+Lady Elizabeth Deville was almost frenzied with intense suspense. What
+had been the fate of Orville? Had he been killed, wounded, or carried
+off to a more horrible fate by the ruthless savages?
+
+Many fugitives, wounded, worn, and starved, had wandered home from the
+field of blood; but not Orville!
+
+Many others had been heard of; but not Orville!
+
+The silence of the grave enveloped the fate of the widow’s only son.
+
+At length she fell ill and her physician wrote for her young
+daughter-in-law to come home and nurse her.
+
+Lady Adelaide arrived, herself ill with intense anxiety, yet she
+resolved to hide her own suffering and to nerve her failing strength to
+the duty of sustaining Orville’s mother. So she concealed her anxiety
+and sought to soothe, comfort, and cheer the invalid. And in her own
+young worshipping heart, she determined—should her hero have fallen—to
+devote her whole life to all that remained of him—his mother; and to
+live forever and forever, a maiden-widow for his sake.
+
+It was about the middle of October that they got a letter from poor Kate
+Kyte, who, in her fruitless search through the wilderness for her
+brothers, had chanced to hear that Lieutenant Deville, an officer of
+Braddock’s Provincials had been wounded, and was recovering at the house
+of a hunter in the neighborhood of Winchester.
+
+This was the first drop of the elixir of hope that was given to cool
+their fever of suspense, and it nearly intoxicated them.
+
+Messengers were dispatched to Winchester and the country round about.
+But before these messengers could have reached their destinations, the
+mother’s and the bride’s doubts were changed to joyful certainty. Lady
+Elizabeth received a letter, post-marked Winchester, from Orville
+himself, who bade his mother not to be anxious upon his account, as,
+though he had been wounded, he was now recovered, safe and well, in the
+house of Mr. Delaforêt, an intelligent, gentlemanly, and hospitable
+settler in the back woods.
+
+_He said never a word of Lionne._
+
+And—he sent no message to Lady Adelaide.
+
+At first this neglect of herself made no impression on the gentle
+girl;—in the overwhelming joy of knowing him to be safe, all other
+considerations were lost. Afterwards, when the circumstance recurred to
+her memory, it made her thoughtful for a while, and then she rebuked
+herself, saying:
+
+“I must not be egotistical. Perhaps he did not know that I was at home.”
+
+Lady Elizabeth, still nervous, impatient, and hypochondriacal, bade her
+physician answer the letter and tell her son to hasten home; for that
+she was ill, sinking, and dying—to see him.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER VIII.
+                           WHICH IS THE WIFE?
+
+      Holy St. Francis! what a change is here!
+      Is Rosaline, whom thou didst love so dear,
+      So soon forsaken? Young men’s love then lies
+      Not truly in their hearts, but in their eyes!—_Shakespeare._
+
+
+Orville Deville, with his back turned upon the wilderness and his face
+set homewards, fell into deep and troubled thought.
+
+Once out of the fascinating sphere of the beautiful enchantress—who had
+charmed his reason and memory to sleep while she intoxicated his
+passions and imagination—Orville Deville began to come to his senses. It
+was a painful process. Indeed, all his emotions from the moment of
+setting forth upon his journey homeward had been unmitigated pain.
+
+For first there was the impatient grief of the youthful lover parting
+from his love.
+
+Then there was anxiety for the sick mother to whom he was going—that
+mother who thought her single and devoted affection had attained so
+great an influence over her spoiled and wayward son.
+
+Lastly, from these two troubles arose a third more terrible than either.
+_What had he done?_ While memory and reason slept, and passion and
+imagination waked and raved, _what had he done_?
+
+He dared not answer his own question! He shrank shuddering from the
+thought of _the name that the law would have given his crime_!
+
+While the master rode on in silent thought, the man whose gift was not
+silence, followed with an ill-used look. For every time that honest Nero
+had ventured to offer an observation, he had been put down by a surly—
+
+“Hold your tongue!” from his master.
+
+They had ridden four mortal hours without conversation, and poor Nero
+was growing desperate, when at last, he burst out with this wailing cry:
+
+“Mar-ster!”
+
+“Well?” growled the young man, arrested by the misery of his tone.
+
+“I’m tired to death, sar, wid holding my tongue!”
+
+“Humph!”
+
+“And my heart’s ready to bust, sar, wid having nothing to say!”
+
+“Talk, then!”
+
+“Yes, sar! thanky, sar!” then with a sudden, merry change of tone, he
+said—“’Fore de Lord, sar, I’s berry glad how we’s done got away from
+down yonder!”
+
+“Humph!”
+
+“’Deed is I! cause you see, sar, how I does believe how ef we’d staid
+longer we’d come to grief.”
+
+“Pshaw!”
+
+“’Deed does _I_! ’Sides which I would’nt been answer’ble for de
+quincequonces!”
+
+“Chut!”
+
+“Young marse, chile, you needn’t be scornful, nor likewise incredible in
+your mind. For ef ebber dis chile saw de debbil in de guise ob an angel
+ob light it was dat ere fierce, black-eyed young witch; which it’s my
+full belief, as if you’d a-staid longer, she’d a-brought you to your
+ebberlasting ruination!”
+
+“SIRRAH!!”——
+
+—Burst forth the young man, wheeling around upon the negro, with a
+suddenness and fury that caused the latter to jerk his own horse back
+upon his haunches, and with wildly-rolling eyes, chattering teeth, and
+quavering tones, exclaim:
+
+“He’s ‘witched a’ready! I knowed it!—Oh, marster! for hebben sake, sar,
+don’t ride ober me, an’ I’ll nebber do so no more!”
+
+“Fool! look to your horse, or he’ll fall upon you!” cried the young
+gentleman.
+
+Nero, still desperately frightened, slackened his reins, brought down
+his horse and began to pat his neck and soothe him.
+
+“There, idiot! that will do! now follow me! and whatever else you may
+do, never venture, either here or elsewhere, to me, or to any one else,
+to mention the name of the young girl to whom you refer! for if I ever
+hear of her again I shall know that the news must have come from you,
+and—_I shall deal with you accordingly_!”
+
+“Me! an old man of sixty to be threatened by a boy, as I’ve been a
+father to!” whimpered poor Nero, as with a slow and solemn motion he
+shook his head and fell a little behind. The mysterious obscurity of
+that threat, too, had a fearful power over his imagination. He dared not
+brave an undefined retribution!
+
+They were now travelling through the thick, almost unbroken forest lying
+between the Alleghany mountains and the Blue Ridge.
+
+As the day declined, though the density of the forest forbade them to
+see the country beyond, yet they were warned by the sound of rushing
+waters, that they were approaching the Blue Ridge, at the point where
+the upper forks of the Potomac, uniting, force their way through the
+everlasting mountains—the point where _now_ stands the picturesque
+village of Harper’s Ferry, but where _then_ stood only a country-inn and
+ferry-boat, owned by one John Harper.
+
+It was nightfall when they reached the Ferry. Dark towering mountains
+rose on either side, and wild waters rushed between.
+
+They spent the night at the tavern, rested their horses, and by the
+earliest light of day crossed the ferry to the Maryland side, and
+continued their journey, following the course of the Potomac.
+
+“An’ _be_ dis our own river as flows down by our house at River-view?”
+inquired Nero, in astonishment, as they turned their horses’ heads to
+the south-east, and ambled down the narrow bridle-path between the
+towering precipices of the Blue Ridge on their left, and the wild,
+rushing waters of the Potomac on their right.
+
+“Yes,” answered his taciturn master.
+
+“Well, all I has to say, it don’t look a bit like it. Why here it is
+narrow and pent up, and scurries along, foaming and growling as if it
+had to tear every bit of its way through these great black rocks!
+Whereas down yonder, where we-dem live, it spreads out broad and grand,
+and smiling as the ocean!”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And ef _sich is so_, please tell me ef we follow arter dis river, will
+we win home at last?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And ef you please, how long will it take us, marster?”
+
+“Nero, if I answer your question, will you stop talking?”
+
+“Hi, marse! to be sure! how I gwine listen, less I stop?”
+
+“Very well; but will you promise not to ask any more questions?”
+
+“I promises—_for de present_, marse!” said the non-committing Nero.
+
+“Very well, then! It is sixty miles from here to Beall’s Ferry, where we
+shall sleep to-night. It is sixty miles from Beall’s Ferry to
+River-view, where we shall sleep to-morrow night. There! now don’t open
+your thick lips again until we get to Beall’s Ferry!”
+
+“Lor’, marster!” exclaimed Nero, in horror, “my tongue’ll grow fast to
+de roof o’ my mouth!”
+
+But his time of probation was not be so dangerously prolonged. For at
+midday they halted at the Point of Rocks, where there was a rustic house
+of entertainment for man and beast, to refresh themselves and their
+horses.
+
+Here old Nero’s liberated tongue ran at large to landlord, landlady,
+maid, and hostler.
+
+At one o’clock they resumed their journey, still following the
+south-eastern course of the river, that deepened and widened every mile,
+as its banks declined from rocky mountains to wooded hills.
+
+At nightfall they reached the head of navigation, where the river
+suddenly widens around Analostran Island, and flows onward, the site
+where _now_ the cities of Washington and Georgetown stand, but where
+_then_ stood only a rustic tavern and ferry-house, kept by one George
+Beall and called Beall’s Ferry.
+
+Here they passed the night.
+
+And with the dawn of day and refreshed horses, they recommenced their
+journey.
+
+At noon they halted an hour at Aquia Creek. And from this place onward,
+their journey became more difficult. From this point the tributaries of
+the Potomac were broad, deep, and dangerous to cross. At that early
+period ferry-boats were not everywhere established, and often our
+travellers were compelled to turn out of their course, and ride up the
+banks of some creek, to find a rustic bridge or a safe ford. With these
+interruptions their last half day’s journey was so protracted, that it
+was nearly midnight when at last they reached the woods that crowned the
+hill and shaded the homestead of River-view.
+
+“Marster, may I speak now?” asked Nero, as their tired horses toiled up
+the side of the hill.
+
+“Yes!” growled the morose youth.
+
+“I think, being midnight, de fam’ly ’ll be gone to bed. What ’ill us
+do?”
+
+“I neither know nor care! I wish the Indians had finished me,” he added,
+sotto voce.
+
+“I’ll tell you what we’ll do, marse! I know where Kissiah sleep. I kin
+throw a pebble up to her windy, an’ wake her to let us in widout waking
+de fam’ly.”
+
+“Very well; do it, then.”
+
+“Well, I ’clare to de Lord! I might be de greatest prime ’plomatist as
+ebber plotted, widout getting any ’preciation from my young marse!”
+mentally grumbled old Nero.
+
+By this time they had reached the horse-block and turn-style at the
+north wall of the lawn.
+
+All the dogs in the place burst upon them in full cry.
+
+“This is a welcome!” exclaimed the young man, angrily.
+
+“Down, Pomp! down, Tray! be easy, Carlo! don’t you know me, Fidelle? hi!
+hi! Cæsar! what yer ’bout, Rover? there, there, Sweetlips! lick my hand
+if you like, but don’t bite it!” were some of the conjurations by which
+old Nero subdued the insurgent army of dogs, and made them know their
+master.
+
+“Now, sar!” he said, as he tied the horses to the rack and followed his
+master to the house. “T’other side, if you please, sar,” he added, as he
+led the way to the back of the building.
+
+“Kissiah sleep up dar!” he said, as he lifted a pebble and threw it
+against a back window on the second floor.
+
+It struck with a sharp crack, and instantly they heard some one within,
+in suppressed and fearful tones, cry—
+
+“Oh, Lord! What dat!”
+
+“Kissiah! it’s me! Kissy! it’s Nero!”
+
+“Murder! fire! thieves!” cried the voice within.
+
+“Hush, you fool! It’s nyther murder, nor fire, nor likewise thieves!
+It’s me and marse! Come down and let us in!”
+
+“Lord, Nero, honey, how you frightened me! and the head of my bed right
+agin de windy, too!” said Keziah, putting her white turbaned head out
+into the night. “But is you sure it’s you and young marse?”
+
+“Yes, you blockhead! leastways it’s what’s _left_ of us after the
+amber-scalps had done eating. Now, then, look sharp!”
+
+The head disappeared from the window; hurrying steps were heard
+descending the back-stairs, and the next moment the back-door, at which
+the travellers stood, was opened.
+
+“How do you do, Keziah? I hope my mother is better!” said the young
+gentleman.
+
+“Lors, young marse, how glad I is to see you! Yes, to be sure, de
+madam’s better, which _I_, for _myself_, never thought she was so bad!
+Come in, marster, chile! I’ll go and wake ’em all up directly.”
+
+“Not for the world! just get me some little refreshment, and give me a
+bedroom candle, and I can take care of myself until to-morrow.”
+
+“I’ll see about dat, young marse. Nero, you better go feed de poor dumb
+beases and put ’em up, hadn’t he, marse?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+And at a signal from his master the old man went to obey.
+
+“Now, marse, come into de parlor where it’s warm,” said Keziah, leading
+the way into a comfortable oak panneled room, where the hickory-wood
+fire of the previous evening was still smouldering.
+
+She took her master’s hat, gloves and greatcoat, drew forward the easy
+chair, brought him a bootjack and a pair of slippers, mended the fire
+until it blazed again, and then leaving the wearied traveller as
+comfortable as circumstances would admit, went out to prepare, not “a
+little refreshment,” but a nice supper.
+
+And in just half an hour a table stood at his side, covered with a
+snow-white cloth, adorned with a silver service, and laden with fine hot
+mocha coffee, rice cakes, broiled partridges, currant jelly, and other
+delicacies.
+
+“This is rather better than the wilderness,” thought the young
+epicurean, as he watched Keziah pouring the rich coffee from the chased
+silver coffee-pot into the delicate porcelain.
+
+“Yes! a great deal better than the wilderness,” he repeated, when half
+an hour afterwards he entered his spacious chamber, where the floor was
+covered with a soft, rich carpet, and the four-post bedstead and the two
+lofty windows were draped alike with warm, crimson damask.
+
+“A vast deal better than any thing in the wilderness,” he reiterated, as
+he sunk into the luxurious crimson-covered chair that Keziah had drawn
+up before the glowing wood fire.
+
+“Will you have any thing more, young marster?”
+
+“No, Keziah, nothing. But to-morrow, when my mother is up and dressed,
+and has had her early cup of coffee, then, and not until then, tell her
+of my arrival.”
+
+“Yes, sar;” and with a curtsey Keziah retired.
+
+“Better than any thing in the wilderness except one——Oh Lionne!
+Beautiful, terrible Lionne! would that we had never met; or, having been
+doomed to meet, never parted! What fiend was it instigated me to marry
+her? And what will be the end?” thought Orville Deville, as he slowly
+rose and prepared for bed.
+
+Once within his curtains, fatigue prevailed over anxiety, and Orville
+Deville sank into a sleep that lasted until morning.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER IX.
+                            THE FAIR BRIDE.
+
+            Oh, dearest in the world! Full many a lady
+            I have eyed with best regard: and many a time
+            The harmony of their tongue hath into bondage
+            Brought my too diligent ear; for several virtues
+            Have I liked several women: never any
+            With so full soul but some defect in her
+            Did quarrel with the noblest grace she owned,
+            And put it to the foil! But you! Oh you
+            So perfect, and so peerless, are created
+            Of every creature’s best!—_Shakspeare_
+
+
+When Orville Deville opened his eyes in the morning, they fell upon his
+own comfortable chamber, already prepared for rising.
+
+Some soft-footed servant had silently entered and mended the fire and
+swept the hearth, from which now arose a ruddy blaze that lighted up the
+whole warm, crimson-hued room. The same hand had laid his dressing-gown
+and slippers over the easy-chair beside his bed. And had arranged his
+wash-stand and his shaving apparatus. And lastly, had drawn the tassel
+of the bell-rope over his headboard, in easy distance of his hand.
+
+The first emotion of the youth in waking from a vivid dream of the
+wilderness and of Lionne, was surprise at finding himself snugly in his
+own bed at home. The whole of his past life for the last few weeks
+seemed only parts of the same dream. Then came full memory, and with it
+remorse, grief, and dread.
+
+His first action was to pull the bell-rope.
+
+Keziah, with her soft feet and tender voice, answered it,
+
+“Where is my servant? where is Nero?”
+
+“If you please, my young marster, Uncle Nero set up so late last night
+telling all the negroes he could wake up to listen to him wonderful
+stories about—de amber-scalps, I think he called them,—that he is
+oversleeping himself this morning, and I thought our good marster would
+excuse him. ’Sides which, I thought I’d like, after all dese years, to
+wait on him myself! I believe I have fixed every thing. Is there any
+thing else I can do for marse?”
+
+“No, my dear old foster-mother, nothing. Does your mistress know that I
+am here?”
+
+“Not yet, Marster Orville. She is taking her coffee, and I thought I
+would not tell her until you woke up.”
+
+“Quite right! How is my dear mother this morning?”
+
+“Right smart! She says she’s sure you’d be home to-night! he! he! he! I
+could hardly help laughing when my lady said that, and I knowed how you
+were home already!”
+
+“Dear mother! There, you may retire, aunty, and I will rise.”
+
+Keziah punched the fire and made it blaze more brightly, went and opened
+the inside window-shutters, letting in a stream of morning sunshine
+through their rich crimson draperies, and then softly withdrew from the
+room.
+
+“He nebber ax arter Lady Adelaide nyther last night nor yet this
+morning!” said the observant Keziah to herself. “But, then, maybe he’s
+bashful of axing about her,” she added, hopefully.
+
+Meanwhile, Orville dressed himself and went down-stairs. He opened the
+door of the parlor, which was on the right hand, first floor front.
+
+Early as it was the room was in perfect order, bright, cheerful, and
+inviting. A fine fire burned in the fireplace. The crimson moreen
+curtains were looped back, so that the long windows, reaching from
+ceiling to floor, commanded the fine, broad, water prospect. Within the
+room every thing breathed of refined woman’s occupation: little
+elegancies of furniture, little niceties of ornament, a delicate purity
+in the atmosphere, an etherial fragrance floating round; in one corner
+of the room a lute and music-stand, with some loose leaves of music; in
+another a drawing-board, with a half-finished sketch in water-colors; on
+the centre-table, near the fire, an open work-box, with a coil of
+embroidery; near it a tiny white kid glove, with the form of a beautiful
+hand still impressed upon it; lastly, a delicate pocket-handkerchief,
+breathing of roses.
+
+With the interest of one long banished from cultivated female society,
+the young man roved about the room, taking up and examining with
+curiosity each article—looking at the drawing upon the easel, the music
+upon the stand, and the toys upon the mantle-piece. And finally he sat
+down by the centre-table and fell to playing with the articles there.
+First he looked into the little work-box; then he took up the tiny white
+glove, and smiled at the form of the taper-fingers left within it; then
+he meddled with the pocket-handkerchief, passing its delicate texture
+over his fingers.
+
+Suddenly he dropped the handkerchief, as if from its folds a reptile had
+stung him!
+
+He had seen in its centre the name—_Adelaide Deville_.
+
+He groaned, and covered his face with his hands. Here was a bride who
+wore his ring, and bore his name, and claimed his hand,—and he,—_what
+had he done_?
+
+While these terrible thoughts bowed down his head there came a soft,
+bright ray of sunshine, a pure, sweet breath of flowers, a floating of
+white raiment and a flashing of golden ringlets, and he looked up to see
+the gardendoor open, and the fairest angel that ever took mortal form
+standing, bashful and blushing, in his presence!
+
+“And who are you, fair spirit, who comes to me heralded by sunshine and
+fragrance?” was the question that arose to the young man’s lips; instead
+of speaking he got up, bowed gravely, and offered a chair to the young
+lady.
+
+Without taking the offered seat she hesitated, blushed, smiled, and then
+with sweet frankness said:
+
+“I am Adelaide, Mr. Deville. I hope you feel refreshed after your long
+journey.”
+
+So! this fair angel was the Lady Adelaide, his child-bride, the girl who
+wore his wedding-ring, bore his name, and believed herself to be his
+wife!
+
+For his life he could not have spoken a word. He acknowledged her
+greeting by a deep bow, and then he looked up at her.
+
+A form of medium height and perfect symmetry, gracefully arrayed in a
+pure white muslin dress; a face of classic beauty; ringlets of soft,
+bright, golden hue, parted over a forehead clear as the purest pearls,
+and shading cheeks of the most delicate rose tint; full, crimson lips;
+eyes of heavenly blue, and a smile full of tenderness and truth.
+
+“She is inexpressibly lovely, this fair bride of mine,” thought Orville
+Deville, as he discreetly withdrew his glances.
+
+Perhaps his look had expressed this thought, for she blushed still more
+deeply, and dropped her eyes as she said:
+
+“Your mother has sent me to beg you, Mr. Deville, to walk up into her
+room. Shall I show you the way?”
+
+With a third bow, Orville intimated his readiness to follow her.
+
+She led the way into the hall and up the stairs, opened the door of the
+front chamber on the right, and saying:
+
+“Here is Mr. Deville, mother,” meekly stood aside and let him pass in.
+
+Then she crossed over to her own chamber, entered it, and stood,
+thoughtfully, looking out from the front windows upon the great water
+view.
+
+“He never mentioned me in his letter; he never inquired for me when he
+got home; he has never even spoken to me since I came in! What _does_ it
+mean? Oh, what _does_ it mean? I know I am not worthy of him! I know I
+never can be! but have I done any thing very wrong, I wonder? Oh, if
+after _all_ he should not like me!—I must not be egotistical. Mr.
+Deville had more important subjects of thought than the foolish girl who
+was waiting so eagerly to be recognized. I am of no importance. I ought
+to say that over to myself a great many times. I will expect nothing. I
+will be meek, and above all _patient_. How shall I ever be worthy of
+Orville, if I am _not_ patient?” Such were the self-communings of
+Adelaide’s pure, worshipping young heart, as she stood looking out from
+her chamber-window upon the broad water prospect.
+
+Meanwhile, Orville passed into his mother’s chamber. It was a cheerful
+room with white curtains to the windows and the tent bedstead, and white
+dimity covers to the toilet-tables and the chairs.
+
+Lady Elizabeth, in a gray silk morning-dress and pretty lace cap, sat
+reclining in her easy chair before the fire. At her right side stood a
+little table covered with a white cloth, upon which stood her invalid
+breakfast-service. A cup of coffee was in her hand.
+
+As Orville entered, and stepped rapidly up to her, she quickly sat down
+the cup, rose and dropped into his arms.
+
+“My _dear_ mother!”
+
+“My _dear, dear_ son! God be thanked for restoring you to me alive!”
+
+Such were the first words of greeting.
+
+Then she raised her head from his shoulder, sank back into her seat, and
+holding him off a little, gazed for a moment upon his face.
+
+“Why, you are neither pale nor thin, my dear! Thank heaven for that!
+Were you badly wounded, my love? Oh, heaven! oh, Orville! I never can be
+a Spartan again! I shall never consent to your going off on such a
+dangerous expedition again, never! I shall never get over the terror and
+anxiety I have been in, never! Tell me all about it. But you haven’t had
+breakfast. Well, breakfast with me for once,” and she put out her hand
+and pulled the bell-rope at the chimney corner.
+
+Keziah came in.
+
+“Another cup and saucer, and plate, and more hot waffles for Mr.
+Deville.”
+
+Her orders were obeyed. And while the mother and son drank their coffee,
+Orville, amid many interruptions, eager questions, and emphatic comments
+from Lady Elizabeth, told the story of Braddock’s fatal field.
+
+When the tale was finished, and the breakfast-service removed, Lady
+Elizabeth signed for her son to draw his chair nearer, and said—
+
+“You have seen Adelaide?”
+
+“Yes, madam.”
+
+“What do you think of her?”
+
+The young man paused before he answered. Then slowly he said—
+
+“She is the most beautiful, the most graceful, and the most charming
+maiden I ever saw. She is fair, sweet, and bright as a poet’s vision of
+an angel; and yet that does not do her full justice. She is more than
+all I have described. I want one comprehensive word——”
+
+While the young man spoke, though it was with the air of a _connoisseur_
+rather than that of a _lover_, the lady looked at him with a brightening
+face.
+
+“Well, that word that describes Adelaide—what is it?” she asked.
+
+“LOVELY!”
+
+“Yes, that is it! Other girls may be beautiful, graceful, and
+fascinating; Adelaide is all that, and in addition to that, she is
+lovely.”
+
+“Aye; for loveliness in woman includes all excellencies—beauty, wisdom,
+goodness!” said Orville, but still with the deliberation of a _thinker_,
+rather than with the ardor of a _lover_.
+
+“Ah, you don’t know _how_ good she is, my dear! how tender, how patient,
+how courageous, how devoted! You will only find that out in the close
+intimacy of your married life.”
+
+Orville winced. Fortunately for him, Lady Elizabeth did not see it, and
+she continued her desultory talk.
+
+“Now, Orville, consider—that charming creature is your own wife!”
+
+Orville averted his head, and busied himself with his watch seals.
+
+“She has been secured to you beyond all possibility of failure, by your
+mother’s solicitous affection. She has been taught from childhood to
+admire and respect you. To _yourself_ has been left the more delightful
+task of teaching her to _love_ you,” added this politic woman, knowing
+full well that men like to do all the courting themselves.
+
+Orville cast down his eyes, and occupied himself with his knee-buckles.
+
+“And now, Orville, all that I have to say to you, my son, is that there
+is nothing to prevent you taking your wife to your bosom. Your chamber,
+Orville, opens into hers. Be happy in her society; but in your great
+happiness do not utterly forget the mother whose care has secured you
+your greatest blessing,” and here the lady drew a lace handkerchief from
+the pocket of her dressing-gown and put it to her eyes.
+
+Orville left his seat, walked up and down the floor uneasily, and
+finally pausing before his mother’s chair, said—
+
+“I thought that it was fixed I should go to Oxford, mother?”
+
+“So ’twas; but I have changed my mind since that time. I am getting old,
+Orville.”
+
+“Old at forty, mother!”
+
+“Well, at least I am not well; and since your terrible danger, I cannot
+bear that you should leave me for any length of time. Besides, as you
+have not your living to get, it is not really necessary that you should
+go to the university. A gentleman of fortune need not be a profound
+scholar. No, Orville, gratify me who have done so much for you. And,
+indeed, knowing that you have no great taste for learning, it is not
+much to ask you to settle down at your beautiful home and take your
+lovely bride to your heart.”
+
+“Madam,” said the young man, respectfully, “there is one thing that you
+have lost sight of.”
+
+“And what is that?”
+
+“Adelaide Lorne and myself were but children at the time of our
+betrothal.”
+
+“Betrothal! it was MARRIAGE!!”
+
+Orville knew that perfectly well, though he had chosen to use another
+word.
+
+“Well, madam, _marriage_, then. Adelaide Lorne——”
+
+“You forget—Adelaide _Deville_,” amended his mother, whose feminine
+instincts had detected some design in the persistence with which he gave
+his bride her maiden name.
+
+“The Lady Adelaide _Deville_, then, and myself were children at the time
+that marriage was solemnized between us; and we could neither have known
+each other or understood the purport of what we mutually promised. From
+that time to this we have never met until to-day. It may possibly be
+that the young lady may not find me the least to her taste; in which
+case I should consider the marriage-ceremony solemnized between two
+children not binding upon either.”
+
+“Not binding upon either! your marriage not binding upon either! Sacred
+honor! Orville Deville, what do you mean?”
+
+“What I said, dear mother; that a marriage ceremony between a boy of
+fifteen and a girl of twelve can _not_ be binding upon the after lives
+of either.”
+
+“Oh, I grant you that a marriage between parties of that early age would
+_not_ be binding unless sanctioned by parents or guardians. But yours
+was so sanctioned; no legal form was omitted. Your marriage is as strong
+as law and gospel can make it. You two are bound together as fast as
+church and state can bind a man and woman, in a marriage _indissoluble,
+except by death or crime!_ An examination of the statute laws of England
+and Scotland relating to marriage will satisfy you upon this point. Yet
+why trouble yourself? Dear Adelaide does not even dream of evading her
+duties.”
+
+Orville was not thinking of Adelaide or her dreams. He was bitterly
+reflecting upon the folly, sin, and danger into which his headlong
+passions had hurled him.
+
+If his marriage with Adelaide was an indissoluble bond, in the name of
+honor, _what was his marriage with Lionne?_
+
+_A felony to which he dared not give its legal name._
+
+“You do not answer me, my son,” observed Lady Elizabeth.
+
+“Madam,” replied the young man, with a strange smile, “give me time to
+realize my happiness!” And rising, with a bow, he left the room.
+
+He went down-stairs, and with the aimlessness of a perplexed mind he
+strolled into the parlor.
+
+There was a scene that surprised and mortified him. It was now ten
+o’clock, yet there stood the little breakfast-table, with its snowy
+damask and elegant service, and there sat Adelaide, patiently waiting
+and filling up the time with some little needle-work.
+
+As soon as she saw him, she arose with a smile, touched the bell, and,
+when Keziah entered, said—
+
+“Mr. Deville is ready for breakfast; serve it immediately.”
+
+Orville turned around upon her with a look of surprise, which said, “I
+hope you have not waited for me!”
+
+And Keziah said plainly, “Why, Mr. Deville has breakfasted with Lady
+Elizabeth!”
+
+Adelaide turned her gentle blue eyes inquiringly towards Orville.
+
+“Yes, I took coffee with my mother this morning. You should have been
+notified. I am _very_ sorry you were kept waiting,” said the young man.
+
+“Oh, it is not worth a moment’s thought, much less regret,” said
+Adelaide, cheerfully.
+
+“But,” said the young man, glancing covertly at her sweet face, “your
+table is very tempting; and as it has been two hours since I took the
+single cup of coffee and the half waffle, that Keziah pleases to miscall
+_my breakfast_, perhaps you will not consider me an unpardonable
+gourmand if I beg leave to join you.”
+
+“Oh, certainly not! Keziah, bring in the grouse,” said Adelaide, smiling
+more brightly than before.
+
+The chocolate and the muffins were already on the board, and Keziah soon
+sat the roasted grouse before her master.
+
+And while Adelaide poured out the chocolate, Orville carved the bird,
+and covertly watched her pearl-white hand as it fluttered among the cups
+and saucers.
+
+But for the dull aching of the sin at the bottom of his heart, Orville
+must have greatly enjoyed the tête-a-tête breakfast with this fair
+creature. And even as it was—in gazing upon her, his heart swelled, if
+not with manly love, at least with boyish pride, as he thought:
+
+“I am not a guest here! I am master! This house and these servants are
+mine! I sit at my own table! and that fair creature, who is pouring out
+my chocolate, is—my wife! my wife! my own, own indisputable wife! no
+power on earth can take her from me! so says the church, the state, and
+my mother, who is just as infallible as the others. How many men in this
+world would risk their soul’s salvation for the possession of that
+lovely creature! Yes, great statesmen, great scholars, great generals
+would! and yet, if it were to save their lives or their souls, not one
+of them could get her, because she belongs to _me!_ she is _my wife_!”
+
+Oh, heaven! what sudden thought was that which bowed his haughty head
+and struck all color from his cheek?
+
+It was his secret consciousness making itself heard through all the
+_éclat_ of his pride, and putting the fearful question:
+
+“And if Adelaide is your wife—_what then is Lionne?_”
+
+“Would to heaven I had never seen Lionne! beautiful, terrible, fatal
+Lionne!” thought the young man, with a shudder.
+
+When breakfast was over and the service removed, Adelaide said, gaily:
+
+“You will please to excuse me now, Mr. Deville. I am your mother’s
+housekeeper, and must go to my duties,” and taking up her little basket
+of keys, she nodded and withdrew.
+
+Orville returned the bow, and inwardly resolved that a housekeeper
+should be found to emancipate this fair girl from what he was pleased to
+call domestic drudgery.
+
+He sauntered about for a while like a lost spirit, and finally rambled
+off towards the library to find pen and ink to write to Lionne.
+
+The library was on the opposite side of the hall, and back of the
+saloon. In going thither, he caught a glimpse of Adelaide in a linen
+apron and doe-skin mittens, with a little basket of keys in her hand,
+and he heard her light, cheerful tones saying to the cook:
+
+“Boiled rock-fish, with egg-sauce and mashed potatoes. Remove with
+boiled ham and cauliflowers, to be followed by roasted canvas-back
+ducks, with celery dressing. The usual side-dishes. I will be in the
+kitchen in time to attend to the jellies and the custard.”
+
+He hurried past and got into the library, found stationery, and sat down
+to write to Lionne.
+
+And by a very natural, but very reprehensible rule of human action, the
+more doubtful he felt of the durability of his attachment, the more
+positive he was in protestations of fidelity. It was a long, long
+letter, from which, upon account of its significance, we must make one
+short extract:
+
+“My mother, dearest, is out of immediate danger, yet her condition is
+still so precarious as to forbid my leaving her, for the present. Yet,
+dearest, rest assured that _as soon as I can properly do so_ I will
+hurry back to your side! And now my bright Lionne, I wish you to rest
+with perfect confidence on my fidelity. And whatever befalls—whether my
+letters should in these uncertain routes be delayed, or even lost—or
+weeks, or even months should elapse without your hearing from me—do not
+torment yourself with false doubts of me. I tell you this, in advance,
+that you may remember weather and the roads are uncertain, mails
+unreliable, and post-offices are fallible; but that _I_ am faithful
+through life and unto death!”
+
+Having sealed this letter and directed it to Winchester, he put it in
+the family mail-bag that went twice a week to the nearest post-town—Port
+Tobacco.
+
+“I know not how all this is to end. I must meet the consequences as I
+can best,” he muttered, as he deposited the letter. He saw no more of
+Adelaide until dinner time. When the bell rang he sauntered into the
+dining-room, where, to his surprise and gratification, he saw his mother
+sitting at her place at the head of the table.
+
+Replying to his look of inquiry, that lady said:
+
+“Yes, my dear. Your return home has been a better tonic to me than
+Jesuit’s bark itself. This is the first day that I have left my chamber,
+and I have left it to dine with you. Sit down; Adelaide will be here
+presently.”
+
+Orville stooped and kissed his mother’s hand, and then went to his place
+and stood waiting for Adelaide’s coming. He had not long to wait. She
+came in, neatly and prettily dressed in a light gray silk, with a
+delicate lace tucker and frills, and took her seat at the side of the
+table. Her presence there seemed to light up the whole scene. Lady
+Elizabeth and herself talked and jested lightly as happy mother and
+daughter, and drawing Orville into the gay conversation, charmed him
+from his gloomy thoughts.
+
+When dinner and the dessert were over, they adjourned to the
+drawing-room on the other side of the hall, where coffee was ordered to
+be served, for Lady Adelaide playfully remarked that on this festive day
+of Orville’s return home, and his mother’s re-appearance in the parlor,
+the family should keep state!
+
+It was impossible not to feel the influence of her happy spirit; her
+innocent gaiety was contagious.
+
+When the fragrant Mocha had been imbibed, and all felt its enlivening
+effect, Lady Elizabeth said—
+
+“Now open your harpsichord, my dear, and give us something.”
+
+“Have you a choice, Mr. Deville? But of course you have. Name it,” said
+Adelaide.
+
+“Let me hear your own favorite, my dear cousin,” replied Orville,
+attending her to the instrument.
+
+She sat down, opened her folio of sacred music, and struck into the
+prelude of Stoeckle’s glorious “Creation of Light.”
+
+No words of mine can give a fair idea of that magnificent harmony or its
+effect upon its audience. Its greatest tribute was the perfect silence
+that succeeded it. No vain, impotent word of praise, was spoken. The
+anthem, after a short interval, was followed by a heroic ballad, and
+that again by several humorous songs sung to the accompaniment of the
+guitar.
+
+And then as the songstress was weary, and the afternoon was far spent,
+Lady Elizabeth said—
+
+“My dear Adelaide, that will do. It is time you should take your usual
+ride. I will go and lie down. And Orville must amuse himself in his own
+way until you meet at supper.”
+
+And she rang for her maid to attend her to her chamber.
+
+“You are going to ride?” inquired Orville, as soon as he was left alone
+with Adelaide.
+
+“Yes, I always ride in the afternoon.”
+
+“Will you let me have the pleasure of attending you?”
+
+“Oh, yes! I should be much obliged,” said Adelaide, blushing with
+delight.
+
+He rang the bell and gave the order—
+
+“Nero, saddle Norse King and bring him around with Lady Adelaide’s
+palfrey.”
+
+They separated to don their riding-habits, and in a few minutes met in
+the front hall.
+
+Fairer still shone Adelaide’s fair beauty in contrast to her dark blue
+riding-dress and her little, black velvet jockey-cap, with its single
+black plume.
+
+“Have you any particular route laid out, dear Adelaide?” inquired the
+young man.
+
+“No, unless it is to ride up to the border of Bush Creek, to see if the
+old negroes there have heard news of Kate Kyte or her brothers.”
+
+“Very well: up Bush Creek we go, then,” said Orville, as he lightly
+lifted her to the saddle.
+
+They rode through the north gate and down the wooded hillside to the
+thickly wooded valley, and turning their horses’ heads eastward, soon
+reached the banks of Bush Creek, and followed its beautiful windings
+under the skeleton shadows of the leafless trees until they reached the
+rustic bridge, the ruined mill, and the old homestead.
+
+“A wild spot!” said Adelaide, turning half apologetically to her
+companion.
+
+“And a wild race to own it!” said Orville, in reply.
+
+“Yet we miss them! the country has been too still almost, for the want
+of their running hounds, and racing horses and their joyous
+‘_tally-ho!_’—I hope no harm has come to Kate and her merry men!”
+
+“Kate and her merry men, my dear!” exclaimed Orville, who not being
+nearly so innocent as Adelaide, fancied something queer in her words.
+
+“Why, yes, Kate, and her merry men, I say again! You have been away. You
+have not known the Kytes since they all grew up. Kate is the youngest of
+a family of seven—a sole sister in a band of brothers—lives with them,
+rides with them, hunts with them, hawks with them, and she would have
+_enlisted_ with them, if the recruiting officer would have taken her.
+Her brothers, in their rough chivalry and brotherly love, accord to this
+fiery little amazon sister the first rank among themselves; they delight
+to make her a little queen; so, as Kate is a sort of Robin Hood, I call
+her brothers her merry men!”
+
+“Ah, well, here we are at the bridge. Let me go first, dear, to try the
+soundness of these logs,” said Orville.
+
+“No! mine is the lightest weight, and consequently the least danger,”
+said Adelaide, as she spurred her horse and flew past him,—her long
+skirt, and long plume, gracefully waving in the air behind her.
+
+“Who would have thought the little fairy had so much courage,
+promptitude and self-will!” thought Orville, as he followed her over the
+creaking bridge.
+
+They passed through the old gate into the yard. There was the old gray
+stone-house, and the gigantic old oaks, elms and poplars, and over all
+the dreary look of desertion and solitude. No human creature was in
+sight. Yes! there was old Luce, the aged negro crone, stooping and
+gathering sticks in her apron, doubtless to cook her supper.
+
+The reader may take this as a general fact, that when poor old Luce was
+visible outside the house, she was always gathering sticks.
+
+“How do you do?” said Adelaide, kindly.
+
+“The rum beggar, honey! the rum-beggar in my spine!” said the old
+creature, raising herself with difficulty, and putting her right hand to
+the small of her back, while she carefully held her apron of chips with
+her left.
+
+“What does she mean?” asked Orville.
+
+“The lumbago. I am sorry. Luce! but I will send you some opodeldoc to
+cure it. Has Miss Kate, or any of the young men been heard from?”
+
+“No, honey, I ain’t hearn a single halloo from any on ’em to-day. I
+don’t ’spect how dey’ll be home till de fox brush is taken.”
+
+Adelaide looked in surprise and pain from the old woman’s lack-lustre
+eyes to her cousin’s face; and then, to test her, she asked:
+
+“When did they leave home, Luce?”
+
+“Child, ‘pears to me dis mornin’ or some time; I don’t memorize zactly,
+but I must get supper for ’em.”
+
+“Poor, old creature, she knows nothing of their fate, and she has lost
+her wits. I must attend to her,” thought Adelaide, as she took a kind
+leave of old Luce, and turned, attended by Orville, towards River-view.
+The sun had set. The autumn-wind was rising and wailing through the
+leafless forest, as they crossed the rude bridge and turned down the
+path leading along the Bush Creek.
+
+“You are silent, fair cousin,” said Orville, noticing that his companion
+rode on with slack rein and downcast looks.
+
+“I am thinking of Kate Kyte! Dear, brave, glorious Kate!”
+
+“And what about her, dearest?”
+
+“Hark to that wind! Wintry weather is at hand, with tempests, deep snows
+and impassible roads! and where, in the houseless and pathless
+wilderness, is Kate?”
+
+“But, lovely Adelaide, how came she in the wilderness?”
+
+“She went to seek her lost brothers! After the news of the massacre, her
+impatient spirit, rebelling against protracted suspense, urged her to
+venture in quest of them. And now she is alone in the howling
+wilderness, exposed to the fury of the elements, the rapacity of wild
+beasts and the cruelty of wild savages!”
+
+“Well, my dearest, if this young Quixota would go in search of
+adventures, and has roamed beyond your power to recall her, dismiss her
+from your mind!”
+
+“As if I could!” thought Adelaide, who sincerely approved the wisdom of
+the advice, though her sympathetic heart forbade her to follow it.
+
+The rising wind, driving black clouds up over the evening sky, so
+obscured their path that they felt the growing necessity of hurrying
+home ere it should become too dark for safe riding. It was, in fact,
+quite dark when they reached the horse-block in front of the hall-door.
+
+Orville sprang from his horse and lifted Adelaide from her saddle.
+
+She gathered up her riding-skirt and ran into the house.
+
+Tea was served in Lady Elizabeth’s room, where a cheerful evening was
+spent.
+
+At ten o’clock Lady Elizabeth, retaining Adelaide near her a little
+longer, dismissed Orville from her room. The young man almost
+immediately retired to his chamber, where he found a fine fire burning,
+and all things made comfortable for his accommodation.
+
+Orville remained apparently luxuriating in his bachelor paradise. In
+smoking-cap, dressing-gown and slippers, he leaned back, half buried in
+the easiest of easy chairs; his feet reposed upon the softest of
+leopard-skin rugs; before him burned the brightest of wood fires; at his
+right hand stood convenient a little stand with a quiver of the most
+fragrant cigars and a bottle of the oldest Madeira.
+
+He first quaffed a glass or two of the choice old wine, and then lighted
+his cigar, and extending his feet towards the fire, lapsed into dreaming
+and smoking. In the wall on his right hand was a white door leading into
+the adjoining room, the bower of maiden beauty, the sanctuary of maiden
+innocence,—in a word, the chamber of his unclaimed bride, Adelaide.
+
+As the evil spirit gazed on the gates of paradise, so glanced he at that
+white door.
+
+“Curious,” thus ran his thoughts, “curious! That is my wife’s room; I
+know it, and my mother says it, and with her blessing bids me freely
+enter! she _expects_ me to enter, I have the _right_ to enter, I _wish_
+to enter, and yet, knowing what I know, how dare I! Heigh-ho!” and so
+the smoking, the dreaming, and the covert glancing at the white door
+went on, until it was all interrupted by approaching footsteps, as if of
+two persons coming softly along the passage. They entered the adjoining
+chamber, and then, in the deep stillness of the night, he heard the low
+tones of Adelaide’s voice saying to her attendant—
+
+“Hush! shut the door softly after you, Keziah; your master retired very
+much fatigued, no doubt; he is likely asleep; do not risk disturbing him
+by the least noise.”
+
+Next he heard a mumbled, inarticulate reply, and then the departure and
+the retiring footsteps of the waiting-woman.
+
+“Ah, my fair Adelaide thinks that I can sleep! Well, let her think so. I
+will not stir to break that illusion,” thought Orville, as he held his
+very breath in silence. It was this deep quiet in every part of the
+house, as well as in his own chamber, that made every slightest sound in
+the adjoining room so distinctly audible to him. Perhaps because he
+could not help listening, or without listening, could not help hearing,
+he heard every motion of the fair girl as she passed about her room; her
+soft, light step in crossing the floor; the gentle rustle of silk and
+muslin, as she laid aside her evening-dress and prepared herself for her
+couch; the reverential deliberation with which she sank upon her knees,
+and the low, melodious murmur in which her evening prayer was offered
+up; then he heard her commit her innocent soul to the holy keeping of
+God, and her fair person to the repose of her couch.
+
+And then followed a silence so deep that the utmost straining of
+attention could not make out one sound. Unwilling to break this spell of
+sacred silence, Orville remained sitting in his easy chair, until at
+length, overcome with weariness, he slept, and sleeping, dreamed. He
+thought that, unable longer to deny himself the companionship of his
+lovely bride, he had arisen and approached the white door; that he had
+his hand upon the knob; that he had turned the latch and opened, and was
+about to advance his foot over the threshold, when he felt himself
+caught and violently hurled back. Gathering himself up, and looking
+around, he saw before him the haughty figure, flowing ringlets, and
+flashing black eyes of his wild forest-love, Lionne.
+
+And with a cry he awoke and came to himself.
+
+But so real had seemed that dream, so strong remained its impression,
+that groan after groan burst from the sin-burdened bosom of the young
+man, and they were only suppressed at last in fear of disturbing Lady
+Adelaide.
+
+It was late before Orville laid his head upon his pillow, now sown thick
+with the thorns of an uneasy conscience.
+
+And thus ended his first day at home.
+
+The second day was like the first; a tête-a-tête breakfast with the fair
+Adelaide, a forenoon spent in the dilettanteism of leisurely country
+life, a cheerful family dinner, an hour in the drawing-room enlivened by
+music, then a long ride among the hills, then the social tea-table, and
+the long winter evening, spent in reading, in music, and in enlivening
+conversation.
+
+But that which gave vivacity to this calm country life was the presence
+of Adelaide. It was not only her enchanting beauty—a dayspring of
+delight to all who looked upon her—nor her genius and accomplishments,
+which were the chief source of home recreation in their quiet lives, nor
+even her angelic goodness, which was the greatest comfort of all
+connected with her; it was not _only_ these that invested her with a
+peculiar interest and temptation for Orville.
+
+It was this, mark it!
+
+SHE HELD THE POSITION OF HIS WIFE, AND THE MISTRESS OF HIS HOUSE! She,
+the meek, the humble, the unassuming maiden, the neglected bride, held
+this rank, from which no human power could displace her. Unconsciously,
+on her own part, had the gentle girl been inducted into this position.
+First, during the illness of Lady Elizabeth, she had willingly enough
+accepted the duties of housekeeper. Then, after Orville’s return and the
+invalid’s rapid convalescence, she from habit still continued to manage
+domestic affairs, to carry the keys, and to sit at the head of the
+table; and with so much faithfulness, competency, and easy grace were
+all these duties accomplished, that no one could have wished to see her
+place filled by another.
+
+One day, indeed, when Lady Elizabeth seemed unusually well and cheerful,
+just as they were all about to sit down to dinner, Adelaide, with a
+blush, put her hand on the chair she herself usually occupied at the
+head of the table, and said—
+
+“Will you not now resume your place, mamma?”
+
+“No, my dear. I have abdicated in favor of Lady Adelaide Deville. My
+son’s wife must henceforth take the head of my son’s table,” said the
+elder lady, very pointedly; and taking the hand of her daughter-in-law,
+she gently but decidedly placed her in the chair of honor.
+
+Her action was perfectly regular.
+
+What could Adelaide do but blush more vividly than before as she sank
+into the seat?
+
+What could Orville say, even though his silence gave consent? Nothing.
+He only bowed in tacit acknowledgment of the arrangement.
+
+And from this day, if ever by chance a servant came to Lady Elizabeth
+for instructions, she was careful to say—
+
+“You are henceforth to take all your orders from Lady Adelaide Deville,
+who is now mistress of this house.”
+
+The news spread in the kitchen, and the servants began to speak of the
+Lady Adelaide as “our mist’ess,” and of the older lady as “ole missus.”
+All this greatly embarrassed Orville, who went to his mother’s chamber
+to expostulate.
+
+“My dear mother, why _do_ you afflict me by yielding up your position as
+the mistress of this house?”
+
+“Because it is not my just position, Orville,” replied the lady.
+
+“And _why_ is it not?”
+
+“Because the house is not mine but yours.”
+
+“Then, if it is mine, I desire, my mother, that you retain your place at
+the head of the establishment.”
+
+“But that would not be _just_, Orville. That place belongs to the young
+lady whom you have made your wife; whom I have very carefully brought
+up, and instructed in all the duties appertaining to the mistress of a
+family, and who is, consequently, quite competent to their fulfilment. I
+take great comfort, indeed, in witnessing how admirably she sustains the
+character.”
+
+“But you, my mother?”
+
+“I repeat that I am proud and happy to abdicate in favor of your wife.”
+
+“My wife! good heaven!” thought Orville, distractedly, as he left his
+mother’s chamber.
+
+As the news of Lady Adelaide’s return from school, of Mr. Deville’s
+arrival at home, and of Lady Elizabeth’s re-appearance in the parlor
+spread abroad, the county families began to call and pay their respects
+and offer their congratulations. And to every one of these in succession
+was the young mistress of the mansion presented by Lady Elizabeth as—
+
+“My daughter-in-law, Lady Adelaide Deville.”
+
+And from each one in turn did Mr. Deville and Lady Adelaide receive the
+customary congratulations offered to a bridal pair.
+
+Among the visitors came the Reverend Mr. Sinclair, the pastor of the
+Presbyterian parish of Bush Creek, and his young wife, who was an
+intimate friend of Lady Adelaide’s.
+
+In welcoming and shaking hands with Orville the minister said—
+
+“I wish you a long and happy wedded life with the lady of your choice,
+Mr. Deville; and in congratulating you on the auspicious event of your
+marriage, I do not do so in mere formality, but with the most earnest
+conviction of your blessedness in the possession of a young creature
+whose lovely nature approaches as near the angelic as fallen human
+nature may. Cherish her, my dear young friend, as the choicest gift of
+Heaven!”
+
+What could Orville do but bow deeply, and thus indorse all that the
+minister took for granted?
+
+Thus every day strengthened the position of the young unclaimed wife as
+mistress of the mansion. And every day, also, marked her progress in the
+esteem of him who was called—and who should have been _worthy_ to be
+called—her husband.
+
+Orville Deville felt as though he had lost all power over his own fate,
+and was being drifted he knew not whither.
+
+His manner towards his fair young bride evinced the deepest respect, the
+most delicate tenderness, and the most affectionate courtesy; yet he
+carefully avoided every thing that could be construed into courtship.
+
+And Adelaide, so long as he was kind, remained perfectly happy in her
+simplicity, never dreaming that she was the object of commiseration
+which every one in the house thought her to be—a neglected bride. She
+was happy in fulfilling all duties required of her, as wife, daughter,
+friend, mistress and Christian. Happy, if you please, in ruling her
+house, managing her domestic affairs, caring for her young husband’s
+comforts, noticing his tastes at table, preparing his favorite dishes,
+and taking care of his wardrobe; happier still in riding alone with him
+every afternoon through the wintry woods, over the bleak hills, or along
+the sanded beach by the water side; or, when seated at her work-table by
+the evening fire-side, listening to his voice in reading; happiest of
+all while sitting at his side each Sabbath-day at church, listening to
+the word of God!
+
+Reader! do we wonder that a thunderbolt from heaven did not strike this
+sinner from the side of the youthful saint?
+
+No; for we know that God permits the tares to grow with the wheat until
+the day of the final harvest.
+
+Meanwhile this young sinner was in some sense to be pitied. To see his
+fair young bride so perfect in her loveliness; to know her his very own,
+and to refrain from taking her to his heart, was growing every day more
+difficult.
+
+He, a young man educated at Eton, had never before known what good and
+beautiful young girlhood was. And now that he recognized, he reverenced
+this womanly excellence that approached as nearly as possible to angelic
+perfection. He regarded his past, vehement, but transient passion for
+wild Lionne in its true light—as a short madness. He recognized in
+Adelaide—had he been worthy of her—the angel of his better life.
+
+“She is beautiful, amiable, and accomplished. She is ‘altogether
+lovely.’ I love her! and I feel that she loves me. I know that she is my
+own—that no one disputes my claim; and yet because of the fetter of sin
+that binds me, I dare not approach her! Oh! am I not punished for my
+sin? Is not my fate worse than that of Tantalus?” Thus in the bitterness
+of his heart he mused, one winter afternoon, as he rode beside Adelaide.
+
+He had been so long silent that she suddenly turned her head and looked
+at him with close attention.
+
+And then, for the first time in their acquaintance, she saw that he was
+unhappy.
+
+The discovery pierced her gentle bosom like a sword!
+
+Adelaide had borne neglect, without, in her sweet humility, even knowing
+that she _was_ neglected! She would have gone on drawing her happiness
+from her duties—from her pleasantest occupation in ministering to his
+comfort—and never, in the unexacting, unsuspicious meekness of her
+heart, asked herself the question whether she were appreciated or
+repaid.
+
+But now she saw the idol of her worshipping young heart unhappy, and—her
+own peace of mind was gone! She had been so long tutored to believe that
+his comfort was _her own_ proper care—that _she_ was the custodian of
+his domestic happiness—that now, when she saw the cloud upon his brow,
+she began to examine her conscience to see in what particular she had
+been remiss. She could come to no absolute certainty upon any point, but
+resolved to devote herself with more assiduity than ever to her duties.
+
+And from this day, it would have been a piteous sight to any sympathetic
+observer, to witness her frequent, mute, appealing gaze, that asked so
+plainly—
+
+“Ah! what can we do to give you ease and pleasure? If you would only
+speak and tell us, how glad we should be to gratify you!”
+
+Lady Elizabeth thought her son the most insensible of all men, and was
+exasperated to use many little expedients to bring the young couple to a
+better understanding. Being on much more intimate terms with her
+daughter-in-law than with her son, she one day entered the chamber of
+the young lady, and asked Adelaide—
+
+“What in the world is the matter between you and Orville? You are not at
+all like a bride and groom in their honeymoon! Now what is amiss?”
+
+“I do not know, indeed, dear mamma, but I see that he is very unhappy. I
+am afraid that I do not act rightly, and I am, besides, so ignorant or
+blind that I cannot see where I am remiss. If _you_ know, dear mamma,
+please tell me.”
+
+“I do know _one_ little thing.”
+
+“What is it, dear friend? what can I do?”
+
+“_Put his chamber to rights._”
+
+“Keziah attends to that, and she is very faithful,” said Adelaide,
+blushing deeply.
+
+“Keziah! My dear, the most competent servant that ever lived cannot give
+delicate finishing touches to the arrangement of a room. Come, let us go
+in and see Keziah’s handiwork,” said the lady, rising and approaching
+the white door.
+
+“But, dear mamma, such a trifle as the condition of his room, never
+could make Mr. Deville so unhappy as he now seems.”
+
+“_No_, not in _itself_, but as a token of his _wife’s indifference_, it
+might.”
+
+Adelaide started, and looked wistfully into the face of her
+mother-in-law. She was far from indifferent, poor girl!
+
+“Why, this door is locked, and the key is on your side, Adelaide! how is
+this?”
+
+“Why, dear mamma, I always fasten _both_ the doors of my chamber; and as
+I never have occasion to use _this_ door, it remains fastened,” said
+Adelaide, simply.
+
+“In fact, I do not wonder that Orville is unhappy,” said the lady,
+petulantly.
+
+“_Why_, dear mamma? what do you mean?”
+
+“To be locked out of his wife’s apartment in this manner!”
+
+“I had no intention of locking him out in particular! He never wished to
+pass through this room that I know of!”
+
+“Orville is a gentleman, I hope you know, my dear.”
+
+“Dear mamma, I do not comprehend you at all! Pray tell me in what I have
+erred! Indeed, I have an earnest desire to do right!” pleaded Adelaide.
+
+“You have turned the key on Orville, who has as much right as yourself
+to the freedom of this room, and you should know, Adelaide.”
+
+“But I did not know! Indeed, I meant no offence! Pray, do not be angry!
+the key shall not be turned again!”
+
+“I do not intend that it shall—on Orville!” thought the matron, as she
+withdrew it and put it in her own pocket, leaving Adelaide without means
+of fastening the communicating-door.
+
+They passed into the adjoining room, which, begging Lady Elizabeth’s
+pardon, was as well arranged as it could possibly be, and needed “no
+finishing touches” at all. The crimson curtains to the bedstead and the
+windows were as gracefully festooned, and the mantle ornaments and
+toilet services were as tastefully arranged, as the hands of the most
+delicate young lady could have managed it.
+
+Even Lady Elizabeth was constrained to admit that the appointments
+wanted no “finishing touches,” and much to Adelaide’s relief, they left
+the room.
+
+The same day, while Adelaide was down-stairs, preparing some jellies for
+dinner, Lady Elizabeth ascended to her daughter-in-law’s room, where she
+waited until she heard her son come up and pass into his own apartment.
+Then she called—
+
+“Come in here, Orville!”
+
+Mr. Deville started and looked around, not knowing exactly whence the
+voice came.
+
+“Here, in Adelaide’s chamber,” again called his mother’s voice.
+
+This time he knew, and he advanced and laid his hand upon the knob of
+that sacred white door, turned the latch, opened it, and looked for the
+first time upon the sanctuary of Adelaide’s privacy.
+
+A chamber, white curtained and white draperied, with the indescribable
+fragrance of youth, beauty, and girlhood lingering about it; a scene of
+simplicity, purity, and holiness.
+
+Well might he linger on the threshold. His mother, seeing his
+hesitation, said—
+
+“Do not be afraid, Orville. Dear me! what are you thinking of? It’s your
+wife’s room, and consequently _your own_.”
+
+His own! He might have _a legal privilege_, but he felt that he had _no
+moral right_ to enter there! At his mother’s invitation, he crossed the
+threshold, but felt as uncomfortable, as much out of his sphere, as a
+sinner might feel in heaven!
+
+“Come here and sit beside me on this couch; I want to talk to you,
+Orville,” she said.
+
+He obeyed, and placed himself beside her on the dimity lounge.
+
+In truth she had little of any importance to say; all she wished to do,
+was to bring him through that communicating-door; but having done so,
+she affected to consult him on the cutting down of certain timbers, and
+the reclaiming of certain swamp lands, until the bell rang for dinner,
+when this conference broke up.
+
+Yet days and weeks passed, and with all her manœuvering Lady Elizabeth
+did not succeed in bringing the young couple to what she called a good
+understanding.
+
+Time wore on. Orville and Adelaide talked, walked, read, and rode
+together as usual, as the most affectionate brother and sister might do;
+only it is certain that never brother loved a sister as Orville loved
+Adelaide, and never a sister repaid a brother with such a heart-whole
+devotion as Adelaide rendered to Orville. This was all! Their
+marriage-ceremony remained a dead letter, and Lady Elizabeth was in
+despair, and was driven to new expedients.
+
+“Though they will not advance, I will put it out of their power to
+recede,” said her ladyship; and thereupon, Christmas being at hand, she
+issued a large number of invitations for a dinner and ball, to be given
+at River-view.
+
+In those days, and in that neighborhood, all complimentary tickets were
+written; and the preparation of tickets of invitation was no small part
+of the trouble of the getting up of a large party.
+
+Lady Elizabeth, one morning after breakfast, called her daughter-in-law
+into her own chamber to assist her in this business.
+
+She sat down at the writing-table with a ream of note paper on her right
+hand, and Lady Elizabeth’s visiting-list on the other.
+
+She began, as she had been accustomed to begin—
+
+“_Lady Elizabeth Deville presents her compliments_——” when that lady
+looking over her shoulder, said—
+
+“No, my dear love, that is not proper.”
+
+“How then, dear mamma?”
+
+“Write—‘_Mr. and Lady Adelaide Deville present_, etc.’ The dynasty of
+River-view is changed, you know, my dear child, and the world around us
+must understand it.”
+
+Adelaide, accustomed to subordination, readily obeyed.
+
+And the cards were written and issued accordingly; and now the
+neighborhood, as well as the household, knew that henceforth the young
+and lovely Adelaide was mistress of River-view.
+
+The dinner and ball came off on Christmas evening.
+
+The guests—many of them mere acquaintances from a distance—were all
+presented to Lady Adelaide Deville as their hostess.
+
+In a rich and tasteful evening-dress of pale blue brocade, over white
+satin, and with her golden hair dressed with a wreath of harebells,
+Adelaide looked more beautiful than Orville had ever before seen her.
+Her beauty, grace, and accomplishments elicited general admiration, and
+the heart of Orville swelled with pride, as well as with love, to hear
+her called his wife. How proudly, how gladly would he also have called
+her thus! but it might not be, for, in the very height of his
+anticipated happiness, visions of the village inn in which he had wedded
+Lionne, visions of the crystal grotto that had been their bridal bower,
+arose in vengeance to dash the desired cup of joy from his lips! One
+evil change was coming over the spirit of Orville,—for his sin in having
+yielded to his transient passion for Lionne he no longer _blamed_
+himself, but accused his _fate_.
+
+The initiative Christmas-party given at River-view acted as a suggestion
+and a stimulus to the festive hospitality of the neighborhood. Other
+dinners and balls followed in rapid succession. Never before in that
+neighborhood had been known so gay a Christmas and New-Year. And
+everywhere the young married-pair, as they were called, were fêted,
+toasted, and admired to the heart’s content of Lady Elizabeth! There was
+no retrograding now! no such thing as denying or repudiating a marriage
+so generally published, so universally acknowledged!
+
+Still time wore on. Spring approached. Orville had received no answer to
+his letter to Lionne. This circumstance, which might have distressed a
+faithful lover, elated him.
+
+It was early in March that an event occurred that tended to precipitate
+a denouement, if not a catastrophe
+
+It was one evening that the family were still lingering at the
+tea-table, when old Nero came in from the post office, with the mail-bag
+stuffed quite full.
+
+“An unusually large mail,” exclaimed Orville, with gusto, as he seized
+the bag with the anticipation of a great treat.
+
+“Furrin post,” remarked old Nero, laconically.
+
+“How should you know?” asked his master.
+
+“Pos’ marser told me—came in wid de packet-ship Prince o’ Whales’ from
+Libberpool, in furrin parts.”
+
+“It is the English papers,” said Orville, gaily, as he emptied the bag
+upon the table and began to distribute its contents.
+
+“No letters, but we can dispense with them this time!—Here, mother, is
+the ‘Morning Post,’ always your favorite!—The ‘Court Journal,’ my dear
+Adelaide, I suppose will be the most acceptable to you.—I will look into
+the ‘Times.’”
+
+And without leaving the table, Orville was soon deep in parliamentary
+debates; Adelaide in court gossip; and Lady Elizabeth in fashionable
+intelligence,—when the latter suddenly exclaimed—
+
+“Heaven bless us!”
+
+At this startling invocation both Orville and Adelaide looked up.
+
+Lady Elizabeth’s attention was concentrated upon one column of the
+“Morning Post,” whose lines her eyes were following with avidity, amid
+such involuntary exclamations as:
+
+“Dear me! who would have thought it! I wonder what is up now!”
+
+“So do we!” said Orville, with an amused smile.
+
+“Oh, excuse me, young people, for thinking aloud; but, really, this is
+so singular! I do not know what the ministry can mean!”
+
+“Nor we what you mean, dear madam!”
+
+“Oh! ay! certainly! this it is! You see, the Earl of Lennark is pardoned
+and recalled.”
+
+Orville and Adelaide looked quite as much puzzled as before.
+
+“Ah, I see you have forgotten! Well, then, my half-brother, your uncle,
+Alexander Lorne, proscribed as a Jacobite since ’45, has been pardoned,
+and recalled to take possession of the title and estates of the Earldom
+of Lennark, sequestrated since ’45, but now restored to their rightful
+heir.”
+
+“Oh!” said Orville.
+
+“Indeed!” said Adelaide.
+
+“Great clemency on the part of the ministry,” remarked Orville.
+
+“Or great policy, who can tell which?” demurred his mother.
+
+“But I thought that my dear uncle Alexander, whom I can just barely
+remember, died abroad long, long, ago,” said Adelaide.
+
+“Such was the rumor, and as I never heard from my brother after the
+battle of Preston, I had reason to believe it true. However, since the
+ministry are apt to know what they are about, I consider his recall
+conclusive proof of his existence.”
+
+“Had he any family?” inquired Orville.
+
+“When I heard from him last, while he was in France, he was a widower
+with one daughter; but, as I tell you, I have had no correspondence with
+Alexander since ’45, the time of his connection with the young
+Chevalier.”
+
+“If Uncle Alexander accepts the recall he will return to the old place,
+I suppose,” said Adelaide.
+
+“Yes—he loved the Highlands, and doubtless his long exile will make it
+all the more attractive to him now. Dear me—what if?—but no matter!”
+
+“_What_, mother?”
+
+“Nothing, I had a thought, but it is premature; I will sleep on it
+to-night, and, perhaps, if it is worth while, name it to you to-morrow.
+Now I am tired: good-night.” And rising, the lady left the room.
+
+Lady Elizabeth was as good as her word, and before she closed her eyes
+that night she consulted her pillow with such good results, that she
+completely matured a project that had been suggested by the news of the
+night. The next day she was in no great hurry to propose her plan, but
+waited until
+
+                   “The after-dinner talk
+                   Across the walnuts and the wine,”
+
+when she suddenly said:
+
+“How would you like to visit Glen Lennark Lodge and the Highlands this
+summer, Orville?”
+
+“Oh! very much, indeed!” exclaimed the young gentleman, catching eagerly
+at the suggestion.
+
+“And you, Adelaide, would you like to revisit the home of your
+childhood?”
+
+“Oh, yes! yes! dear Glen Lennark!” exclaimed the gentle girl,
+delightedly, adding considerately—“if I might do so as well as not.”
+
+“There is nothing on earth to prevent you! It would be a pleasant
+wedding-tour, which, upon all accounts, it is quite proper you should
+make.”
+
+“I see by a Norfolk paper that there is a packet to sail from that port
+for Glasgow on the first of April. That will give you time enough to
+prepare. You can make a fine spring voyage and reach the Highlands by
+the beginning of summer. Come! what do you both say to making this
+visit?”
+
+Adelaide beamed with delight at the prospect, but left it to Orville to
+reply.
+
+He saw her radiant eyes, and hastened to express his high approval of
+the project.
+
+The details of the plan were then discussed at large for more than an
+hour, at the end of which the discussion being left unfinished, Lady
+Elizabeth arose, and saying with a smile that she would go and take her
+afternoon nap, withdrew from the dining-room.
+
+Orville left the table to go and order the horses for their usual ride,
+and Adelaide tripped up-stairs to put on her habit.
+
+As, still elated with the prospect of her voyage, she opened her
+chamber-door and danced into the room, she paused, aghast! There, in the
+middle of the room, was a sight that seemed to freeze all the blood in
+her veins!
+
+The two wronged wives—the fierce, implacable Lionne, and the mild,
+gentle-hearted Adelaide—stood face to face!
+
+
+
+
+                               CHAPTER X.
+                                LIONNE.
+
+                But thou, as yet, hast never felt
+                  The agonizing sense
+                Of seeing love from passion melt
+                  Into indifference;
+                The fearful shame that, day by day,
+                  Turns onward still to burn;
+                To have thrown thy precious heart away,
+                  And met this black return.—_Milnes._
+
+
+To explain the startling apparition that had so terrified Lady Adelaide
+in her chamber, it is necessary to return to the forest home of Lionne.
+
+At first the wild girl grieved over the parting with her lover, as only
+wilful and passionate natures like hers ever grieve over any trouble.
+
+Her stormy bursts of sorrow were, however, only indulged in the privacy
+of her chamber, the seclusion of her grotto, or the still deeper
+solitude of the pathless wilderness.
+
+The wildest transient grief of youth leaves no lasting impress on the
+brow; and thus, whenever Lionne appeared in the presence of her father,
+she betrayed nothing of the sorrow that occasionally shook her whole
+nature.
+
+Thus passed several days.
+
+And then, grief having exhausted its first violence, Lionne began to
+reason, so far as such a child of passion ever reasons, upon the folly
+of her own excessive lamentations over a transient separation from her
+lover.
+
+And then she turned her thoughts from the bitter present to the bright
+past and the brighter future, to live on the memory of Orville’s visit
+and the anticipations of his return.
+
+And long before there could be any rational expectation of hearing from
+him she began to look daily for his first letter. And oh, what a joy was
+that to anticipate!
+
+What would he write? what would his missive be like? would his letter
+resemble his conversation?
+
+She would soon know.
+
+Daily, under cover of her woodland habits, she would, unquestioned by
+her father, ride to Winchester in quest of her letter, although the
+journey there and back consumed the whole day.
+
+This forest girl was much too wild, strange, and beautiful in aspect not
+to excite the greatest degree of admiration, curiosity and conjecture
+whenever she appeared in the country town; but there was something in
+the flash of her eye and the flush of her cheek that effectually
+repelled impertinence, checked inquiry, and commanded respect.
+
+At last, one day, before she had time to grow seriously anxious, the
+longed-for letter came! At a quarter to twelve she had reached
+Winchester. Just at high noon the precious letter was placed in her
+hands.
+
+At first the sole joy of knowing that she possessed it, holding it in
+her hand, and gazing upon the superscription and the seal, was enough.
+She felt its thickness as a miser might have done had it been lined with
+bank-notes; then, unobserved, she placed it in her bosom, turned her
+horse’s head, and rode rapidly homeward, deferring to the last hour of
+day and the privacy of her chamber the pleasure of reading the contents.
+
+Thither, after supper was over and the family had separated, she
+repaired, locked her door, lighted her candle, and sat down by the fire
+to the perusal as to the most costly luxury.
+
+It was a “love letter,” and from the man she loved! That is saying
+enough to make any one comprehend that every precious word within it was
+dwelt upon, was gloated over, was gloried in as though each were an
+enchanting picture, a delicious feast, a priceless treasure. Over and
+over she read it, and at last laid it between her cheek and the pillow,
+and sank into a happy sleep, to dream of its writer.
+
+Next day she gave Nox, her pony, the extraordinary benefit of a holiday,
+and gathered writing-materials and went down to her grotto. From no spot
+but from this bower of their bliss would she answer his first letter—no
+other place seemed so worthy of the pleasant task. Her letter was like
+herself—it was a frank, fearless, impassioned outpouring of her love,
+and joy, and hope!
+
+She finished it, and the next day took it to Winchester, because she
+would not trust this correspondence to the hands of another, even one so
+faithful as Vulcan.
+
+How long she lived upon that first letter, carrying it in her bodice all
+day long, and reading it over many times—not but that she knew every
+word by heart, but because she loved to follow with her eye the precious
+tracings of his hand. Ay! how long she lived upon that first letter. And
+then, before that had begun to lose its freshness, she commenced looking
+for the second—the answer to her own.
+
+She wondered how he would like _her_ letter,—whether it would not make
+him as happy as she hoped it might, and in what terms he would
+acknowledge it.
+
+She would know when he wrote. Oh, how she longed for his answer!
+
+The first fortnight she knew she would not get that answer, and
+therefore she resolved not to be unreasonable.
+
+The third week she might expect a letter, and as day by day brought
+disappointment, she began to grow impatient.
+
+The fourth week her impatience increased to anxiety.
+
+The fifth this anxiety became almost insufferable.
+
+The sixth doubt, distrust, and jealousy assailed her heart; but she
+sought to subdue these agonizing emotions by appealing to his words,
+wherein he said:
+
+“If you should chance to be a long time without a letter, distrust
+messengers, post-offices, post-masters—everybody and every thing, save
+me and my fidelity.”
+
+“And I will,” said Lionne, and she just made up her mind to write to
+Orville again. “For no doubt his letter has miscarried, and he is at
+this very time expecting one from me,” she concluded. As it was now the
+middle of January, and her beautiful grotto was blocked up with ice and
+snow, so that she could not go to that favorite temple of her love to
+perform the pleasant task, she gathered writing-materials and went up to
+her chamber.
+
+The poverty of Lionne afforded no table in her room; so she placed her
+paper, pens and ink upon the top of an old oak chest, and kneeled down
+on the floor beside it to commence.
+
+She had but dated the paper, when she was interrupted by an unusual
+sound—the quick gallop of horses into the yard, followed immediately by
+a smart rap with a riding-whip at the hall door.
+
+“That is he! he has come! oh, I might have known that he was coming!”
+she exclaimed, throwing down her pen and starting up, her lips apart,
+her checks flushed, her eyes flashing with joy!
+
+And before the rap could be repeated, or any one else could answer it,
+she had sped down-stairs and through the passage, and torn open the
+door.
+
+She sickened, and nearly swooned with disappointment! She could not
+immediately recover her presence of mind, or welcome the travellers that
+stood there mutely claiming her hospitality. She could not answer, or
+even hear the words that were next addressed to her, until they were
+somewhat impatiently repeated.
+
+“Myself and brother are lost in this wilderness. Night is coming on, and
+we are without a lodging. Will you be kind enough to tell us where we
+can get one?”
+
+Lionne passed her hand once or twice across her brow, as if to clear her
+vision, and then looked up.
+
+The speaker who had addressed her was a young girl of perhaps sixteen
+years of age, of a small, slight figure, thin, dark face, with very
+fierce, black eyes, and straight, black hair, parted over her low brow,
+and wound up under her hat. She wore a dark-green riding-habit, somewhat
+stained and faded by exposure and travel, and a round, jockey
+riding-cap. She rode a small, but well-formed black horse, that looked
+as weary and weather-beaten as herself.
+
+Her companion was a youth of fourteen, bearing a strong family likeness
+to his sister; he was clothed in the rather dilapidated uniform of a
+private in the Provincial troops, and mounted on a good, bay horse, now
+rather the worse for a surplus of road and deficiency of rest.
+
+“Well, I declare, young lady,” said Kate Kyte, for the travellers were
+no other than that young huntress and her youngest brother, “well, I
+declare, we are not highway robbers, that you should look at us as
+though we told you to ‘stand and deliver!’”
+
+“I—I beg your pardon,” said Lionne, confusedly; “but _who_ did you say
+you were? What did you require?”
+
+“Merciful Moses! we are a pair of innocent children—a poor boy and girl
+who have lost our way in the forest.”
+
+“What—what do you need?” inquired Lionne in the same perplexity.
+
+“Powers above! every thing; supper and beds; horse-feed and stalls. And
+if you can’t tell us where to get them, either for mercy or money, (the
+less said about the latter the better,) we shall wander all night hand
+in hand, because our horses can’t carry us any longer; eat
+poison-berries, because we can’t get any thing else, supposing even we
+can get them; and finally lie down and die, and be covered over with
+leaves by the robins, like the babes in the woods,” said Kate, laughing.
+
+“Oh, come along! _She’s_ not a-going to give us any satisfaction,”
+grumbled the boy, turning his horse’s head.
+
+“Stop where you are, Hubert! The young lady is only perplexed at seeing
+two such savages as we are before her door. She don’t look
+over-civilized herself however,” added Kate, in a low voice.
+
+“Oh, I beg you will excuse me,” said Lionne, slowly recovering her
+presence of mind; “I was expecting—that is to say, I——”
+
+“Was _not_ expecting strangers,” said Kate, finishing the sentence for
+her.
+
+“No; but the strangers are most cordially welcome!” exclaimed Lionne,
+with greater animation. “Of course, you must go no farther to-night.
+Pray dismount. My servant-man will take care of your horses and also
+attend your orders, sir. Young lady, you come with me. Vulcan! Vulcan, I
+say!”
+
+The huge dwarf appeared from the back part of the house, and, coming
+forward, struck Kate with about as much astonishment as any thing she
+had seen in the course of her travels.
+
+While she was still gazing on the monster, Lionne said—
+
+“Vulcan, show this young man into a room where he can wash and change
+his clothes, if he wishes, before supper. Take his knapsack and carry it
+after him; stable and feed the horses; and then report yourself to me in
+the kitchen.”
+
+“Yes, Lionne,” said the dwarf, in a tone which, though not loud or high,
+coming from his vast chest, sounded like a peal of deep thunder, and
+made Kate exclaim:
+
+“You would be a nice one to watch beside a sick-bed, wouldn’t you?”
+
+“Come, young lady,” said Lionne, leading the way up-stairs to her own
+chamber.
+
+“My name is Kate Kyte,” said the ‘young lady.’
+
+“Come, then, Miss Kyte.”
+
+“I said _Kate_ Kyte! I never _miss_ any_body_, and never _missed_ any
+_thing_! not even the Huron’s head, through which I sent a bullet at
+twenty paces!”
+
+“Good heaven! blood on that young hand!” exclaimed Lionne, shrinking
+from her.
+
+“No, bless you: washed off long ago! I have cleanly habits, ma’am, as
+old as my riding-coat is. But there has been plenty of it—both ‘the
+blood of birds and the blood of beasts and the blood of fishes!’ So at
+last shedding the blood of a two-legged tiger, did not come the least
+bit awkwardly.”
+
+Lionne shrank farther and farther from her as they went up the stairs.
+
+“Now don’t grind yourself against the wall in horror of me; the blood I
+shed was spilled in a holy cause! The savage was just in the act of
+tomahawking that boy of mine, when a message from my persuader here—”
+she said, indicating a pocket-pistol that was stuck in her belt—“stopped
+him. He dropped like a felled tree! beautifully! you never saw a better
+fall! or a better-looking savage after he was down! I couldn’t help
+stooping to admire him, even before I shook hands with my brother!”
+
+“It was dreadful!” said Lionne.
+
+“It was justifiable! nay, indeed, it was unavoidable. I reckon you would
+have said so, if you had seen that unarmed boy just under the descending
+stroke of the tomahawk! It was a neck and neck race between hatchet and
+pistol! and if my bullet had been half a second later, the tomahawk
+would have been buried in the boy’s brain.”
+
+“Ugh! do not let us talk any more of such horrors!”
+
+“Why, I declare! _you_ are not chicken-hearted, are you! Now _I_ have as
+much courage as a hundred other women put together, and you look as if
+you had ten times as much strength, fire, and firmness as a hundred of
+me!”
+
+“However that may be, I am not naturally nervous; but for a few months
+past, I cannot imagine for what reason, I shudder at things that once
+never would have attracted even my notice!”
+
+These words of Lionne brought them into her chamber where she supplied
+her guest with water and towels.
+
+Kate was not so fortunate as her brother in the possession of a
+knapsack; but she had some few necessary articles of apparel in her
+saddle-bags, and these, at her request, were sent for, and brought up by
+Vulcan.
+
+And now behold Kate, after her toilet, in a house dress of oldish but
+still bright crimson merino, that perfectly fitted her lithe and slender
+figure, a little black lace collar around her neck, and her lustrous,
+straight, black hair plainly parted over her low brow, and rolled into a
+coil at the back of her head.
+
+Lionne took her guest down into the sitting-room, where she was soon
+after joined by her brother, who had meanwhile been engaged in
+freshening his own dilapidated appearance.
+
+Apologizing for the necessity of leaving them, and begging that they
+would amuse themselves with such materials as were at hand—intimating
+the few books upon the table, and the many implements and trophies of
+the chase—Lionne left the room, to go into the kitchen and take counsel
+with Vulcan about supper for her guests.
+
+“Kate, I say,” said Hubert, putting down a richly mounted horn that he
+had been examining; “that is just the handsomest girl I ever saw in my
+life.”
+
+“Yes; do, now, go and fall in love with a stranger, and love her better
+than the sister you have known all your life!”
+
+This reply silenced Hubert, who went on with his examination of the old
+horns, whistles, pipes, flasks, fowling-pieces, and other implements of
+the chase, all of rich material and elaborate finish, at great variance
+with the otherwise rude aspect of the lodge and its appointments.
+
+“Kate, I say, it’s my belief that young girl’s father is a gentleman!”
+said Hubert, with one more attempt at conversation.
+
+“How do you know she has a father, foolish boy?”
+
+“Well, most folks have, haven’t they, Kate?”
+
+“Why, no; _you_ haven’t.”
+
+“But that’s because I’m an orphan, so that _I’m_ no example!”
+
+“No, in truth, you are not!” retorted Kate, in a manner that once more
+silenced the speaker.
+
+In fact, Kate had got hold of the first copy of Shakspeare that she had
+ever seen, and that wonderful book, so cosmopolitan in its interest that
+it charms readers of all ages, characters and conditions, had
+spell-bound Kate to her chair, where she sat with her feet under the
+table, her elbows on it, her forehead leaning on the palms of her hands,
+and her eyes riveted upon the open volume before her, where she
+remained, while Hubert strolled about looking at, taking down, and
+sometimes in his awkwardness _throwing_ down various implements and
+trophies of the chase.
+
+Whenever such a crash came, Kate, without taking her eyes from her book,
+would say—
+
+“Don’t do any mischief, Hube!”
+
+Or if the noise was louder than usual, she would burst out with—
+
+“Hubert, I say, don’t break things!”
+
+At last, while she was deep in the perusal of the “Tempest,” came a
+crash that caused her to start impatiently to her feet, exclaiming
+angrily—
+
+“Hubert, don’t knock things about so! You make me nervous with dread
+lest you do some damage!”
+
+“’Twa’n’t me at all, now! It was that girl! You better not saved me if
+you mean to torment the life out of me all the rest of my days!” said
+the grateful and polite Mr. Kyte.
+
+Kate looked around and saw Lionne, who had come in, calmly picking up a
+part of an old suit of armor that Master Hubert had taken down to
+examine, and then carelessly re-hung against the door, and which, in
+opening, she had thrown down.
+
+“Will you please to come into such a supper as I can offer you, although
+it will not furnish the luxuries of an eastern table?” said their
+hostess, smiling.
+
+Kate laughingly apologized for her ludicrous mistake, reluctantly closed
+her book, and arose to follow her hostess.
+
+Hubert turned eagerly from the contemplation of a pair of ten-tined
+antlers to the more inviting prospect of feasting upon the animal that
+might once have worn them.
+
+Lionne led the way into the spacious kitchen, which was glowingly
+lighted up by a great hickory fire, blazing in the wide fireplace, and a
+pair of candles in iron candlesticks that stood upon the well spread
+oak-table.
+
+There was, as usual, no table-cloth, and the supper service was of the
+plainest earthenware, with cheap iron cutlery; but the meal spread
+before the guests was both substantial and luxurious, consisting of
+venison steaks, roasted partridges, home-made bread and butter, and fine
+coffee with fresh cream. The huge dwarf stood to wait upon the table.
+
+“I say, Kate,” said Hubert, drawing near her and speaking low, “that
+pretty girl with the short giant waiting on her, is like the ‘Princess
+and the Dwarf’ in the fairy tale, ain’t it?”
+
+“Yes, and do you know what you are like in the same story?”
+
+“The prince that delivered and married the princess!” inquired Hubert,
+rather doubtfully.
+
+“No! the court-fool who got the bastinado for talking out of season.”
+
+This philippic, as usual with such, at once silenced Hubert, who meekly
+took the place pointed out to him at the table, and spoke no more.
+
+Both Kate and Hubert supped after the manner of healthy young
+travellers, who had ridden thirty miles, fasting, through a sharp winter
+day.
+
+Lionne saw that full justice was done to her bill of fare, and felt
+flattered upon the doubtful subject of her housekeeping.
+
+After supper, when they were about to adjourn to the sitting-room,
+Hubert said that if Mr. Vulcan would be so good as to show him the way,
+he would like to visit the stable, and see the condition of his horses
+after their severe travel.
+
+Mr. Vulcan _was_ so good, and with a clumsy nod—for he was too short and
+square to bow—he took his wolf-skin cap and led the way to the stables.
+
+Lionne conducted her guest back to the sitting-room, mended the fire,
+and invited her to draw her chair nearer the hearth.
+
+“Do you live here ‘all alone mit yerself,’ as the Dutchman would say?”
+inquired Kate.
+
+“Oh, no!” answered Lionne.
+
+“Then with only that Dwarf-Titan, like the Princess in the story, to
+which my brother compared you?”
+
+“No; I have a father, who is absent to-day at Winchester, but who will
+be home some time to-night.”
+
+“Well,” said Kate, “as I claimed your hospitality, I ought to tell you
+who I am.”
+
+“That is a question never put by my father to a passing guest. To know
+that such a one is a traveller, seeking quarters, is sufficient for
+him.”
+
+“Yes, very likely for _him_; but is it for _you_, with your Eve’s share
+of curiosity.”
+
+“Even for me, also.”
+
+“Well, then, that is noble, I must say! But just suppose, now, that I
+feel egotistical, and had rather talk of myself than not?”
+
+“Why, in that case, my little egotist, go on! and I will promise you one
+interested and attentive listener.”
+
+“Thank you! well, then, you must know that my father and mother both
+died while I was a little child.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And left me, a solitary girl, to grow up with half a dozen brothers,
+all older than myself, except Hubert, here, who is a year younger!”
+
+“I see!”
+
+“Well, then, I grew up a boy as far as education and habits go!”
+
+“That accounts for every thing.”
+
+“Don’t it, though? Well, seeing that I was so much of a boy, when my
+brothers enlisted in the Provincial troops that were going out to fight
+the French and other savages, I wanted to enlist too! of course I did!
+but the dunder-head who was recruiting wouldn’t take me!”
+
+“Indeed!”
+
+“No: did you ever hear of such stupidity?”
+
+“Never!” said Lionne, smiling.
+
+“It was no use for me to tell him that I had never been parted from my
+brothers, and never would be; that we had always lived together in one
+band, eat and drank together, travelled together, hunted and fished
+together, ridden and raced together, and that now, by the grave of our
+parents, we would enlist and go to the war together, and, if necessary,
+be killed and scalped together!”
+
+“Well, after all, I like that, Kate! But what did the recruiter answer?”
+
+“Answer! the insolent! he said the only way in which I could get to go
+on the expedition would be to marry _him_ and go as his wife!” said
+Kate, with flashing eyes.
+
+“And what did you say?”
+
+“Nothing: my horsewhip answered for me with one sharp cut across his
+impudent face and mouth, that must carry the marks of the lash to this
+day, if he lives!”
+
+“And then?”
+
+“I put whip to my horse and rode to head-quarters, and went into the
+very presence of the great military lion himself—General Braddock. I
+told him all that I had told the recruiting-sergeant, and in addition, I
+said that I wished to go to take care of Hubert, who, being the youngest
+of our band, would need my protection (as it turned out he did).”
+
+“And the General?”
+
+“When he heard my story, he broke down into the vulgarest guffaw that
+ever I heard from a white man. I had left my horsewhip in its rest
+beside the saddle, else I don’t know what would have been the
+consequences. Well, I told him he might as well enlist me, for that I
+was not accustomed to be crossed, any more than I was to be laughed at,
+and that I would go to the wars in spite of him.”
+
+“And he?”
+
+“Just called an orderly sergeant, and sent out in all directions to
+inquire whether I had any parents or guardians, and kept me prisoner in
+a room at his quarters the whole day, until he found that I belonged to
+myself exclusively, when he cursed the customs of the country and set me
+at liberty.”
+
+“And you thanked him, of course?”
+
+““Didn’t I, though?” Well, my brothers marched with their company. I was
+left behind with no other society than old Lucy, our cook, and the
+hounds. It was not, however, until some time afterwards, when the great
+battle had been fought and lost, and the troops were massacred,
+scattered or carried off, that I put my threat of following the army
+into execution. Then, when straggler after straggler returned, wounded,
+weary and weather-beaten, bringing each the most frightful accounts of
+that field of blood, and I could hear nothing in regard to the fate of
+my brothers, I mounted my horse and set off in quest of news of them.”
+
+“A Quixotic undertaking,” said Lionne.
+
+“It was not so dangerous or difficult as you imagine. I just followed
+Braddock’s road, stopping to rest each night at the cabin of some
+squatter, and going forward by day and making inquiries of everybody I
+saw. I met several late stragglers from the battle, who had been laid up
+somewhere and detained by their wounds——”
+
+“I knew of several so detained. But—did you succeed in hearing from your
+brothers?”
+
+“At long last, yes! I will tell you how. It was near sunset, and I was
+still following the fatal road cut by Braddock’s doomed party to their
+own destruction, when, between the glinting lights, I thought I saw a
+boy riding from the opposite direction. Something in the air and manner
+of the figure set my heart to beating thick and fast——”
+
+“You thought it was one of year brothers?”
+
+“I thought it was Hubert; yes! and I would have ridden faster, only that
+my horse was ready to drop with fatigue. And just as the boy came around
+a tree in full sight, and I recognized him as Hubert and was about to
+shout his welcome—out from the bushes sprang one of those red demons of
+the forest, and whirling his tomahawk around his head in dazzling
+gyrations, with a terrible war-whoop he bounded upon the boy, seized him
+with his left hand, raised his tomahawk in his right, and would the next
+instant have buried it in the brain of his victim, had I not raised my
+pistol and sent a bullet through his head.”
+
+“Good heaven of heavens! I wonder terror had not deprived you of your
+senses!”
+
+“No, it never does! I am woman enough to be frightened at the
+anticipation of evil; but when sudden danger confronts me it calms my
+heart and quickens my brain. For see—when I first recognized Hubert my
+heart was beating painfully with joy; but the instant I saw the savage
+spring upon him, his sudden, imminent, horrible danger steadied my
+nerves, my eye and my hand, and enabled me to send my shot home to its
+mark with the certainty of fate!”
+
+“Kate! Kate! you are a heroine, such as in the old days of chivalry
+would have inspired brave knights to glorious deeds.”
+
+“What, because I shot an Indian who was about to tomahawk my
+boy-brother—a thing for which I merit neither praise nor blame, nor
+desire any other reward than to see the lad alive and have him throw his
+arms around my neck and call me his _best_ sister,—as if he had several
+sisters to choose from, poor fellow. I do scold him and put him down
+sometimes, but it is all for his good.”
+
+“Well, go on, dear Kate, go on!”
+
+“Well, in fact, there is but little more to tell. Hubert told me that
+after his company had been disbanded, his brothers had joined a troop of
+hunters who were going farther west to hunt the bison, and that they had
+directed him to return home and bring me news of their safety. He was on
+his road when I met him. And now, having travelled thus far on our
+return, we shall avail ourselves of your kindness for the night, and in
+the morning resume our homeward journey to the banks of the Potomac.”
+
+“The banks of the Potomac?”
+
+“Why, yes—there is our home.”
+
+“What part of the Potomac?”
+
+“North bank, near St. George’s Island.”
+
+“St. George’s Island! Do you know a place near that called River-view?”
+
+“The seat of Mr. Orville Deville?—of course I do!”
+
+“Do you know Mr. Deville?”
+
+“Know Orville Deville? Well, now, I reckon I do, just a little! and Lady
+Elizabeth and Lady Adelaide, too!”
+
+“Lady Elizabeth is his mother; but—who is Lady Adelaide?” inquired
+Lionne—perhaps with a vague, prophetic feeling of unaccountable
+jealousy—or perhaps only with that deep interest she felt for every one
+in any way connected with Orville Deville.
+
+“Why, Lady Adelaide Deville, to be sure!” answered Kate.
+
+“And—what is she to him—his cousin?”
+
+“Yes—his half cousin and more than that—his wife!”
+
+“His——WHAT?”
+
+“His wife! his sweet, pretty, young wife!”
+
+“GIRL! IT IS FALSE!”
+
+“Why, what in the world ails you?” said Kate, gazing in surprise at the
+blanched face of her hostess.
+
+“Oh, I am wrong! here is some misunderstanding, Kate, _I_ am speaking of
+Lieutenant Orville Deville, the only son of Lady Elizabeth Deville of
+River-view, Maryland,” said Lionne, with a look of agonizing anxiety.
+
+“And so am _I_! There is no other Orville Deville in the wide world that
+I know of!—Why, what is the matter with you? Are you _ill_?” said Kate,
+wondering at the increasing agitation of the forest girl.
+
+“But—but—there _must_ be some mistake here! it _cannot_ be otherwise!
+The Mr. Deville whom I knew was an officer in his Majesty’s
+Provincials.”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And went in the late fatal expedition against the French and Indians.”
+
+“Certainly—but how in the world did you know him, or why should you care
+any thing at all about him?”
+
+“He was wounded and was missing for several weeks, during which he
+remained convalescing here under our care—_was_ this the same man of
+whom you speak?” cried Lionne, clasping her hands in an agony of
+suspense.
+
+“Why, _of course_ it was! the very same man! couldn’t possibly have been
+any other! So this was the house that sheltered him! Well! I heard in
+Winchester, when I first passed through, that he had taken refuge in
+some hunter’s lodge! But, good heaven, what is the matter with you! this
+is very strange! you are certainly going crazy!” exclaimed Kate, staring
+in astonishment upon the blanched and haggard face, and wringing,
+writhing hands of the young mountaineer.
+
+“But—but—I say there is something _ill-comprehended_ between us!—There
+_must_ be! The young gentleman who staid with us was a mere youth—”
+
+“Certainly—twenty or so!”
+
+“Therefore, you see, you _must_ be mistaken!” said Lionne, with a
+pleading, prayerful gaze.
+
+“_How_ mistake—I tell you I _know_ we are talking of the same man!”
+
+“Well, granting that we are! still, you must be mistaken in supposing
+that he left a _wife_ in Maryland! It could _not be_, you know! such a
+mere youth!” said Lionne, striving desperately to keep down the strong,
+rising passions of her soul.
+
+“Come now, that is rich! Just as if no one ever heard of a young man
+marrying at the age of twenty! _he_ married younger than _that_, I can
+tell you!”
+
+“And you say that—that—Lady Adelaide is his—his—his——”
+
+“His _wife!_ what is there strange in that, to make you glare so?”
+
+“_How do you know this?_” demanded Lionne, in a tone that made Kate
+start and exclaim—
+
+“My stars, don’t give tongue in that way!”
+
+“HOW DO YOU KNOW IT?” thundered Lionne, again.
+
+“Why lord, because I know all about the family, having lived next
+neighbor to them for years; and because I have been acquainted with Lady
+Adelaide Deville ever since her marriage with Mr. Orville Deville.”
+
+“And I say you speak _falsely_! FALSELY, girl! Orville Deville is NOT a
+villain!” gasped Lionne.
+
+“Did I call him one? I begin to think you are crazy!” exclaimed Kate, in
+consternation.
+
+“Some one—some haughty relative, or other interested party—has bribed
+you to beguile my ear with a lie!”
+
+“Come now, that is a little too extravagant even for craziness! as if it
+were worth any one’s while to send me two hundred miles to tell you a
+story!”
+
+Lionne, with a face white and still as marble, the blanched lips drawn
+tight across the firm-set teeth, eyes contracted and burning, and hands
+fiercely clenched together, sat watching the speaker.
+
+—“Just as if it were any thing on earth to you—or to me—whether Mr.
+Orville Deville were married or single! But I guess how it is,”
+continued Kate: “the young gentleman has been passing himself off for a
+single man, and while lying wounded here, has been amusing himself by
+making love to his pretty nurse! Men will do these things in the world
+outside!—Ah! don’t murder me!”
+
+With the cry and bound of a wild beast, the forest girl sprang upon the
+speaker and seized, shook, and tossed her as a lioness might do a kid,
+exclaiming, breathless the while—
+
+“Girl! wretch! fiend! you _belie_ him! you BELIE him! Speak! say that
+you belie him, before I choke the truth from your false throat!”
+
+Kate could say nothing, do nothing! She was but as a kid in the claws of
+a lioness, and so she suffered herself to be throttled, shaken and
+tossed until the beautiful fury had exhausted her own strength, spurned
+her victim away, and sunk half dead into her seat.
+
+Then Kate, who had caught the table to steady herself while she stood
+looking upon Lionne, said—
+
+“Poor girl! I can forgive your violence, because I see that you are half
+crazy, as I begin to fear that you have reason to be!”
+
+“_Oh, hush, hush! in pity, hush!_” moaned Lionne, who sat with her face
+buried in her hands.
+
+“As sure as shooting,” thought Kate, “that young man has been idly
+making love to this girl and has won her lion heart! Well, thank heaven!
+I never was in love and I hope I never shall be! So of myself I know
+nothing about it! But judging from newspaper-paragraphs I should think
+love sometimes drove passionate people mad!” Here she stole another
+deep, wistful glance at Lionne.
+
+There was no look of the weak suicide about her.
+
+Her head was now raised, her hands clasped upon her lap; every aspect of
+her face and form betokened strength, will, and determination; the
+stately head and neck, the tightly-curling, wiry black ringlets, the
+sternly-corrugated brow, the firmly-compressed lips, the still,
+contracted, glittering eyes, the strongly-knotted fingers—all combined
+in an expression of concentrated passion and purpose dangerous as that
+of a wild beast drawn up for a fatal spring!
+
+“Ugh! Ugh!” shuddered Kate. “If this man has dealt falsely with that
+girl I would not be in his shoes for a kingdom! A demon in the shape of
+a woman will be on his track! She will hunt him to the uttermost ends of
+the earth, and tear him with less compunction than a leopardess would
+tear an antelope!—and serve him right!”
+
+While Kate pursued her silent reverie, Lionne slowly arose, walked up
+and down the floor a few turns and then paused, fixed one deep,
+scrutinizing gaze upon the face of her guest, and reading her whole
+character in that momentary study, she went up to Kate, and standing
+before her placed a hand upon each of the girl’s shoulders, and said:
+
+“Kate! pardon my violence! It _was_ madness!”
+
+“I know it! Say no more about it!”
+
+“Kate! if you knew _all_, you would not wonder! I confide in your
+_truth_; yet I cannot make you my _confidante_, because I am bound to
+secrecy, and must not break faith until I know, beyond all doubt, that
+faith has been broken with me!”
+
+“Alas! I do not ask you!”
+
+“Yet I must ask _you_ to be kind enough to tell me all you know, or
+rather all you _think_ you know of this supposed marriage of Orville
+Deville.”
+
+“Well, then, sit down quietly by my side, and control yourself, and I
+will tell you that which I feel you ought to know.”
+
+Lionne drew her chair to the side of her guest and sat down.
+
+Kate commenced and related the whole history of Orville Deville’s
+romantic marriage.
+
+With wonderful calmness, Lionne heard her through, and then rising and
+standing before Kate, she laid her hand impressively upon the girl’s
+breast, and said:
+
+“Kate! I know that you are perfectly frank in telling me what you
+sincerely believe to be true! but, Kate! I DARE NOT believe your story!
+I must believe that you are misinformed, mistaken, insane even, rather
+than venture to credit your statement, except upon the evidence of my
+own senses.”
+
+“You can have that if you take the trouble.”
+
+“I know! I do not doubt you, Kate! but for _me_ I must not convict upon
+_hearsay evidence_. Are you determined to set forward on your journey
+to-morrow?”
+
+“Quite so.”
+
+“Then I shall bear you company, if you will permit me; if not, I will
+follow in your trail.”
+
+“Oh, come with me, by all means! I will give you all the aid I can!”
+
+“I thank you! Take my hand! a hand pledged to your service henceforth.
+Take me to where I can have eye-and-ear witness of the truth of your
+story, and then, when my own senses have confirmed your statement, I
+will confide to you a secret, which, when you have heard, you will
+wonder at no after-act of mine!”
+
+“But,” said Kate, “will your father consent to this sudden journey?”
+
+“I know not yet! I only know that in all events the journey _must be
+taken_,” said Lionne, in a voice of desperation, at the same time
+raising her stately head, and listening to some sound inaudible to
+duller ears——
+
+“Father has come,” she said.
+
+And at the same moment the sound of a horse’s feet was heard
+approaching, and the next moment the rider was heard to dismount at the
+hall door, and enter the house.
+
+Like magic Lionne cleared her brow and sprang up to meet her father.
+
+“What, my daughter, a visitor with you? This is unexpected!” said Mr.
+Delaforêt, in a low voice, as he entered the room.
+
+“A belated traveller, my father, who, with her boy-brother, claims our
+hospitality for the night,” replied Lionne in the same key. Then, aloud,
+she said—“This is Miss Kate Kyte of Bush Creek, in Maryland,—my father.”
+
+“Miss Kyte, I am happy to see you,” said Delaforêt with stately
+courtesy. “And now, Lionne, my dear, as I have not supped, I must
+trouble you to send in a luncheon. What have you ready?”
+
+“No Belshazzar’s feast, my father; yet enough wherewithal to satisfy the
+craving hunger of a weary traveller,” answered Lionne, gaily.
+
+Surprised at the lightness of her tone, Kate looked up, and saw with
+astonishment that every vestige of grief and anxiety was banished from
+the beautiful countenance that she had so lately seen blanched and
+convulsed with anguish or deadly with fatal purpose.
+
+Leaving Kate wondering at that marvellous self-control, Lionne passed
+into the kitchen, where she found the dwarf and the boy with their hands
+together over the embers, telling each other incredible hunting-stories,
+of which always the narrator was the hero.
+
+She gave her orders to the dwarf, and invited the boy to attend her into
+the sitting-room, where she presented him to her father.
+
+“A cold night, friends! so much the more need of a warm welcome. Draw
+all your chairs round in a circle,” said Mr. Delaforêt, stirring the
+great fire until it blazed again, and piling on great logs of wood.
+
+By the time they were comfortably warm, and were beginning to back out a
+little from the blazing hearth, Vulcan entered bearing a tray well laden
+with cold fowl, venison, bread, butter, a bottle of good wine, etc.,
+which he sat upon the centre-table.
+
+The host drew up to the board and lunched like a hungry traveller.
+
+When he had eaten and was filled, and the cloth was removed, as the
+night was growing still colder, the host piled on more logs and the
+circle drew in again around the glowing hearth.
+
+And then as conversation grew fluent, the weather, the roads, the
+Indians, dogs, horses, and game were in turn discussed.
+
+At last Mr. Delaforêt arose, and taking up a night-lamp said—
+
+“Young ladies, I have come off one long journey to-day, and have a
+longer one before me to-morrow. You, too, if I mistake not, look a
+little tired and sleepy; and so, with your leave, I will bid you
+good-night. Lionne, my dear, as I set out to-morrow at daybreak, you
+will please give directions to have breakfast ready before my
+departure.”
+
+The heart of Lionne leaped with surprise and almost with joy at this
+strange announcement; but controlling her emotions, she approached him,
+and said, calmly,
+
+“Do you remain long away, my father?”
+
+“Yes. My business takes me to Baltimore, where I shall remain nine or
+twelve days—an unprecedented absence for your father, who never within
+your recollection passed a single night from home. But, what matter? My
+brave Lionne will not fear to be left alone with Vulcan for a warder!”
+
+“Oh, no! Do you really start at daybreak?”
+
+“Yes. So have every thing ready. And now, good-night!” said the host;
+and with a courteous bow to his guests, he left the room.
+
+“What think you of that, Kate?” inquired Lionne, as soon as the two
+girls were alone in their chamber.
+
+“Think of _what_?” asked Kate, speaking very gently.
+
+“Why, my father leaves here to-morrow at daybreak, so that afterward I
+shall be able to depart unquestioned with you.”
+
+“Well! I think that if you have any deadly purpose in your journey,
+Satan is certainly aiding you in its accomplishment!”
+
+Lionne laughed—a strange, sardonic, fearful laugh, that made Kate
+shudder through all her frame.
+
+As the house had but one extra room, which had been given to Hubert, the
+two girls were obliged to occupy the same bed. Kate undressed, lay down,
+and, already worn out with her long ride, was soon asleep.
+
+But no slumber lighted upon the eyelids of Lionne that dreadful night!
+She lay with both hands clasped over her burning brow, bitter tears
+rising to her swollen eyes, deep groans bursting from her surcharged
+bosom!
+
+A long and wretched night,—but it passed at last.
+
+Before the earliest dawn of day Lionne heard her father stirring in his
+chamber.
+
+She immediately arose, quickly dressed, and went below to attend to his
+early breakfast.
+
+On entering the kitchen she found the kettle already hanging over a
+roaring fire, and Vulcan busy setting the table. She helped him in his
+task with such despatch that in a few minutes a comfortable meal was
+smoking on the board, and her father was called down to partake of it.
+
+When he had eaten and was satisfied, he took a temporary leave of
+Lionne, and departed.
+
+She, standing in the hall-door, watched him as he rode along down the
+narrow path between the ridge and the creek.
+
+“Good-by! Good-by! Who knows whether I shall ever see your face again,
+my father!” she said, as the horse and his rider disappeared around a
+jut of the mountain.
+
+Then she returned to the kitchen, directed Vulcan to re-arrange the
+breakfast-table for her friends, and went up stairs and into the
+bedchamber, where she found Kate still sleeping.
+
+Unwilling to break her slumbers, Lionne went to the oak chest, upon the
+top of which she had left that fair sheet of paper intended to have been
+filled with a letter to Orville,—a letter now, alas! indefinitely
+postponed.
+
+Kneeling, she wrote a few lines to her father, giving him to understand
+that she had followed her own sudden and eccentric fancy in going home
+with Kate Kyte for a visit of a few days, and telling him that if she
+were not home when he should arrive, she would at farthest be with him a
+very few days after. She folded, sealed, and directed this letter, and
+then carried it down-stairs; and explaining to Vulcan that she was going
+home with Miss Kyte, ordered him to give it to his master upon the
+return of the latter.
+
+Vulcan started with astonishment; but he was too well accustomed to obey
+his imperious mistress implicitly, to raise any objections to her
+strange commands.
+
+When she returned the second time to the bedchamber she found her guest
+awake. Seeing Lionne, Kate exclaimed:
+
+“Good gracious, how haggard you look! has any thing happened?”
+
+“Nothing new, except that my father left at daybreak, and that therefore
+all necessity for my wearing a mask and acting a part is happily over.”
+
+Kate fixed a deep, long, wistful gaze upon the face of the unhappy girl,
+and then sprang out of bed and began dressing herself in great haste.
+
+“What time is it?” she next asked.
+
+“The sun is rising.”
+
+“How soon can we set out?”
+
+“As soon as you please—as soon as you have eaten breakfast, which is now
+waiting.”
+
+Kate hurried on her clothes, and declared herself ready to go
+down-stairs.
+
+In the passage they were joined by Hubert, who went with them to the
+kitchen, where they found an inviting morning-meal, to which the young
+travellers did ample justice.
+
+While they ate, old Vulcan, at his mistress’s command, went out and
+saddled the three horses.
+
+And as soon as breakfast was over the three young travellers donned
+their riding-caps and coats, and set forward upon their journey.
+
+No one was so delighted as young Hubert at having the beautiful
+forest-girl in their company.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+On the evening of the third day the party reached Bush Creek, where Kate
+found her old servant, Lucy, still alive and moving about, though too
+deeply fallen into dotage even to feel surprise at the sudden
+re-appearance of her young mistress and master, whom she received as
+calmly as though they had but just returned from a day’s hunt.
+
+“Dear Lionne, go no farther to-night,” said Kate.
+
+“I _must_! I should die of suspense otherwise!”
+
+“At least stay to supper.”
+
+“I cannot eat, drink, or sleep until I have been to River-view.”
+
+“Then promise me to return, at all events, to-night.”
+
+“Heaven help me! I cannot even promise that. _When, or where, or how you
+will meet me again the Lord only knoweth_; but I thank and bless you for
+your kindness, and, whatever becomes of me,—may you be happy.”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XI.
+                 INTERVIEW BETWEEN ADELAIDE AND LIONNE.
+
+               Forgive me if the love once thine
+                 Hath changed itself unsought to me!
+               I did not tempt it from thy breast,
+                 I nothing knew of thee!
+               And soon perhaps ’twill be my lot
+                 As thou art now to be.—_Philip Bailey._
+
+
+Let us return to Adelaide and to the fateful evening when light and
+joyous as a bird, she flew up the stairs and opened her chamber door to
+meet that which was to change the whole tenor of her future life.
+
+Carolling a lively ditty, she crossed the threshold of her room and
+suddenly paused in amazement.
+
+There, in the centre of the chamber, facing the door, stood a tall,
+majestic girl, clad in a dark riding-habit, faded, dusty, and
+travel-stained. Her neglected hair, escaping from the round black
+jockey-cap, hung in jet black elf-locks down her shoulders and bosom.
+Her fine face was pale, thin, and haggard with fatigue, illness, and
+sorrow. Her intensely black eyes were burning fiercely with the fires of
+passion, or of madness.
+
+All this Adelaide took in in one glance of mingled surprise and terror.
+
+She was about to speak, and ask the motive of this presence, when the
+stranger interrupted her by saying—
+
+“Stop! do not move! do not speak yet! I wish to look at you!”
+
+“Ah, she is mad! she is some poor creature who has eluded her keepers
+and strayed into this house, and found her way to my chamber!” thought
+Adelaide, regarding the intruder with a look of compassion that rendered
+her beautiful face still more lovely.
+
+The stranger gazed at her until the eyes of Adelaide fell beneath the
+fixed scrutiny.
+
+“Maid or wife are you?” asked the intruder.
+
+“Both—I believe,” said the fair girl, hesitating and blushing.
+
+“Both? You are foolish! how can that be?”
+
+“I do not know.”
+
+With a dark frown gathering upon her haggard face, the stranger averted
+her head, as in the same calm, sepulchral tone, she inquired—
+
+“What is your name?”
+
+“Adelaide Deville.”
+
+“Your husband’s name?”
+
+“Orville Deville.”
+
+Again the head of the dark girl was averted for a moment, as she said—
+
+“And so you are wife as well as maid?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Explain yourself!”
+
+Now, had Lady Adelaide been proud, irascible and egotistical, she would
+not have deigned to answer these seemingly impertinent questions; but
+the Earl’s daughter, the heiress and the beauty, was humble, gentle and
+merciful. She never thought of attempting to overwhelm with her own
+dignity the poor wanderer and supposed lunatic before her. Not therefore
+from haughtiness, but from bashfulness, she hesitated.
+
+“Explain!” again, and more authoritatively commanded the wild girl.
+
+“Oh! it is very simple, though very strange. Mr. Deville and myself,
+when we were mere children, had the marriage-contract executed, and the
+marriage-rites solemnized between us, by the authority of our respective
+parents, at the death-bed of my father. Then we parted—he remaining at
+school at Eton, I returning with my mother-in-law to River-view. And we
+never met again until a few months ago.”
+
+“_What_ month was that in which you met again?” suddenly demanded the
+stranger.
+
+“It was in November, after his return from the fatal expedition,”
+replied Adelaide, wondering more and more at the behavior of this
+fancied maniac.
+
+“Then, though his hand was bound, his heart was free when he met me,”
+murmured the stranger, in an almost inaudible voice. “But since! but
+since!” she added, vehemently. And raising her fierce, black eyes, she
+fixed them with a deep and threatening gaze upon the lovely face of
+Adelaide and demanded—
+
+“Since his return you have lived together as a married pair?”
+
+“Yes—no—indeed I do not know!” said Adelaide, ingeniously.
+
+Doubt, scorn, irony,—all disfigured the fine face of the stranger as she
+gazed at the lovely girl, and mockingly inquired—
+
+“Do you love him?”
+
+“Love him?” repeated Adelaide, blushing and hesitating; “why, it is my
+duty to love my husband, is it not?”
+
+“_Duty!_” exclaimed the stranger, now with undisguised scorn; “oh, _of
+course_ it is your duty! You love your mother-in-law also?”
+
+“Oh yes!”
+
+“And your servants?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“And your horse, and dog, and canary birds, and flowers?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“We should love _all_ creatures, should we not!” said the dark girl,
+ironically.
+
+“So our religion teaches us.”
+
+“And you find that easy.”
+
+“It is natural and pleasant to me.”
+
+“Well, dainty lady! baby girl! love all creatures in the heavens above!
+the earth beneath! and the waters under the earth, if you will! all
+creatures but—ONE!” exclaimed the wild creature, with a sudden and
+terrible change of manner, and stalking forward and laying her hand upon
+the shoulder of Adelaide, who gazed upon her in sorrow and fear.
+
+“Ay!” continued she, sending the glance of her fierce dark eyes like a
+flaming two-edged sword into the very soul of her rival, “love all
+creatures but one! as, should that one prove false to me——in life and in
+death, through time and black eternity, I should hate but that one!”
+
+“And that one, who doubtless turned your brain, poor girl, who was he?”
+
+“MY HUSBAND, ORVILLE DEVILLE!” said Lionne, firmly meeting the eyes of
+Adelaide.
+
+“Poor thing, she is very, very mad!” thought Adelaide, gazing in deep
+pity upon the speaker.
+
+With the certainty of unerring instinct, the latter divined her thought,
+and answered—
+
+“Mad, am I?—no, little lady! the time for madness has not come! my work
+is not done! the issue is not yet! I have to try and to judge a man! And
+for this task my spirit masters every passion of my heart and every
+faculty of my brain, and holds them in readiness to work its will.
+Listen! Oh, you will find ‘strange method in my madness!’ Are you
+listening?”
+
+“Poor girl! Yes, I am attending to every word you say, if that will be
+any consolation to you. But while you talk, sit down and let me get you
+something. You look dreadfully worn out,” said Adelaide,
+compassionately, drawing forward her easiest lounging-chair and then
+moving towards the door, when Lionne recalled her—
+
+“Stop, Lady Adelaide! I want no food and no seat! I cannot eat or rest!
+It is you calm ones, who live for _duty_, that can do that! I have a
+story to tell to which you must listen! Come back!”
+
+Adelaide complied, returned, and stood with her elbow resting on the
+corner of the toilet-table, while the stranger, standing before her with
+folded arms, commenced her communication.
+
+“Lady Adelaide Lorne—for you have no right to the name of Deville—you
+shall soon know whether the wretch who stands before you, claiming the
+name that you bear, be either mad or false! Mad women wander from their
+theme, or stick to one point with crazy pertinacity. And false ones
+bring no irresistible proof of what they advance. Ah! you are
+listening!”
+
+“To every syllable!” exclaimed Adelaide, upon whom the stranger’s
+impressive manner was beginning to produce a painful effect.
+
+“Lady Adelaide Lorne, it was upon the afternoon of the twentieth of last
+September, that being caught out in a thunderstorm on the mountains, I
+first met Orville Deville, faint from recent illness, lost with his
+servant in the wilderness, and in search of shelter. I took him to my
+father’s house, where he was rested, refreshed, and, in due time,
+restored to health——”
+
+“Go on! Go on! Why do you pause!” exclaimed Adelaide, growing pale and
+leaning upon the dressing-table.
+
+“Little lady, we loved each other! not as _you_ love who love from
+_duty_! _we_ loved _despite_ of duty! yes! at the first mutual meeting
+flash of our eyes that electric spark of love was lighted! it kindled
+into a blaze! it spread into a conflagration that consumed every
+obstacle between us! Six weeks passed in a burning dream, in which you,
+his mother, his home, his duty, his _all_ of heaven and earth was
+forgotten—IN ME! And _I_! I was so happy as it is seldom given to a
+human being to be in time or in eternity! on earth or in heaven!”
+
+“But, merciful Lord, girl, you were not his wife!” exclaimed Adelaide,
+gazing now in horror upon the speaker.
+
+Lionne smiled in bitter disdain, and replied—
+
+“_I was._ We were married by special license, by the Episcopal clergyman
+at Winchester, on the thirtieth of last October. Do you know this ring?”
+and drawing a mourning-ring from her finger, she laid it on the
+dressing-table under the eyes of Lady Adelaide, who immediately
+recognized it as a family relic. “Farther proof would you have, young
+lady?—Read this, then!” and she laid before her tortured auditor a
+certificate of the marriage of Leonora Delaforêt with Orville Deville,
+duly signed and witnessed.
+
+Adelaide glanced over the paper, saw its purport, and silently
+acknowledged its importance; and then, as if no longer able to stand,
+moved from her position before the dressing-table and sank down in a
+sitting posture on the lounge, beside it.
+
+“Oh, go on! Go on!” was all that she found strength to say.
+
+“A few days passed! We were awakened from our dream of love! A letter
+came to him from his home, with news of his mother’s extreme illness.
+With expressions of the deepest regret, with professions of the most
+devoted affection, with promises of undying fidelity, sealed by the most
+solemn vows, he took leave of me and departed. In due time I received
+his first letter, written the day after his arrival at River-view. Do
+you know his handwriting?—Look at this, lady!” and she placed Orville’s
+letter before Adelaide, who threw a hasty glance at the superscription,
+recognized the familiar handwriting, and covered her eyes with her
+hands.
+
+“Open and read it, young lady! I would have you to know all! Open and
+read.”
+
+“No, no, I cannot; it was not intended for my eyes,” said Lady Adelaide
+with gentle dignity, yet with a voice so full of despair that the wild
+girl started and gazed at her in consternation. But Adelaide lowered her
+head until her pale gold ringlets fell forward and veiled her white face
+from the eyes of the stranger, as she said—
+
+“Have you any thing more to say to me?”
+
+“Yes! I answered that letter; but received no second one! I waited and
+_hoped_—no letter! I waited and _doubted_—yet no letter! I waited and
+_feared_—still no letter! At last, when I no longer waited, but resolved
+to write and find out the cause of his silence, came unexpected news of
+him! A young girl, Kate Kyte—do you know her?”
+
+“Yes, yes, I know her!”
+
+“She came to our lodge, with her boy-brother, asking and receiving
+hospitality for the night. In the course of our conversation that
+evening, it fell out that Kate Kyte lived at Bush Creek Mill, adjoining
+River-view, the seat of Mr. Orville Deville, who, she told me, was
+married to the loveliest lady in the land!”
+
+“Oh, Father in heaven, have pity on us!” wailed Adelaide, in a voice
+full of woe, yet so low-toned that its sound failed to reach the ears of
+the wild forest-girl, who continued—
+
+“Young lady, I forgot the sacred rites of hospitality! I forgot my own
+womanhood! I forgot all things else in my rising passion! I sprang upon
+that girl as a tigress upon her prey! I told her she lied! lied in her
+throat! that she had been bribed to make mischief between two hearts
+that loved! I called upon her to retract her words or perish under my
+hands! I shook, and tossed, and worried her as a terrier might a kitten,
+until my strength utterly failed, and I dropped her! Then she had her
+revenge! Knowing that _my_ greatest punishment and _her_ greatest
+vindication lay in the words she had spoken, she told me that she
+forgave my violence, and that I could easily satisfy myself of the truth
+or falsehood of her statement by simply coming to see. I came! I am
+here!”
+
+“Oh, is there any thing else? Is there any thing else?” cried Adelaide,
+in tones of such anguish that they seemed to burst from a breaking
+heart.
+
+“Yes, Lady Adelaide. I told you—_you_ who bear his _name_—that _I_ was
+his _wife_! I _am_ his wife by stronger ties than the benediction
+pronounced at the instance of guardians by a mercenary magistrate over
+two unconscious children! I am his wife by mutual love, and knowledge,
+and vows breathed earnestly before high heaven and sealed by God’s
+minister! I am his wife and—the mother of his unborn child.”
+
+“Help me! oh, help me, merciful Lord!” moaned Adelaide, in the utter
+weakness of anguish, as she slipped down upon the carpet and buried her
+face in the cushions of the lounge.
+
+Lionne gazed upon her distress with the pitiless triumph with which a
+jealous wife might gaze upon her crushed rival.
+
+“Help me! help me! Saviour of the world!” still wept and wailed
+Adelaide.
+
+And while she still lay there upon the carpet, with her head and arms
+cast upon the lounge, in the utter prostration of anguish, there was
+heard a gentle rap at the door. It was repeated and reiterated before it
+attracted the rapt senses of the two absorbed girls. At length Lionne
+went up to Adelaide and shaking her gently, said:
+
+“Some one knocks.”
+
+Then starting up, Adelaide drew her disheveled hair from her pale face,
+listened, and sought to collect her scattered faculties.
+
+The knock was repeated the third time.
+
+She arose, and smoothing her disordered dress, went to the door and
+asked:
+
+“Who is there?”
+
+“Me, Miss Adely! Marse Awful say, how de horses is waitin’ dis half
+hour, and now, is you gwine to take your ride?” spoke the voice of
+Keziah, outside.
+
+Without answering, and with an expression of extreme terror on her
+lovely face, Adelaide hurried from the door, and walked several times up
+and down the room, wringing her hands and crying:
+
+“Oh, Saviour of the lost! help me! help me!”
+
+A louder knock and the voice of Keziah inquiring:
+
+“What shall I tell Marse Awful, honey?” recalled Adelaide to her senses.
+Still pale, trembling and embarrassed, she hurried to the door.
+
+“Tell him—he must excuse me! I—am not well! I cannot ride—with him
+to-day! Go!” she said in weak, faltering, and hesitating tones. “I shall
+never, never ride with him again!” added the poor girl, in a low,
+despairing voice, as she left the door.
+
+Keziah was heard retreating along the passage.
+
+“Saviour of the lost, help or I perish!” prayed Adelaide, walking wildly
+up and down the floor, and distractedly wringing her hands.
+
+Lionne stood gazing pitilessly on her grief.
+
+Presently was heard a man’s ringing footstep along the hall, approaching
+the room.
+
+Adelaide paused in a panic.
+
+Lionne, started out of her stony stillness, stood bending forward, every
+faculty merged in that of listening.
+
+The steps stopped at the door and there was a sharp rap.
+
+Adelaide glanced in terror towards Lionne.
+
+The face of that wild, dark girl was a study. Her form was drawn up to
+its proudest height; her head erect and thrust forward; her face deadly
+pale, except where in each cheek burned a dark-red hectic spot, that
+went in and out like the glow of a living coal of fire; her lips were
+rigidly compressed until every drop of blood had left them colorless;
+her eyes were strained, fixed, and blazing; her whole expression of
+countenance exhibited curiosity, jealousy, suspicion, hatred, and
+malice, in one terrible combination of unscrupulous purpose, immutable
+will, and irresistible power!
+
+Adelaide looked, and shuddered through every nerve.
+
+The knock was repeated, and accompanied by the voice of Orville Deville,
+calling in affectionate tones.
+
+“Adelaide! Adelaide!”
+
+With an adjuring gesture to Lionne, whose ears and heart had been
+thrilled by hearing again the sound of that once loved voice, Adelaide
+hurried to the door, unable to utter but the one single syllable—
+
+“Well?”
+
+“Adelaide, my dear, what is the matter?” he asked, in a low voice.
+
+Before answering, Adelaide turned a deprecating look towards Lionne,
+whose brows had gathered darkly over her flashing eyes. With a
+beseeching gesture to her rival, the fair girl turned once more to the
+door, and replied—
+
+“I am not very well; I—have a slight headache.”
+
+“The ride this lovely afternoon would do you good.”
+
+“No; I feel certain that it would make me worse.”
+
+“As you will, then, sweet cousin. But can I not do something for you?”
+
+“No, I thank you.”
+
+“Nor send any one to you?”
+
+“Oh, no! I only need quiet, Mr. Deville.”
+
+“Well, lie down and sleep, love! You will be better by tea-time.”
+
+“Oh, yes!”
+
+“And join us, as usual, at the table.”
+
+“Oh, yes!” said Adelaide, with such an air and tone of distraction that
+Mr. Deville, believing she really had a nervous headache, took leave,
+saying—
+
+“Good-by, sweet Adelaide! I leave you to your repose, in the hope of
+seeing you restored by tea-time!”
+
+The last echo of his steps had scarcely died away in the distance before
+Lionne strode to the side of Adelaide, and laying her hand heavily upon
+the shoulder of the girl, and gazing threateningly in her pale face,
+asked—
+
+“Do you know how much I have suffered standing here, hearing his voice,
+feeling his presence, and knowing what I know?”
+
+“I am sure that you did, and do suffer,” said Adelaide gently; “but
+there are several things that should comfort you. First of all, your
+conscience is clear of offence. You knew nothing of me when you gave
+your free hand and heart to a man whom you deemed as free to wed as
+yourself.”
+
+“That is as true as heaven!”
+
+“And secondly, you must see by what has just passed, that myself and my
+cousin are not lovers. He speaks to me as to a little sister. He knocks
+at my door, but does not enter. He calls me pet names. I call him Mr.
+Deville. That is always our manner towards each other.”
+
+As Adelaide said these words, she walked wearily across the room, and
+dropped into her easy chair, where she sat silent and thoughtful for a
+short time. Then looking up, and seeing the forest girl still standing
+in the middle of the floor, where she had left her, she said—
+
+“I must again entreat you to be seated.”
+
+“I thank you, no! I am about to bid you adieu,” said Lionne, coldly.
+
+“Not yet! I have something important to say to you.”
+
+“Say on, then, and pray be brief.”
+
+“But I beg you will sit while I speak.”
+
+Lionne, with a haughty air, shook her head, and remained standing.
+
+“Well, I think I know why you refuse to take a seat under this roof; but
+you are wrong, as I shall soon show you.”
+
+Lionne’s lip curled with angry scorn.
+
+“Well, at least I must beg you to excuse me if I, through exhaustion,
+keep my seat.”
+
+Lionne bowed her head, and waved her hand excitedly.
+
+“And now, as I listened patiently to your story,” (every word of which
+stabbed me to the heart, she _thought_, but did not say,) “I must beg
+you to listen patiently to mine.”
+
+“I wait here for no other purpose,” said Lionne, curtly.
+
+“In the first place, then, do not too severely blame Orville Deville.
+Oh!” suddenly exclaimed Adelaide, with a retrospective shudder of
+horror, “while you stood looking towards that door when he was talking
+behind it, there was murder in your eyes!”
+
+“Murder? never! A poor, stupid, vulgar vengeance for _any_ injury and
+for such as MINE!”
+
+“There is murder in your eyes now! or, worse than murder, if such could
+be!” cried Adelaide, appalled.
+
+Lionne laughed horribly.
+
+“You must not! oh, you must not! It is because you are maddened with
+wrongs that you do it, I know; but you must not! You must listen to me!
+I do not wish to defend him beyond what is right. He has sinned
+grievously, I know; but not so grievously as you think. You will say so
+when you know all.”
+
+“Girl, how _dare_ you take upon yourself to measure the extent of _his_
+sin and _my_ wrongs?” broke forth Lionne, in a voice of thunder.
+
+“Oh, be patient. Hear me out. I say you will judge less harshly when you
+know all.”
+
+Lionne threw up her head with a gesture of fierce scorn.
+
+Patiently Adelaide continued:
+
+“Orville Deville is no more responsible for the marriage ceremony that
+took place between us when we were children than I am. It was the act of
+our parents, while we were yet too young to understand, far less to
+protest against, their doings. Immediately after that form we were
+separated to pursue our diverse ways. And thus we grew up apart, until,
+doubtless, he ceased to remember even the face of the little child to
+whom he had been so rashly bound.”
+
+“And you forgot him as well,” said Lionne, mockingly.
+
+“No. I lived with his mother, who had no other son but _him_, and to
+whom _I_ filled the place of an only daughter; therefore I could not
+forget him, you know.”
+
+Lionne’s lip curled.
+
+Adelaide paused, sighed, nerved her heart, and continued:
+
+“Without ever having set eyes upon me again he met you, under
+circumstances the most interesting. You were beautiful, and he loved
+you. And then, because he considered the marriage-form read over two
+unconscious children five years before, a mere imposed betrothal at
+best, he used his supposed liberty and married you. There was nothing so
+heinously sinful in that, was there, Lionne?”
+
+The forest girl did not speak, but looked intently at her fair rival.
+
+“And so, Lionne, _you_ became, in every sense of the word, his _true_
+wife, and not his wife only in name, as I had been.”
+
+“You admit this!” exclaimed Lionne, in the utmost astonishment.
+
+“Assuredly I admit the truth, wherever I recognize it as such.”
+
+“You—you are one in ten thousand,” exclaimed Lionne, in growing wonder.
+
+But without heeding or even hearing her interruption, Adelaide went on.
+
+“Alas, I cannot so easily explain the strangeness of his course since
+his return home.”
+
+Again the face of Lionne darkened.
+
+“Yet,” continued Adelaide, “something may be said in palliation of what
+seems so wrong. He came hither, you know, summoned to the sick-bed of
+his mother. He found her and every one else expecting him to take as his
+wife the little girl who had been read over to him five years ago. He
+had not the nerve at once to acknowledge his recent marriage, disappoint
+his friends, and grieve his ailing mother, who had so long looked upon
+_me_ as her daughter-in-law.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“And so he did what many older and wiser men often do—he temporized and
+waited, doubtless abiding a favorable opportunity for defining his real
+position.” Here Adelaide dropped her head upon her breast and paused so
+long that Lionne impatiently recalled her by saying—
+
+“Well! well! what then?”
+
+“_He never loved me!_ and of course he never gave me the slightest
+reason to suppose that he did or could. He has treated me with no more
+affection than a kind-hearted young man might naturally feel for his
+young cousin, who is also his mother’s guest.”
+
+“Ha!” sad Lionne, with an ironical smile.
+
+“But I assure you he has not!” persisted the gentle Adelaide—“and now,
+Lionne, _I must save you both_!”
+
+“You, Lady Adelaide!”
+
+“Yes, I! Take courage, Lionne! for you and for him all shall be well!”
+
+“You! you! Lady Adelaide!”
+
+“Yes! believe in me!”
+
+“You promise me this. Tell me, do you love him?”
+
+“That is a question which you have no right to ask nor I to answer,”
+replied Lady Adelaide, with gentle dignity.
+
+“But, young lady, you overwhelm me with astonishment; for well do I know
+that though mine is the true marriage, yet yours, though only nominal,
+being the _prior_, is consequently the _legal_ one. Do _you_ not know
+this?”
+
+“Yes, I know it! I know that though our marriage was nothing but a form,
+yet that it was a form so binding that by law it is indissoluble except
+through death or crime!” replied Adelaide, solemnly.
+
+“And death has not released either party, and yet the marriage has been
+broken! a crime has therefore been committed! A crime by him and against
+you! I understand your plan now, Lady Adelaide! You will apply for a
+divorce, which will readily be granted you, and thus you will release
+him and leave him free to return to the woman of his choice!”
+
+“What! apply for a divorce and cover with dishonor the head that I have
+loved! Oh, how little you know of my heart!” thought the gentle girl, in
+silence.
+
+“Is not that your purpose, Lady Adelaide?” asked Lionne.
+
+“No! that is not my purpose! My plan is a much quicker solution of the
+difficulty.”
+
+“May I ask you what it is, then?”
+
+“Not yet! it is not quite matured, even in my own brain! I must have a
+little time for reflection. Excuse me: do you lodge in this
+neighborhood?”
+
+“I am the guest of Kate Kyte.”
+
+“Return to her then to-night. And early to-morrow morning you shall hear
+from me.”
+
+“Be it so! but I wish to withdraw as I came, without seeing any one.”
+
+“How did you manage that?”
+
+“I entered while you were all at dinner.”
+
+“Then remain here until we are all at supper, when the coast will be
+clear and you can retire unobserved.”
+
+Almost as she spoke, the supper-bell rung, and with a parting promise to
+communicate with Lionne on the following morning, Adelaide went to the
+dining-room.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XII.
+                            SELF-SACRIFICE.
+
+        And I must go! I cannot choose
+        But love thee and thy love refuse!
+        And if my brow grows lined while young
+        And youth fly cheated from my cheek,
+        ’Tis that there lies below my tongue
+        A word I will not speak!
+        For I would rather die than deem
+        Thou’rt not the glory then didn’t seem.—_Philip-Bailey._
+
+
+With no more pallor, or other sign of disturbance, than might rationably
+be accounted for by a nervous headache, Lady Adelaide entered the
+supper-room and glided to her place at the tea-table.
+
+Lady Elizabeth was already seated, and Orville, who had been standing at
+the back of his chair waiting for the appearance of Adelaide, now took
+his place.
+
+“Orville tells me that you were indisposed this afternoon, my dear. I
+hope you feel better,” said the elder lady.
+
+“My head does not ache much now,” replied Adelaide, without raising her
+eyes, and proceeding to pour out the tea.
+
+Orville smiled as in gratification, and placed on her plate the rarest
+delicacies of the table.
+
+The subject of the projected journey was resumed and discussed through
+the whole of tea-time.
+
+Adelaide never spoke unless she was directly appealed to, and then her
+answers, though gentle, were brief and vague.
+
+At last, Lady Elizabeth, looking wistfully at her, said—
+
+“Adelaide, love, you really look quite unwell. Does your head still
+ache?”
+
+“Not much; but I believe I must beg you will allow me to retire early.”
+
+“Certainly, my dear! sleep is really the only remedy for a nervous
+headache. Go at once, my child. Orville, take the light and attend your
+wife to her chamber-door, my son,” said Lady Elizabeth, putting one of
+the wax-candles in Mr. Deville’s hands.
+
+He arose with a look of concern; but Adelaide, with a smile, took the
+candle from his hand, rejected his attendance, and left the room.
+
+But as the door closed behind her, the smile died from her face, upon
+which a look of despair settled. She paused for a moment her bosom
+heaved convulsively.
+
+“And is this the last, last time I shall ever see him? Have I taken my
+last look at his face, heard the last sound of his voice? And shall I
+never, never meet him more? Never more! Never more! Oh, words of woe
+insufferable! But what am I saying? Oh, heart, be silent! it is a crime
+to love him, to grieve for him, even to think of him _now_! he is the
+husband of another! and my stern duty is to _go_! Yes! all that I have
+to do lies in that little, hard word—GO.”
+
+So saying, she walked on through the lower hall; but instead of going up
+the stairs, she went into the library and hunted until she found the
+Statute Laws of Maryland. She took the volumes to her chamber, locked
+her door, laid them upon the table, drew a chair, sat down and opened
+them.
+
+She referred first to the laws on marriage; and she found, as she had
+expected, that the ceremony read over herself and Orville in their
+childhood, by the authority of their parents, constituted a legal
+marriage, indissoluble except by death or divorce.
+
+Next she examined the laws of divorce, and found that such an act as
+Orville had committed, desertion, wanton abuse, etc., were all set down
+as just pleas for the legal breaking of a marriage-bond. She found also,
+oh horror! that a second marriage during the life of the first
+marriage-partner was a felony, punishable with imprisonment and
+disgrace!
+
+She closed the volumes and fell into deep and painful thought.
+
+Four courses were open to her.
+
+First, to remain passively where she was, and let events take their
+natural direction, whatever that might turn out to be.
+
+Secondly, to sue for divorce: that she could surely get.
+
+Thirdly, to prosecute Orville for the bigamy, of which he would
+undoubtedly be convicted.
+
+And fourthly, to sacrifice herself, by simply going away and leaving it
+to him to divorce _her_, upon the ground of wanton desertion.
+
+These four paths lay open before her reason. But one only was possible
+for her _heart_. She did not hesitate one moment. And if for a few
+moments she remained in painful thought, it was to find excuses for him
+and just cause for her own self-immolation.
+
+“He has been unfortunate rather than guilty—” so ran her reverie. “No
+one had a right to force me, a child, upon him as his wife in his
+non-age! Such an arbitrary act could not morally bind him, and that it
+did not is proved by the fact that I was never any more to him than a
+little sister, while he formed a tie elsewhere.
+
+“But unfortunately this bond, which is not a moral one, is,
+notwithstanding, a legal chain, not to be broken except by death or
+legislative action!
+
+“If it were not a sin I would willingly die to release him! As I cannot
+die before my time comes, nothing remains but divorce, to free him from
+this unjust and hateful bond!
+
+“If _I_ divorce him for his unfortunate second marriage, it will cover
+him with unmerited dishonor and break his mother’s heart.
+
+“Therefore, there remains but one way in which I can serve him! I can
+only _save him by loosing_ myself! I will do it! I will go away and
+leave him to divorce me for my desertion of him!
+
+“That will not dishonor _him_, and if it debase _me_ in the eyes of the
+world, what odds? There is no one to be dragged down by my fall, for I
+am alone. Soon death will come of his own accord, and I shall rest and
+be forgotten—of all save God, who knows the truth!”
+
+And thus concluding her reverie, Adelaide drew writing materials towards
+her, and commenced a letter of explanation and farewell to Orville.
+
+The writing of that letter gave her more trouble than any task she had
+ever undertaken.
+
+It was blotted with frequent erasures and blistered with many tears. It
+was written and re-written; so anxious was she that while fully
+releasing him—so far as she had power to do so—she should let slip no
+word of reproach or grief that should give him pain, or mar the
+completeness of her own perfect self-sacrifice.
+
+It was finished!
+
+Then still pale, and weak from the passage of that moral storm, she sat
+with her elbow resting on the table and her head bowed down upon her
+hand—thinking of the marvellous change that a few hours had wrought in
+her destiny—looking back upon what she had _done_, and looking forward
+to what she must _suffer_.
+
+She waited for all to become quiet.
+
+First she heard Lady Elizabeth come up-stairs, attended by her maid, and
+enter her ladyship’s chamber on the other side of the hall.
+
+An hour later, she heard Orville Deville softly ascend the stairs and
+enter his bedroom, dismissing his servant at the door, and moving
+cautiously, as in the fear of waking her.
+
+Finally she heard Keziah come out of Lady Elizabeth’s chamber, pause and
+listen at her young lady’s door, and mutter—
+
+“She is asleep; I will not go in to disturb her,” and then slip away
+softly down the stairs.
+
+Now all was quiet. Yet still, for security, Adelaide waited another
+hour. Then she arose, put on a common cloth cloak and hood, such as she
+usually wore about the plantation, and taking “neither scrip nor staff,”
+quietly left her chamber, glided down-stairs, and through the hall to
+the front door.
+
+In that well-kept house no lock grated and no hinge creaked. At her
+touch, silently the key turned, the door opened and Adelaide stood upon
+the threshold of the once happy home she was now about to leave at
+night, alone, unfriended and forever!
+
+As thus for one moment she stood, she looked forth, as into the world
+she was about to dare!
+
+It was a dark and starless night. So dark that it was only by feeling
+the coldness and dampness of the air, and extending her hand outwards,
+that she discovered it was snowing very fast. The wind arose with a low
+wail, wafting the snow into her face and bosom, as if to meet her on the
+threshold of her wanderings. Cold, cold greeting!
+
+The old-fashioned clock in the corner of the hall began, with its usual
+croaking prelude, to strike the hour. It struck eleven.
+
+Adelaide instinctively started! Never in her life had she been out at
+such an hour, or in such inclement weather! What a night and what an
+hour for that delicate creature to cast herself forth alone to wander
+until she should perish!
+
+But a moment’s bitter reflection caused her to ask, What did it matter?
+The hope of youth and the sweetness of life were lost forever! as well,
+therefore, to perish in the cold snow-storm, as to waste slowly with the
+fever of a breaking heart!
+
+She paused no longer, but closing the door softly behind her, went forth
+into the night and storm.
+
+There are great crises in life, when the soul is called upon to act,
+suddenly, forcibly, fatally, and in so swift a flight of time, that when
+the action is past, and life is thereby forever changed, the same soul
+seems instantly to have passed, as by death, from one state of existence
+to another.
+
+Thus it was with Adelaide as she passed the threshold of that door,
+closing it behind her, and left a home of love, light and safety, and
+went forth alone into darkness, storm aid peril to meet—WHAT?
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XIII.
+                             AT BUSH CREEK.
+
+             She clenched her hands, as if to hold
+               Her soul’s great agony—
+             “Have I renounced my womanhood
+               For wifehood unto thee?
+             And is this the last, last look of thine
+               That ever I shall see?
+             Yet God thee save, and mayst thou have
+               A lady to thy mind!
+             And God me take with him to dwell,
+             For him I cannot love too well,
+               As I have loved my kind.”—_E. B. Browning._
+
+
+We must proceed to Bush Creek and relate what took place there.
+
+On the same evening of Lionne’s visit to River-view, Kate Kyte sat in
+her bare and dilapidated front-parlor, which was also the common
+sitting-room and eating-room of the family, awaiting the return of her
+guest.
+
+In the adjoining back-parlor, which served as the kitchen, old Lucy was
+preparing supper. Odors of fragrant coffee, corn-bread and broiled fowl
+came in through the open door, and still farther stimulated Kate’s keen
+appetite.
+
+But notwithstanding her hunger, and the uncertainty of her guest’s
+return, Kate felt bound in common courtesy to wait some time for her
+appearance.
+
+To help pass the interval, Kate got up and drew out into the middle of
+the floor an old-fashioned, black walnut table, put up its two broad
+leaves, and pulling out its end-drawer, took thence an old, threadbare,
+but clean damask cloth, with which she covered its top. Then going to
+the quaint corner cupboard to the left of the fireplace, she took thence
+cups, saucers and plates, of fine, old-fashioned, but mismatched China,
+and arranged them upon the table. Lastly, from the same repository, she
+brought a tarnished silver coffee-pot, a relic of better days, and with
+some pride placed it upon the table.
+
+She had scarcely completed these arrangements when the door opened, and
+her brother Hubert entered, exclaiming impatiently—
+
+“I say, Kate, when WILL supper be ready? I am almost starved to death!”
+
+“So am I! and supper is ready now! We are only waiting for Lionne.”
+
+“And there’s no telling when _she’ll_ be back! I say, Kate, she’s a
+beautiful gal; but it’s _my_ belief she’s got a grudge agin some one at
+River-view. I know it by her looks!” said Hubert, with the look of a
+sage.
+
+“Don’t be a fool, Hubert!”
+
+“Well, fool or no fool, I had rather it be _they_ than _me_ that she has
+a grudge against; for I say, Kate, she looks as dangerous as—as—as the
+muzzle of a blunderbuss at half-cock!”
+
+“Take care, then, that you don’t get into the line of the gun’s mouth!”
+
+“On the contrary, I want to put something into my _own_ mouth. I say,
+Kate, I’m famished!”
+
+“Boys always are. You must wait!”
+
+“Kate, I can’t; I’m going on a coon-hunt to-night.”
+
+“Well, then, go into the kitchen, and tell Aunt Lucy to give you your
+supper there,” said his sister, not sorry to be rid of the boy for the
+evening, so as to have a long tête-a-tête with Lionne, in case that
+eccentric girl should return and choose to satisfy her curiosity.
+
+Hubert gladly obeyed, and in twenty minutes’ assiduous application, so
+appeased the cravings of his appetite, as to be able to prepare himself
+and issue forth for a night’s sport.
+
+The boy had been gone half an hour, and “the shades of night were
+falling fast,” when Kate, looking up through the uncurtained front
+window, saw Lionne, weary and exhausted, slowly riding across the
+bridge.
+
+“Put the supper on the table. Bring in the coffee first, so that I can
+have it all ready poured out and ready to drink, for my stomach has gone
+to my back bone from sheer emptiness,” called Kate through the kitchen
+door.
+
+She was so promptly obeyed that she had time to fill the cups before
+Lionne reached the door, and dropped, rather than alighted, from her
+horse, and entered the room.
+
+“Well, how do you do? I am very glad you have come back,” said Kate,
+placing chairs at the table.
+
+Murmuring some faint, inaudible words of thanks, Lionne staggered
+towards the table, seized a cup of coffee, quaffed it with feverish
+haste, and then went and fell exhausted upon the old-fashioned settle to
+the right of the fireplace.
+
+“You look very tired,” said Kate, going to her, with interest.
+
+“Hush! don’t speak to me yet,” faltered Lionne.
+
+“Well, I won’t; but do have some supper—it will refresh you.”
+
+“I cannot. Eat yourself.”
+
+“Eat myself! Well, I am just hungry enough to do it, if it were
+possible; in which case, should I be a cannibal or a suicide, or both I
+wonder? There’s a question for moral philosophy! Lionne, famished as I
+am, I decline to commit the barbarism of eating myself unless you will
+keep me in countenance by eating _your_ self!”
+
+“Girl, girl, I cannot!” exclaimed Lionne, impatiently rolling her dark
+head.
+
+“Well, to tell the truth, I doubt whether _I_ can; but there is nothing
+like trying, especially as I am famished. Which end of me ought I to
+begin at—my toes or my nose?”
+
+“Child, cease your folly. Leave me in peace for an hour, and then I will
+tell you all. And, in the meantime, if you are famished—why, feed,
+feed.”
+
+“Well, I will follow your advice, especially as the hunger of my stomach
+is much keener than the appetite of my curiosity, which can wait. And
+now, as I shall not feed upon myself, I advise you not to lie there
+devouring your heart because a man acts out his nature in being
+unfaithful——LORD SAVE US! don’t look at me in that way!” suddenly cried
+Kate, springing three paces backwards, as Lionne flashed a glance of
+indignation from her fiery black eyes.
+
+Nothing more was said.
+
+Slowly and gingerly Kate came back, took her place at the table, and
+commenced her solitary supper. But through one mental emotion and
+another, Kate’s keen appetite was very much blunted, so that, after all
+her talk, she made but a very sparing meal.
+
+An hour after this, when the tea-service was removed, the table set
+back, the fire replenished, the hearth swept, and Kate sat in a chair
+beside the settle, waiting for her guest to open the conversation,
+Lionne, without rising from her half-recumbent position, put out her
+brown hand and taking that of the young hostess, said:
+
+“Kate Kyte, with what little power of preference I have left in me, I
+like you; and liking you, I will confide in you.”
+
+“And you _may_, Lionne, for, light as my nature seems, I am loyal, and
+will never abuse your confidence,” said Kate, fervently.
+
+“I am sure of it. And now listen; but—stop. First read this,” and
+drawing a paper from her bosom, she placed it in the hands of Kate Kyte.
+
+“What is this?” exclaimed Kate, staring at the document.
+
+“It is really what it seems to be; and that is what cannot be said of
+every thing in this world,” said Lionne.
+
+“It is——” said Kate, looking up incredulously into the face of her
+guest.
+
+“A certificate of marriage between Orville Deville, of St. Mary’s
+County, Maryland, and Leonora Delaforêt, of Shenandoah County,
+Virginia,” said Lionne, calmly.
+
+“But he had already one wife!” exclaimed Kate Kyte, in horror.
+
+“That, you perceive, made no sort of difference in the proceedings of
+Mr. Deville. He did not even think it necessary to inform _me_ of the
+existence of such a mere imaginary impediment,” said Lionne, quietly.
+
+“Oh, this is terrible! terrible! terrible!” shuddered Kate, whose worst
+imagination had not pictured this.
+
+“No,” said Lionne, coolly, “it is not even surprising. Given a certain
+number of square miles of earth, or a certain number of human beings,
+there will always be a proportionate number of criminals, sufferers,
+and—AVENGERS!”
+
+“Oh, this is terrible! And the most horrible part of the whole is your
+look at this moment, Lionne!”
+
+“I am quiet.”
+
+“Yes! quiet as a thunder-cloud before the bolt decends!”
+
+“But I am also patient.”
+
+“Ay, patient as the crouching lioness waylaying her prey!”
+
+“And, to crown all, I am forbearing.”
+
+“Yes,—you are forbearing as the red demon of our wilderness when he
+spares the life of the fallen foe, only to carry him off and put him to
+death by slow and dreadful tortures!” exclaimed Kate, shuddering with
+horror.
+
+“You have read me aright! No common wrong have I sustained, and it shall
+be atoned for by no common suffering!”
+
+“Oh, Lionne! Lionne! don’t! don’t! He deserves death, but do not sully
+your girlish hand with his blood!” cried Kate, imploringly.
+
+“Sully my hand with his blood! _What!_ kill him! _What!_ punish him by
+one blow, and one instant’s pain, for giving my whole life to waste and
+misery! How little you feel the burning fire that consumes me, to think
+its flames can be quenched by his blood!”
+
+“Yet even for the most fearful wrongs death is a dreadful penalty,” said
+Kate, shivering.
+
+“Is it? What is death? ‘A sleep and a forgetting!’ Can I sleep? can I
+forget? No! nor shall ever he!”
+
+“Well, I thank heaven, at least, that your deep wrongs will not drive
+you to the deed I feared.”
+
+“And yet I tell you that in every nerve of his brain, in every vein of
+his heart, in every instant of his life, shall Orville Deville rue the
+wrong he has done me!”
+
+“Doubtless he will, when he comes to reflection, even although you
+should never move in the matter. But I suppose you will move in it. You
+will appeal to the laws of our country. They will vindicate your wrongs
+by punishing the wrong-doer. They will either transport or imprison him
+for years. Ah, after all, such dishonor _will_ be worse than death to
+him!”
+
+“And so you think that I would turn him over to the law, and promulgate
+my misfortunes through the world? No, no, no, no!” said Lionne, sternly
+shaking her head; “_mine_ has been the wrong, and _mine_ shall be the
+REVENGE!”
+
+Their long conversation had kept them up late into the night, and before
+Kate could answer the terrible words of Lionne, the clock struck twelve.
+
+As the last stroke vibrated on the air and died away, there came a light
+tap at the window. And looking up at the same time, the two young girls
+saw a pale, wan, woful face, pressed against the window-pane.
+
+Kate started up in affright, as one who had seen a ghost.
+
+But Lionne recognized that wretched face, and flew to the window.
+
+The sash was instantly raised, a little note slipped in and the face
+vanished.
+
+“What is it? For heaven’s sake, what is it? asked Kate, in affright.
+
+“Do you not know?”
+
+“No! how should I? It looked like the ghost of Lady Adelaide! But of
+course it could not have been!”
+
+“It was Lady Adelaide herself,” said Lionne.
+
+“Lady Adelaide herself? out at this time of night! Why didn’t she come
+in? Who was with her?” cried Kate, breathlessly, flying to the door, and
+pulling it open.
+
+“Oh, it is dark as pitch! and snowing—snowing fast! She was crazy—crazy
+to venture out on such a night! Who could have come with her? How did
+she come? And what could have been her errand? She must not return home
+to-night!——Lady Adelaide! Lady Adelaide!” cried Kate, running out into
+the storm.
+
+“There is not a track to be seen, either of a human foot or horse’s
+hoof! She is gone, if it were indeed she, and her very tracks are filled
+up!” said Kate, re-entering the house, and shaking the snow from her
+skirts and shoes.
+
+“Oh, do not be anxious! doubtless the young mistress of River-view came
+well attended and well protected from the snow! And if the hour is an
+odd one young heiresses are privileged to be eccentric,” said Lionne,
+ironically.
+
+“I hope it is all right,” said Kate, unwillingly closing the door, as
+though she half fancied that she was shutting out some homeless
+wanderer.
+
+“If it is not, you cannot help it!” said Lionne.
+
+“But what was that she pushed under the window?”
+
+“It was a little note for me; you can read it,” said Lionne, handing the
+slip of paper to her young hostess.
+
+Kate took it, resumed her seat by the fire, and read—
+
+“_I have done all that is right under the circumstances. Return to your
+mountain-home, and wait the issue. All will be well. A. L._”
+
+“A. L.?” said Kate, looking up inquisitively.
+
+“Adelaide Lorne! So you see that even she, the unwedded wife, waives her
+claim in acknowledgment of my greater one.”
+
+“She always was an angel! But you! What shall you do?”
+
+“Follow her advice! The mission on which I came—the discovery of Orville
+Deville’s real position—is accomplished. I have nothing to do but to
+return to my poor father, and—‘_wait the issue!_’” she said, with a
+horrible laugh.
+
+“Lionne! be patient! since that sweet angel says so, all will be well! I
+hope the dear girl came in a covered carriage!”
+
+“Doubtless the dainty lady took care of herself!”
+
+“Oh, how bitter you are! If you will not be patient, at least will you
+go to bed? You are very tired, and it is after midnight.”
+
+“Anyhow, I will not keep _you_ up any longer, Kate! So just show me
+where I am to lie down, and I will bid you good-night.”
+
+“Come, then; we all sleep down-stairs, because the upper rooms leak,”
+said Kate, taking a candle and leading the way across the front-passage
+to an opposite front-room, where there was a poor but clean bed, an old
+chest of drawers and a flag-bottomed chair.
+
+“I sleep in there,” said Kate, pointing to a door leading into a back
+room—“so, if you want any thing, call me.” And setting down the candle
+upon the chest of drawers, she bade her guest good-night, and left her
+to repose.
+
+Did Lionne sleep that night? Did Kate? Did Adelaide?
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XIV.
+                        DISCOVERY OF THE FLIGHT.
+
+            She was a form of life and light,
+            That soon became a part of night,
+            And rose where’er I turned my eye,
+            The Morning-star of Memory!
+            And she was lost—and yet I breathed,
+              But not the breath of common life!
+            A serpent round my heart was wreathed
+              And stung my every thought to strife.—_Byron._
+
+
+It snowed all night. The ground was covered two feet deep; and it was
+still snowing when the family at River-view arose and went about their
+morning-business.
+
+First, old Nero, who slept in the house and performed the duties of
+waiter, crept down into the breakfast-parlor to open the windows and
+light the fire.
+
+He found great difficulty in forcing back the shutters, that were
+blocked up with drifts of snow. And when at last he succeeded in pushing
+them open, the snow-shrouded earth that broke cold and white upon his
+sight, filled him with dismay.
+
+“Well, I ‘clar’,” he cried, in wrath—“ef dis winter ain’t jes’ like
+human nater! It knows how dis is its last chance, cause spring is most
+here, and so it’s a-doin’ of its darndest! How am I gwine to haul wood
+to keep up de fires t’rough dis yere?”
+
+“Oh hush! long o’ yer perfane grumblin’ at de doin’s o’ Marster in
+hebben!” exclaimed Keziah, who just at this moment entered the parlor.
+
+“Yes, you may preach, but whar I gwine to get wood to keep all dese yer
+fires a-goin’?”
+
+“Yer ought always to have wood nuff on hand! Ef I seed to keepin’ of de
+house no better ’an you see to your dooty, things ud be at a putty pass.
+I gwine to take _dis_ anyways, and you must do as yer likes,” retorted
+Keziah, laying hold of an armful of light wood.
+
+“Hey! stop dat you! it’s for kindlin’ de parlor-fire.”
+
+“An’ I wants um for kindle Miss Adely’s fire! You t’ink the likes o’
+_she_ kin git up ’doubt a fire?” cried Keziah, in defiance, as she
+seized the billets and fled from the room, leaving old Nero first to
+rave at her effrontery, and then to go out in the snow in search of more
+fuel.
+
+Very softly, meanwhile, Keziah ascended the stairs and entered the
+deserted chamber of her young mistress.
+
+“She is still asleep,” said Keziah, glancing at the white curtains of
+her bed that were still closed.
+
+She softly put down her billets of wood, raked together the embers,
+kindled the fire and swept the hearth. In all this, she unavoidably made
+some noise, and thereupon grew uneasy lest she should disturb the
+slumberer, who had, the night previous, gone to bed with a nervous
+headache.
+
+“How _sound_ she do sleep!” said Keziah, glancing at the motionless
+white curtains, as she left the room to bring fresh water.
+
+She re-entered, filled the ewers, making an inevitable rattling with the
+crockery ware, and glancing anxiously at the bed. Then with some effort
+and more noise she hoisted the windows, and pushed open the shutters,
+sending down great drifts of snow, and letting in a flood of clouded
+light.
+
+“How _long_ she do sleep!” said Keziah, approaching the bed, and softly
+putting aside the curtains, for the purpose of gazing upon the beloved
+slumberer.
+
+That bed, it is needless to say, was empty!
+
+“My gracious! She hasn’t slept in dis all night! I ‘specks ole mist’ess
+has been sick, and she’s been sittin’ up wid her! Why couldn’t dey o’
+called _me_?” said Keziah, with an injured air, as she hurried from this
+chamber into that of her old mistress.
+
+“You may mend my fire, and hand me my wadded wrapper, Keziah, as I shall
+get up at once,” said Lady Elizabeth, who was lying awake.
+
+“Yes, ma’am; I hopes you finds yourself better dis morning, ma’am,” said
+Keziah, looking around, expecting to find Lady Adelaide wrapped up in a
+shawl, and dozing in an easy chair.
+
+“Better? Why, I am well enough! What do you mean?”
+
+“Why, I thought how you was ill in de night, ma’am, as de reason why
+Miss Adely stayed long o’ you.”
+
+“Adelaide stayed with me? Why, Adelaide has not been with me! What on
+earth are you thinking about, girl?”
+
+“Miss Adely not along o’ you all night!” cried Keziah, opening her eyes
+wide with astonishment.
+
+“Why, _no_! What is the matter? Are you crazy?” exclaimed her mistress,
+impatiently.
+
+“Well, ma’am, all I can say is, as how Lady Adelaide must be sperrited
+away, case she nebber slept in her own room last night!” said Keziah, in
+alarm.
+
+“Never slept in her own room last night!” ejaculated Lady Elizabeth.
+
+“No, ma’am; she didn’t.”
+
+Lady Elizabeth’s look of astonishment gradually changed to one of
+enlightenment, as she said—
+
+“Oh, very well! I dare say it is all right. And now help me on with my
+wrapper, and go down and see that the parlor is well warmed and the
+breakfast ready. I shall be down almost immediately.”
+
+Keziah hurried below stairs to do her mistress’s bidding.
+
+And in half an hour afterwards, when the lady descended to the
+breakfast-parlor, she found the room glowing with the genial warmth and
+light of a great hickory fire, that blazed upon the hearth, and the
+table smoking with fragrant coffee and an abundant breakfast, which,
+together with all the other home comforts, enabled the family to bid
+defiance to the depressing effects of the inclement weather without.
+
+Orville Deville stood with his back to the fire, and his eyes fixed
+carelessly on the English paper in his hands.
+
+“Good morning, Orville! I regret to have kept you waiting, my son. Sit
+down at once: but where is Adelaide?”
+
+“She has not yet come down, I believe, madam,” said Mr. Deville, placing
+a chair for his mother.
+
+“I hope she has quite recovered of her headache,” said the lady.
+
+“I hope so, too. I have not seen her this morning. Keziah, has your
+young mistress got over her indisposition?” asked Mr. Deville, turning
+towards the waiting-woman.
+
+“I dunno, sir; _I’ve_ not seen Miss Adely this morning, nyther,” said
+the abigail, in dismay.
+
+“_You_ not seen her, Keziah!” said Mr. Deville.
+
+“You not seen her, Orville!” exclaimed Lady Elizabeth.
+
+“How could I see her, when she wa’n’t nowheres?” said Keziah.
+
+“What in the world is the meaning of all this?” inquired Mr. Deville,
+looking from the mistress to the maid.
+
+“She did not occupy her room last night, Keziah tells me, and she has
+not been seen this morning, as it appears,” exclaimed Lady Elizabeth, in
+turn.
+
+“Is it possible! what can it mean?” cried Orville; then, quickly
+controlling himself, he said, “nonsense! there can be nothing amiss. She
+is in some other room—in the library or the pantry. Go and look for your
+young mistress, Keziah, and stop gaping and staring! We live in a
+humdrum neighborhood, far from thieves and assassins, woman! Come,
+hurry! I will warrant that we find Lady Adelaide dropped asleep in the
+library over some old book, or else with the cook in the pantry, in
+close discussion of some dish that requires long and careful
+preparation. Go you to the lower dominions, while I ascend to the
+higher.”
+
+And without another instant’s delay, Mr. Deville hurried from the
+breakfast-room.
+
+The search began. Vain search! Adelaide was not in the library, nor in
+the pantry, nor in any of the chambers of the house, nor at any of the
+cabins about the plantation. No one could find even a trace of her. The
+servants of the farm were mustered and questioned—no one had seen or
+heard of her since the preceding day. The family became dreadfully
+alarmed. They, without a single clue to the cause of her disappearance,
+were lost in the most painful conjecture.
+
+“How forgetful and thoughtless we are!” at length exclaimed Orville—“for
+while we have been searching elsewhere, she may have returned quietly to
+her chamber. Let us search there again.”
+
+A plan no sooner suggested than followed up. They hurried to her
+chamber. It was deserted as before.
+
+They looked around for some sign to guide them to her fate. The letter
+lying upon the centre-table caught the eye of Orville. He snatched it
+up. It was directed in her hand to himself. He tore it open, glanced
+over the first few lines, flushed darkly-red, then turned deadly-pale
+and crushing the letter in his hand, said—
+
+“Dear mother, pray take these women out, and wait for me a few minutes
+in the parlor, where I will soon join you.”
+
+“But that letter, Orville?” said the lady, anxiously.
+
+“It is from her to me—it explains her absence: it requires to be read
+alone.”
+
+“But her—Adelaide! what of her?”
+
+“Safe, I hope! Dear mother, give me opportunity to read and reflect! I
+will join you in the parlor in a few minutes.”
+
+The lady, full of wonder and anxiety, called off her women, and
+retreating, left her son alone.
+
+He threw himself into the chair, by her writing-table, and again took
+her letter, smoothed it out, spread it before him and read it—this time
+carefully, and from beginning to end.
+
+She began by assuring him that his happiness had been the dearest object
+of her life, and begging him to forgive her, if all these years she had
+ignorantly remained an obstacle to that very happiness. She entreated
+him to judge leniently those well-meaning but mistaken parents who had
+so unjustly forced upon his life an unnatural and hateful bond. She told
+him that she left with the intention of remaining away forever, that by
+her abandonment of him, he should be able to free himself, legally, from
+all engagements to her. And with her usual exquisite sense of delicacy,
+she refrained from mentioning the name or even alluding to the existence
+of Lionne. She concluded with the most affectionate messages to his
+mother, and the most fervent wishes for his own welfare. And she signed
+herself his “true friend and cousin, Adelaide Lorne.”
+
+Orville had no reason, either from her letter or from any other
+circumstance, to suppose that she suspected the existence of Lionne. But
+he remembered his long neglect of her as his bride, and he ascribed her
+letter and her subsequent flight to wounded love and womanly pride. He
+cursed his own sin and bewailed his own follies that had separated him
+from her.
+
+And if before this he had been in doubt of the strength, earnestness,
+and exclusiveness of his attachment to Adelaide—from this moment at
+least, he knew that he loved her with all the passion of his soul.
+
+And now to seek and bring her back and make her know that he did so.
+But—_where_ to seek her? where had she passed this night of storm, and
+where was she this morning? To what point should his first inquiries be
+directed?
+
+Evidently the servants of the house and farm could give him no
+information.
+
+He passed in rapid, mental review, all the possible places in which she
+might have spent the night. No place seemed so likely to have been her
+temporary shelter as Bush Creek, the deserted home of the Kytes. To that
+place he resolved immediately to go. He arose from the table and was
+about to leave the room to inform his mother and to order his horse,
+when his eyes were arrested by an object that seemed to possess the
+power of the Medusa’s head to turn the gazer into stone!
+
+It was the mourning-ring with which he had wed Lionne, lying on the
+corner of the dressing-table, where that wild girl had left it.
+
+For a moment he stood as if petrified, and then he snatched it up to see
+if there was not some mistake. There could be none! It was the very same
+ring, with his father’s name on the inside. While wondering at its
+presence there, his eyes fell upon a crumpled paper on the same
+dressing-table. Some instinct led him to take it up and examine it. He
+smoothed it out and read it.
+
+It was his own letter to Lionne.
+
+He understood every thing now.
+
+He knew that _she_ knew all. Yes, though with her delicate sense of
+propriety she had not even hinted at her knowledge of her rival, yet it
+was evident that she had been made acquainted with the relations
+existing between himself and Lionne.
+
+But how had this knowledge been conveyed to her? Who had sent and who
+had brought the ring and the letter? He would inquire. He rang the bell
+vociferously.
+
+Keziah answered it.
+
+“Keziah, come in here, and shut the door after you.”
+
+Keziah obeyed.
+
+“Now, tell me, did any stranger come here yesterday?”
+
+“While yer was all at dinner, a sort o’ wild looking young gal came here
+as said she brought news o’ Miss Kate Kyte, and how she wanted to see
+Miss Adely in her own room. I showed her up and stayed to watch her
+until I heard Miss Adely coming up to dress for her ride. Then I went
+into your room to fix things up.”
+
+“How long did this woman stay?”
+
+“’Deed I dunno, sir! not long I reckon, caze I nebber saw no more of
+her. And Miss Adely’s headache an’ other things a-happening of, put her
+out of my mind until you spoke.”
+
+“You may go.”
+
+Keziah immediately retired to tell the colored folks below that a crazy
+girl, who had been at the house the evening before, had bewitched and
+spirited away Miss Adely.
+
+“Yes,” said Orville, when left alone, “Lionne has pursued me, has found
+out my previous marriage, and has told Adelaide every thing, and has
+proved all that she has told! The young forest-demon! she shall gain
+nothing by it! Oh, accursed sin! how bitter are your fruits! Hear
+Adelaide! Sweet angel! where are you now, exposed to this inclement
+weather! Oh, I must not stay to ask! I must find you at once.” And so
+saying Orville hurried from the chamber and descended to the
+breakfast-parlor, where, his mother sat anxiously awaiting him.
+
+Not wishing for the present to communicate to her the full extent of his
+sins, misfortunes and apprehensions, he merely placed the farewell
+letter of Adelaide in her hands, saying—
+
+“This will partly explain her absence, my dear mother. I hope to heaven
+that she is safe! I am going immediately to seek her.”
+
+And while Lady Elizabeth eagerly opened the letter, Orville rang and
+ordered his horse to be saddled and brought to the door.
+
+“Dear! dear! dear! what a dreadful thing! Wounded love and jealously and
+pride! I cannot wonder! There never was a fair bride so cruelly ignored
+and neglected!” said his mother, naturally coming to the very same
+conclusion to which on first reading the letter Orville himself had
+come.
+
+“It is perfectly incredible—your indifference to that sweet girl!”
+continued the lady.
+
+“But I am _not_ indifferent to her, mother! I am very far from being so!
+I love her! with my whole heart and soul I love her!” exclaimed the
+young man, his pallid brow, quivering lip, and thrilling tone
+indubitably attesting the truth of his statement.
+
+“You do! Well, I must say that you take an unprecedented way of showing
+it!” said the lady, with pardonable sarcasm. “Where is she now? And when
+you find her, you will not find it so easy to reconcile her. It is
+proverbially difficult to estrange a woman’s heart. But, mark my
+words—it is next to impossible to win it back!”
+
+“Oh, madam, I shall try, and I shall succeed. But here is Nero, to tell
+me that my horse is ready. I go first to inquire at Bush Creek, where I
+hope to find Lady Adelaide! Good-by. Bid me God-speed!” exclaimed
+Orville, snatching his hat and darting from the room.
+
+And in another moment he was in his saddle, galloping rapidly towards
+Bush Creek.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XV.
+                         BETRAYER AND BETRAYED.
+
+               My gipsy maid! my gipsy-maid!
+                 I bless and curse the day
+               I lost the light of life, and found
+                 The grief that maketh gray!
+               Would that the light which blinded me
+                 Had saved me on my way!—_Philip Bailey._
+
+
+Kate Kyte was an early bird! Late as she had retired on the preceding
+evening, she awoke betimes in the morning, wondering to find it so dark.
+She knew by her own feeling, as well as by all the matutinal sounds of
+the farm-yard, that it must be day. And yet it seemed to be night.
+
+“I must have gone blind or something,” said Kate, jumping out of bed.
+
+She soon found the cause of the darkness. Although there were neither
+curtains nor shutters to her windows, yet every ray of light was
+excluded by thick blinds of snow drifted against them on the outside.
+
+“Whew! what a day for the last of March!” shivered Kate, as she hurried
+into her clothes and hastened out into the kitchen, where old Lucy was
+already busy with preparations for breakfast.
+
+It was lighter and cheerfuller there, from the fact that Hubert, who had
+returned in the night, had cleared the windows of their outer blinds of
+snow.
+
+“When did you get home?” inquired Kate, as he entered the back door,
+beating the snow from his broom.
+
+“Why, I came back soon as I saw the snow-storm rising. I came in the
+back way, and as I heard you and Miss Lionne talking secrets, I thought
+I would not disturb you, so I just went up-stairs and went to bed.”
+
+“How very thoughtful!”
+
+“Ain’t I, though. And I have brushed the snow off the parlor windows,
+and made a good fire in there for you, too.”
+
+“You _are_ a real good fellow when you choose to be, Hubert, and now I
+must go in and set the table,” said Kate, passing into the front room,
+where, to her surprise, she found Lionne already up, and dressed as if
+for a journey.
+
+“My stars! It seems, then, that I am the latest riser this morning. How
+long have you been up?” asked Kate.
+
+“Not long; I have but just come in here,” replied Lionne.
+
+“And you look as if you had not slept one wink! And you speak like a
+person in the last stage of consumption! And you are dressed for a ride!
+What does it all mean?”
+
+“It means that I think I shall have to set forward on my journey home
+this morning.”
+
+“What? Now you just go to the window and look out! You are a forester
+and a mountaineer; you know very well that Braddock’s Road will be
+impassible for days, if not for weeks,” said Kate Kyte.
+
+“I have seen the prospect and I will venture,” replied Lionne, in the
+tone and with the manner of one not to be turned from her purpose.
+
+Kate Kyte looked into the pale, firm face of the mountain girl, and
+ventured no further remonstrance except in saying:
+
+“At least, of course, you will wait until after breakfast?”
+
+“Why should I?—I cannot eat,” replied Lionne, with a slow shake of the
+head.
+
+“Why should you, indeed? Why, for _one_ reason, because Hubert has not
+fed your horse yet! and, however far human beings, under the spur of
+passion, may go on without food, the brute creatures have sense, and
+come to a stand without their provender. So, ‘willy-nilly,’ you will
+have to stay an hour longer,” said Kate.
+
+“I believe you are right,” admitted Lionne, wearily untying her
+riding-hat, and throwing it upon the windowsill, as she herself sank
+exhausted on the settee, under the window.
+
+“I declare, you look half dead now!” said Kate, looking upon the worn
+face and collapsed form of the lately bright young huntress.
+
+At this moment old Lucy came in the room, bearing in one hand a pot of
+hot coffee and in the other a plate of hot rolls. She was followed
+immediately by Hubert, bringing in a large dish of broiled partridges.
+These edibles were carefully arranged upon the table.
+
+“Come, Lionne, you have swallowed nothing but wrath and one cup of
+coffee, since we reached home,” said Kate, placing a chair for her guest
+and adding, as she forced her into it—“there is not a traitor in the
+wide world worth losing a mouthful of food or an hour’s sleep for.”
+
+“Again, I believe you are right!” said Lionne, receiving from the hands
+of her friend a bowl of coffee, which she quaffed with feverish avidity.
+“And yet,” she mentally added, “I shall not only lose food and sleep,
+but life and soul perchance, for a traitor!”
+
+“That is not _eating_, Lionne,” remonstrated Kate, as her guest held out
+her bowl to be replenished—“I declare this living on strong, hot coffee
+will kill you!”
+
+“Is that possible?” inquired Lionne, with a strange, mocking smile, as
+she raised the forbidden bowl to her lips and drained it to the dregs.
+Then, without having eaten a morsel, she arose from the table, went to
+the window to look out upon the blockaded paths and the still
+fast-falling snow, and then walked up and down the floor in wild
+restlessness, until Kate also arose, and removed the breakfast service.
+
+Then stopping in her wild walk, Lionne asked, impatiently—
+
+“Is my horse ready?”
+
+“No,” said Kate, coming from a side-window; “he is not done feeding yet.
+The brutes know better than to hurry themselves on such occasions.”
+
+With an impatient gesture, Lionne seized her riding-hat and tied it on,
+and then threw herself into a chair beside the table, and resting her
+elbow upon the top, leaned her head upon her hand.
+
+Just at this moment, Kate caught through the front windows a glimpse of
+a horseman covered with snow, crossing the bridge that spanned Bush
+Creek and led into the lawn.
+
+With a half-suppressed exclamation of surprise, she passed into the
+hall, just as a sharp rap with the end of a riding-whip, at the front
+door, struck upon her ear.
+
+She hastened to lift the latch, and her brow crimsoned with indignation
+as she recognized Orville Deville, who had just arrived in search of
+Adelaide.
+
+Dropping her eyes, she silently stood aside to let him enter.
+
+“Good morning, Kate,” he said, taking off his hat. “I came to inquire—is
+my wife here?”
+
+“_Which of them?_” was the angry question that sprung to the lips of
+that honest girl; but the ironical inquiry was suppressed.
+
+With her natural quickness, she instantly divined that it was _Adelaide_
+he sought.
+
+And with justifiable vengeance she determined to send him to _Lionne_.
+She answered, coldly—
+
+“Yes, you will find her in that room!”
+
+And opening the door, she ushered him into the presence of Lionne, and
+retired.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XVI.
+                          ORVILLE AND LIONNE.
+
+            ’Tis an old tale and often told:
+              But let my fate and will agree,—
+            Ne’er hath been read in story old
+            Of maiden true, forsook for gold,
+              That loved, or was revenged like me!—_Scott._
+
+
+Orville entered the sitting-room, expecting to find Adelaide.
+
+He saw a slight female figure, wearing such a riding-dress and hat as
+_she_ often wore, and sitting beside the table, with her back toward
+him, and her head bowed forward upon her hand.
+
+Never doubting for an instant that this was the one of whom he came in
+search, he hastened forward with outstretched arms, eagerly exclaiming—
+
+“My dearest, dearest girl! my most injured love! thank God, I find you
+safe at last! Only hear my exculpation, and you will forgive me!”
+
+With a sudden, piercing cry of joy, Lionne sprang up and cast herself
+into his outstretched arms!
+
+In that wild, impulsive act, so natural to her vehement, impassioned
+nature, all her wrongs and all her rage was forgotten! His presence, his
+looks, his words, she had most naturally taken as intended for herself,
+and she had received them and forgiven him at once! Hear his
+exculpation! of course she would! In that moment of extreme bliss, she
+was ready to believe “all the world a liar,” and only Orville Deville
+true! In that sudden revulsion of feeling from despair to delight, she
+must have swooned but that she was so strong.
+
+Now lifting from his bosom a face at once beaming with smiles and
+glittering with tears, she exclaimed, in tones vibrating with intense
+joy—
+
+“Oh, Orville, are you here? are you indeed here at last? and you love me
+still? you have loved me ever? oh, joy! joy! joy! let me die now! Ah,
+Orville, within the last few days I have suffered so, and I have
+_sinned_ against you so, my faithful love! I have sinned against you in
+my thoughts so cruelly!”
+
+“Lionne! oh, heaven, Lionne!” exclaimed Orville Deville, never returning
+her warm caress, but gazing at her in a sort of panic.
+
+“Yes! is it not strange that I could have had such wicked thoughts of
+you, my constant love? But you must forgive them,” she said, entirely
+mistaking the cause of his emotion.
+
+“Lionne! Lionne!” he repeated mechanically, gazing upon her face.
+
+“Why, what is the matter? Why do you look upon me so strangely, so
+compassionately? Oh, I see! I know now! It is because I am so changed!
+Oh, yes, indeed, I know I am frightfully changed, Orville! The storm
+that has raged in this poor, wild bosom for a week past, must have
+metamorphosed me! But never mind; you are here now, and in a few hours I
+shall be myself again! every trace of suffering will have left my face!
+But come! sit down! sit down! you too look weary.” And smiling brightly,
+she took his hand to draw him towards the settee.
+
+He shrank from her touch as though her fingers had been fire, and
+hurrying forward threw himself upon the indicated seat, and covered his
+face with his hands.
+
+Still utterly self-deceived, she followed him, took the place by his
+side and laid her hand affectionately on his shoulder, saying:
+
+“Do not take this so hard, dear Orville! Indeed, I am not ill, though I
+look so! And though it is true that I have suffered frightfully, and my
+countenance betrays it, yet do not dread to look upon my face! with all
+its pallor it is not disfigured! Look upon me, or at least take down
+your hands and let me see you!”
+
+Orville dropped his hands and raised his eyes desperately to meet her
+unsuspicious gaze—showing her a countenance in which deep sorrow now so
+far predominated over every other expression, as to confirm her in her
+most natural mistake of him.
+
+He saw this confidence on her part, and his distress and embarrassment
+increased.
+
+How should he enlighten her? In what terms could he bring himself to
+inform her that she had been deceived and forsaken?
+
+“Lionne,” he began, in a tone that he vainly endeavored to render
+calm—“Lionne, I have an explanation to make to you!”
+
+“Why, so you said when you first came in, dear Orville! And I am waiting
+to hear it from you! indeed I _have_ heard it from another, who did not
+tell your story harshly; though only _you_ can do yourself full
+justice!” she said, turning towards him an attentive face, bright with
+confiding love, in the full anticipation of hearing his perfect
+vindication.
+
+How could she yet feel otherwise? At his first appearance in the room
+and his first words—so likely to deceive her—all her sense of injury,
+all her anger, and all her doubts had vanished. She saw before her the
+man who for months had been ever at her side, her sworn and trusted
+friend and companion; who had pledged to her in marriage an eternal
+fidelity. Here was the arm that had sustained her: the face that had
+always smiled upon her; the eyes that had ever followed her with glances
+of unutterable love; the lips that had sealed the marriage kiss upon her
+own; the voice that had ever dropped soft and musical, as the notes of
+the dove, in addressing her. His first looks and first words on coming
+in had expressed unfailing and unmeasured love, and upon seeing the
+traces of suffering upon her face, he had exhibited almost unreasonable
+grief—so Lionne thought, and looking upon him now, she could not doubt,
+she could only love. So with her countenance still beaming with
+happiness, she awaited his words.
+
+“Lionne,” he commenced, “when I led you before the clergyman at
+Winchester, I firmly believed myself free to become your husband!”
+
+“I am sure that you did, and that you were really so. That comedy
+performed by the bedside of your uncle in your childhood could not and
+should not have bound you,” said Lionne, confidently.
+
+“Poor girl! undeceive yourself,” sighed Orville, gravely and sadly.
+
+“Why, what do you mean?” inquired his companion, with perplexity, but
+without suspicion.
+
+“Lionne, I was _not_ free!”
+
+“Oh, _legally_, perhaps not, but _morally_, certainly so! The dainty
+little lady at River-view admitted that!”
+
+“Lionne, at the time I ignorantly married you I was fast bound by the
+laws of Scotland to another!”
+
+“By the unjustifiable act of worldly-minded parents when you were a
+child! It was a marriage only in name. Even the little lady admitted
+that.”
+
+“Lionne, she admitted that in generosity, and also, perhaps, in total
+ignorance of the nature of her claims upon me.”
+
+“Not so, I assure you, Orville. She fully comprehended her possession of
+_legal_ rights and her lack of _moral_ ones.”
+
+“Lionne!” exclaimed Orville, desperately, “look at me and undeceive
+yourself!”
+
+“AH MY HEART!” exclaimed Lionne, with a sharp and sudden cry, and a
+strained and piercing gaze into his firm, set face. “What—what do you
+mean?”
+
+“I mean, poor girl, that you are looking upon the husband of Lady
+Adelaide Deville, who possesses _every_ right—legal, moral, and
+social—to be called his wife!”
+
+“AND—WHAT—THEN—AM—I?”
+
+As the wronged girl asked this terrible, this unanswerable question, her
+eyes, fixed upon his face seemed to burn into and blast his very soul.
+
+“And what, then, am I?” she repeated.
+
+His brow crimsoned at the question; but meeting her gaze with eyes at
+once blazing with defiance and melting with compassion—for he both
+pitied and dreaded this wronged and reckless girl, he said—
+
+“You at least are innocent, Lionne. The guilt—if guilt there was—is
+mine, solely mine, as I would also the consequences could be! I am ready
+to meet them, whatever they are!”
+
+“And you think that I can be answered so! Good,” she said calmly. And
+her calmness was more threatening than her agitation had been.
+
+“How _would_ you be answered? Lionne, speak; you have only to command! I
+cannot, indeed, give you my name; but all that I can give, my fortune,
+my services, are at your orders.”
+
+She raised her hand to stop him, and then slowly inquired—
+
+“Do you love the little lady at River-view?”
+
+“Lionne, at the time that my heart and eyes were ensnared by your fatal
+beauty, I had never loved woman, except my mother!”
+
+“I have been told so by you before this; that, however, is not the
+question. Do you love Adelaide _now_?”
+
+“Lionne, when I believed that I had made you my wife, I loved only you;
+let that suffice you!”
+
+“It does not, it cannot, it shall not,” she said calmly and firmly; “and
+I adjure you, on your honor, on your soul, answer my question—Do you now
+love Adelaide Lorne?”
+
+“I know no such person as Adelaide Lorne!” exclaimed Orville, with the
+asperity of desperation; “but I love my honorable wife, Lady Adelaide
+Deville, with my whole heart!”
+
+“It is enough,” said Lionne, very quietly.
+
+“I recognize her perfect, her exclusive and indisputable right to my
+hand, fortune and heart, and in doing so, I must, of course, repudiate
+the claims of any other.”
+
+“I make none,” replied the forsaken girl, as quietly as before.
+
+Orville Deville, when driven to “define his position,” had deemed it
+proper to be perfectly, if even most painfully explicit. Now, however,
+deceived by the non-resistance of Lionne’s words and manner, he relented
+and looked towards her.
+
+Her face was paler and stiller than before; her lips were compressed;
+her eyes were fixed upon the floor; her countenance was perfectly
+impassible.
+
+“Lionne,” he said, in softened accents, “no one can regret more bitterly
+than myself, the power of that fatal passion that led _me_ into error
+and _you_ into misfortune. Pray let me repeat to you that when first
+attracted by your beauty, I had loved only you, and believed myself at
+liberty to offer you my hand. When, however, I returned to River-view,
+and met my child-bride after a separation from her of so many years, and
+found her grown up into the loveliest woman that the sun ever shone
+upon—when I found that her pure heart, through all the years of absence
+and of change, from childhood to sweet womanhood, had been single in its
+love and duty to me—when I found that she was, in fact, my own legal
+wife, bound to me as fast as Church and State could bind her; that for
+years she had dutifully looked upon me as her husband, and patiently
+waited for me to claim her as my wife, I did what any other in my
+position must inevitably have done! I learned to love, to adore, to
+worship her! Lionne, it was my fate!”
+
+“Your love was a matter of time and place, and circumstance and policy.
+Good,” she said, very quietly.
+
+Beginning to be seriously disturbed now by what he considered the
+unnatural calmness of her words and the perfect impassibility of her
+countenance, he said:
+
+“Lionne, in all that has passed, you at least have nothing whatever to
+accuse yourself with. You believed yourself, as I also then believed
+you, an honest wife! I only have sinned—grievously, though
+unconsciously, sinned against you. And, Lionne, I repent from the bottom
+of my heart! And I shall repent to the last day of my life!”
+
+“Peace. I do not reproach you,” she said, very smoothly.
+
+“I know you do not, most wronged and most forbearing girl!”
+
+Her lip almost imperceptibly curled; that was the only sign that she had
+heard his last words.
+
+“Lionne,” he said, earnestly, “go farther in generosity; say that you
+forgive me.”
+
+“I have nothing to forgive,” she quietly replied.
+
+“Noblest, most magnanimous girl——!”
+
+He stopped as if he had been struck by lightning.
+
+With her face white and still, her lips compressed and bloodless, her
+eyes fixed and glittering, and hand lifted high towards heaven, she
+arose and stood before him.
+
+“I have nothing to forgive,” she said, in a low, deep, steady tone,
+terrible even in its smoothness: “I have _nothing to forgive_, but EVERY
+THING TO AVENGE! Our hospitality outraged! our friendship deceived! our
+confidence betrayed! our home desecrated! my gray-haired father brought
+to dishonor, and his daughter to shame!—in one fell phrase, the
+preservation of your worthless life by us, repaid with the ruin of ours
+by you! And now and here, before high heaven! here, by the majesty of my
+awful wrongs and sorrows, suffered at your treacherous hands!—here, for
+your stupendous sin, I do solemnly devote you and yours to earthly and
+eternal destruction! And if ever I revoke this sentence, may the doom
+fall a thunderbolt of destruction upon my own head, and the heads of all
+I love! may then my words of pardon to you become the sentence of my own
+temporal and eternal death!”
+
+And with this terrible imprecation upon her lips, her arm raised high
+towards heaven, and her eyes blazing with malediction, the heart-scathed
+girl receded from the room, and was seen no more at Bush Creek.
+
+Orville Deville remained standing where she had left him, spell-bound,
+panic-stricken, appalled by this prophetic vision of Retribution.
+
+He was aroused by the entrance of Kate Kyte, who, without speaking, took
+up a seine that she was engaged in netting; and seated herself at one of
+the windows to work upon it.
+
+Orville, with a pang and a start, suddenly recollected the errand that
+had brought him to the house, and, turning towards the young girl, he
+said:
+
+“Kate, I came hither in anxious search of my wife.”
+
+“Which of them?” inquired Kate, very dryly.
+
+“Do not mock me, little school-mate,” said Orville, as a rush of color
+crimsoned his forehead, “but tell me if you have seen Lady Adelaide
+Deville since yesterday?”
+
+“If I tell you that I saw her last night, it is for _her_ sake and not
+for _yours_ that I speak,” said Kate, coldly.
+
+“Last night! how? where? at what hour, _good_ Kate?” eagerly inquired
+Orville.
+
+“At midnight, in the snow-storm, alone, outside that window,” said Kate,
+cruelly condensing the facts.
+
+“Great heaven above, what is it you tell me?” cried Orville, starting up
+with horror, grief, and dismay in every lineament of his face. “Where is
+she now?”
+
+“The Lord knows—I don’t!” said Kate, severely.
+
+“Explain! for the love of heaven, explain!” exclaimed Orville, rushing
+forward, and seizing the arm of the girl, and gazing with an agony of
+inquiry into her face.
+
+Kate indignantly shook off his arm, giving him a glance which, could a
+look have killed, must have laid him dead at her feet.
+
+“I have nothing to explain,” she said, “except the reason why I do not
+now know where Lady Adelaide is to be found. Her _body_, I think, may
+sometime or other be discovered among the snow-drifts; her _soul_ is
+probably in heaven!”
+
+“Kate, this is torture—this is agony! For the love of heaven, be more
+explicit! You saw her——”
+
+“I told you all that I saw. If you wish me to be more circumstantial, I
+can be so. I can tell you the relation will not be less painful. Last
+night, a little after midnight, while I sat at that very fire, listening
+to the history of _your other wife_, which included also the story of a
+hero, who repaid the preservation of his own worthless life with the
+ruin of his preserver, we heard amid the snow-storm a slight noise at
+the window, as if some poor little storm-beaten bird had pecked against
+the glass for admission. I looked up and screamed on seeing, at that
+hour, in that storm, a pale, still, sad face at the pane, and which I
+did not at first recognize as that of Lady Adelaide.”
+
+“Well! well!” exclaimed Orville, breathlessly.
+
+“This phantom raised the window, and slipped under it a little note,
+which was eagerly seized, and read, and carefully burned by—your other
+wife.”
+
+“Kate, your words are full of well-merited bitterness. _I_ do not
+quarrel with them. But Adelaide—tell me of Adelaide!”
+
+“I have really nothing more to tell. As soon as she had slipped in the
+note, her face vanished from the window. And as soon as I had recovered
+from my panic, I jerked open the door and ran out into the night and
+storm to call her in. I ran up and down among the deep drifts, and amid
+the fast falling snow, calling and shouting, in vain! It was as dark as
+pitch; I could see nothing—not even my own hand, not even the snow! and
+I could hear nothing but the sound of my own voice!”
+
+“Go on! go on!”
+
+“What more would you have me say? I floundered out among the
+snow-drifts, in black darkness, freezing cold, and stifling sleet,
+until, tough as I am, I was near perishing at my own door. Then in
+despair of finding her, I gave up the search and came in. That is
+absolutely all that I know of her fate!”
+
+“Kate! for heaven’s sake tell me, have you no clue, no suspicion, no
+vague idea, of whither she went?” asked Orville, in anguish.
+
+“None whatever. After I came in, it occurred to me that she might
+possibly have had a carriage and servants in attendance, and that while
+I was floundering in the snow, she might have been comfortably driving
+homewards; but since that is not so, I fear, indeed, that she must have
+perished in the storm!”
+
+“The Lord in his mercy forbid! Kate, are your brothers at home?”
+
+“None have yet returned but Hubert.”
+
+“I am very sorry for that. But Hubert knows every foot of the forest—I
+must get him to assist me ’n my search.”
+
+“Very well, Mr. Deville. Hubert will be glad to do any thing in the
+service of Lady Adelaide. But he must pursue his search alone, if you
+please, and report his luck to your mother.”
+
+“What do you mean by that, Kate?”
+
+“That I do not wish my brother to become intimate with you, sir.”
+
+“Kate, are you determined to affront me, whether I will or no?”
+
+“I am determined to speak a few plain words to you, Mr. Deville.”
+
+“Say on—you are a woman, and privileged.”
+
+“The Lord knows, I wish I were not! I wish I were a man for your sake!
+But this is what I have to say to you, Mr. Deville. In the first place,
+that but for the sake of Lady Adelaide, I should not have permitted you
+to hold me in conversation so long. I told you that I had heard your
+story from Lionne. Now, had a _woman_ committed the sin that _you_ have
+committed, you know that she would have forever, and justly, forfeited
+her place in society. God never made one set of commandments for man and
+another for woman! He will hold both equally responsible for similar
+sins. In the same circumstances, _I_ do not judge a man _less_ guilty
+than a woman, but rather more so! And therefore, Mr. Deville, I judge
+that you have lost your title as a man of honor, and consequently
+forfeited all right to cross the threshold of an honorable woman! I hope
+you will consider this a hint to shorten your visit, and—never to repeat
+it!”
+
+And before Orville Deville could recover his astonishment, Kate Kyte
+flounced from the room, leaving him to depart and pursue his quest of
+Adelaide.
+
+“My eyes!” said Hubert, who from the kitchen had heard and understood ‘a
+fury in the words, but not the words,’ what a “thundering blowing-up Mr.
+Deville _did_ get from both them women! Wonder what it was all about.
+Don’t any of the three look so very happy.”
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XVII.
+                           THE MIDNIGHT WALK.
+
+              Blow, blow, thou winter wind,
+              Thou art not so unkind
+                  As friends’ ingratitude;
+              Thy tooth is not so keen
+              Because thou art not seen,
+                  Although thy breath be rude.
+
+              Freeze, freeze, thou bitter sky,
+              Thou dost not bite so nigh
+                  As benefits forgot:
+              Though thou the waters warp,
+              Thy sting is not so sharp
+                  As friends remembered not.—_Shakspeare._
+
+
+Where, meantime, was Adelaide? We left her, self-expelled from her home,
+standing without the door, alone, at midnight, with her delicate feet
+deep in the snow-drifts, and the snow-flakes falling fast around her
+fragile form. A few moments she stood thus—solitary, desolate,
+despairing, in the midst of freezing cold, whirling storm and utter
+darkness, with but one purpose in her mind—to flee; with one wish in her
+heart—to die; one prayer on her lip—to be received of God.
+
+At first, in the solid blackness of darkness, and the whirling chaos of
+snow, she could discern nothing—she struck out blindly for the side-gate
+that opened, from the lawn, out upon the bridle-path leading along Bush
+Creek to the mill. After floundering at random through the snow-drifts,
+she at length reached the fence and felt her way along its line, until
+she found the gate. She opened it and passed out upon the bridle-path.
+
+Her eyes, now more accustomed to the deep darkness, could discern the
+track by its border of bushes, that looked only a denser line of dotted
+shadows.
+
+We might suppose that in her desolate circumstances there could be found
+no favorable feature; but in fact there were two,—in the first place,
+the very violence of this midnight-storm kept all night-passengers from
+the road, and thus saved the fair, defenceless wanderer from all danger
+of insult. In the second place, the wind and snow coming from the
+north-west, were behind her; but for this, she never could have lived to
+reach her destination. Thus driven before the tempest, with her blood
+half congealed and her limbs trembling under her, she reached Bush Creek
+Mill. Holding by the side-railing she reached the bridge. A bright
+fire-light shone from the window to the left of the front-door. To this
+window, as has been said, Adelaide went and looked in. Oh, in comparison
+to the bitter storm without, how comfortable looked that homely room!
+with its home-made carpet on the rough floor; its corner-cupboard, with
+glittering crockery-ware and domestic stores; the flag-bottomed
+arm-chairs, the calico-covered sofa, the warm rug, the clean hearth, and
+the bright, broad fire, with the two girls sitting, whispering in its
+glowing light and genial warmth.
+
+Within was life; without, death.
+
+She dared not trust herself to gaze one moment on that scene. She lifted
+her benumbed fingers and tapped upon the pane. She heard Kate scream and
+saw Lionne start up. She immediately raised the sash, slipped under it
+her little note and turned away.
+
+The fear of being followed and called back lent fresh vigor to her
+failing limbs, and as fast as they could carry her, she fled from the
+window. She had passed the gate and reached the bridge, where she paused
+to recover breath, when she saw the house-door torn open, a stream of
+red fire-light gush forth, and Kate run out into the storm, calling
+loudly upon her name. This gave new impetus to her flight. She fled
+across the bridge, regained the road, and turning inland, hurried onward
+as fast as deep snow-drifts, whirling snow-flakes, and her own benumbed
+and exhausted condition, would permit.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Onward, onward, still onward through the midnight snow-storm, toiled the
+wanderer.
+
+Darker grew the dark night; deeper the deep snow-drifts; keener the keen
+blast!
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+Onward, still onward through the black tempest, pressed the wanderer.
+
+It was near morning, and she was miles away from home, when, at length,
+her burthened heart stopped its pulsations, her laboring lungs failed,
+her oppressed brain reeled, her frozen limbs bent beneath her weight,
+her form tottered and she fell—murmuring—
+
+“If this be death, oh, Saviour, receive a poor heart for which the earth
+has no room at all!” Breathing this prayer her senses fled, and the
+whirling snow soon covered her form from sight.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XVIII.
+                         THE RESCUED WANDERER.
+
+
+“At dawn a traveller passed that way.”
+
+Long before light that morning, Farmer Fieldhurst and his son John arose
+and put the oxen to the wagon that had been loaded the night previous
+with turkeys, geese and chickens, to go to the Bell Haven market.
+
+After drinking a couple of large bowls of strong coffee, and eating a
+great pone of corn-bread, with a proportionate quantity of middling
+rashers and fried eggs, the worthy farmer and his son wrapped themselves
+up in their great, dreadnought overcoats, pulled their fox-skin caps
+down over their foreheads, wound thick, woollen scarfs around their
+throats, drew on their oxhide over-boots and coonskin gloves, mounted
+the wagon, and grumbling greatly at the weather, drove off. With
+difficulty they got through the farm-gate and out upon the open road,
+where a colloquy ensued as to whether it were possible to proceed.
+
+“I say, Johnny, I don’t think we can go on,” said Mr. Fieldhurst,
+pausing, and squinting down at the obstructed road, obscurely seen by
+the faint light of dawning day.
+
+“Yes, but dad,” said John, who rather liked the fun of struggling
+through the snow-drifts—and who knew, besides, what argument was most
+likely to influence his father—“dad, you know if we _can_ manage to
+struggle through and get to market, why there’ll be so few of the
+country people in that we can get any price we like for our poultry.”
+
+“That’s _so_,” said the farmer, reflectively; “but the roads are—very
+bad—drifts heavy.”
+
+“Yes, dad, but the _load_ is light and the _beasts_ strong.”
+
+“_That’s_ so, too, Johnny—and—I don’t know as this storm is going to
+last above a half hour longer. I reckon we’ll try to get on, and if we
+can’t, why we can but turn back after all. Come up there, Taurus!
+Whoa!—hoy!” and cheering his beasts of burthen, the farmer drove on
+until they reached, at a quarter of a mile distant, the gate that led
+from the country road into the turnpike.
+
+“Get down, Jack, and open the gate.”
+
+The boy obeyed, and pushed with all his strength.
+
+“Well! what’s the matter?”
+
+“There’s something agin it—a log or a sheep, or some thing in the snow,”
+said the boy, pushing the gate a little way open and squeezing himself
+through the aperture, and proceeding to kick and push at the obstructing
+object.
+
+“Well!” said the farmer, impatiently.
+
+“Lors alive, dad!” exclaimed the boy, retreating in a panic.
+
+“What’s it?”
+
+“It’s—it’s a woman!”
+
+“No!” exclaimed the farmer, jumping off his seat and hurrying through
+the gate.
+
+“It _is_ though, and—dead!”
+
+The farmer stooped and cleared away the remaining snow, and raised the
+fragile form in his powerful arms, exclaiming—
+
+“Lord of heaven, it is a woman, sure enough! a woman perished in the
+snow here, almost at our very gates!”
+
+“What on the yeth could have fotch her out so early in such weather,
+dad?” inquired John, in an awe-struck voice, cautiously approaching.
+
+“I—don’t—know. It’s—hard—telling. Nothink oughten’t to,” said the
+farmer, still holding the lifeless form as if it had been that of an
+infant in his great arms, and peering down to examine and see if he
+could recognize her features.
+
+“Who is she, dad?”
+
+“I—can’t—tell. I thought she looked a little like Mary Jones; but ’taint
+her. One thing’s sartain, John. We can’t go on now. Go roll the load in
+the wagon level as you can, and spread the sheepskins over them. We must
+put her on it and take her to the house, to rouse her if she’s alive,
+and to send for the crowner and give her Christian burial if she is
+dead,” said the farmer.
+
+They placed her tenderly in the wagon, and then with a great deal of
+pulling and tugging and calling, succeeded in turning the oxens’ heads
+towards home. The eastern sky was red with the coming sun when the wagon
+once more drove into the farm-yard.
+
+“There! I said you’d never be able to get along,” said the farmer’s
+wife, who saw them from the open door of the kitchen. “Lord alive! what
+is that your father’s got?” she asked of John, who, followed by the
+farmer with the lifeless body, entered the kitchen.
+
+“It is a poor girl, whom we found in the snow at the outer-road gate,”
+answered Mr. Fieldhurst, sitting down in the chair, and turning back the
+hood and exposing the face of Adelaide Deville.
+
+“Dead?” asked the wife, approaching and gazing in horror upon the still,
+white, cold face.
+
+“Dead or swound. Do you know her?”
+
+“Not a bit of her—I never saw her before! Who is she? how came she to
+fall in the snow? where did you pick her up? was that what brought you
+back?” these and other questions, Mrs. Fieldhurst asked in breathless
+haste, and Mr. Fieldhurst answered in hurry and impatience, saying at
+last—
+
+“But good gracious, Marthy, if she is not dead are you going to let her
+die without an effort to save her?”
+
+“No, no, not for the world! only I was so taken aback! Here! Mary!
+Susan! Jane! come here all of you!”
+
+Three blooming country girls ran out from an adjoining chamber, and on
+seeing the apparently dead girl in their father’s arms, were about to
+open their mouths in astonishment, when their mother arrested them by
+saying:
+
+“There now! ask no questions! I have lost time enough already. Run,
+Mary, and prepare the bed in the other room, and then put coals in the
+warming-pan and warm it well. Go, Jane, and bring down a suit of my
+flannel underclothes and a nightgown. Susan, take some brandy and sugar
+and spice, with a little hot water, and make a warm cordial. Father, you
+and John had better go and leave us alone.”
+
+All the directions of the housewife were promptly obeyed.
+
+A large double blanket was laid upon the carpet before the fire, and the
+fair patient placed upon it, undressed and rubbed briskly by the
+diligent hand of the farmer’s wife.
+
+“She is a young lady of high rank, mother, for all her coarse, gray
+cloak and hood! Only look at this beautiful skirt! thick, soft, blue
+satin, quilted as fine as the finest Marseilles—and see this upper
+skirt, the finest cambric, embroidered half way up to the waist. And oh!
+see this linen, how delicately made! real linen-cambric, fine as a
+cobweb, and trimmed with real thread-lace!” said Jane, in rustic wonder
+and admiration, as she examined article by article of the wet clothing
+before hanging them to the fire to dry.
+
+“And see the soft, thick silk-stockings, mother, and the little black
+satin-boots, with their high, white heels! Oh, how tiny and how pretty!
+_these_ never came from hereabouts! that I know; but Lors! they are
+quite spoiled now!” said Jane, trying to pull them into shape as she set
+them on the hearth to dry.
+
+In rubbing and chafing the hands of the invalid, Mrs. Fieldhurst had
+noticed a diamond ring, that, even to her inexperienced eyes, appeared a
+jewel of inestimable value. And all this, so at variance with the
+personal habits of the wives and daughters of even the very wealthiest
+farmers around, filled her mind with vague conjectures. These did not
+prevent her from working with zeal for the restoration of her patient.
+Soon the fair form was re-clothed in warm, dry raiment, and laid in the
+comfortable bed. Then the friction was continued, and at last their
+efforts were rewarded with success. The white chest heaved, the fair
+throat throbbed, the lips trembled, closed, and gasped with the first
+returning breath, the snowy eyelids quivered and flew up, and the mild,
+mournful blue eyes looked in amazement upon the strange scene.
+
+Mrs. Fieldhurst put a spoonful of the spiced cordial to her lips. She
+swallowed it mechanically, and revived by its stimulating qualities,
+looked around again in perplexity, and fixing her eyes in wonder upon
+the face of her hostess, inquired:
+
+“What place is this? How came I here?”
+
+“You are at John Fieldhurst’s farm, and now you must drink the rest of
+this and lie still, and be covered up warm to get into a sweat, and go
+to sleep if you can. Then, when you wake up, you shall have a warm,
+nourishing breakfast,” said the farmer’s wife, lifting the invalid’s
+head with one hand, and putting the cordial to her pale lips with the
+other.
+
+Adelaide, from the mere habit of obedience, drank the prescribed
+restorative, and in her feeble state, overcome by its fumes, sank back
+upon her pillow, and before she had time to recollect or understand her
+real position, she fell into a deep, healthful, restoring sleep.
+
+“I have always took notice that it isn’t good to watch a sleeper,” said
+Mrs. Fieldhurst. And she arose and closed the blinds, and shut up the
+room, and left her patient alone to repose.
+
+“Have you made out who she is?” asked the farmer, who was warming his
+feet at the kitchen fire.
+
+“No; she has scarcely come to her right mind yet; she’s dead asleep.
+She’ll tell us when she wakes, I reckon.”
+
+“There’s A. D. marked on her linen, mother.”
+
+“‘A. D.’—let’s see,” said the farmer’s wife, reflecting. “There’s Alice
+Diggs, Colonel Diggs’s youngest daughter—’taint her, I know. And there’s
+Anne Dawson, Mr. Plater’s overseer’s sister.”
+
+“Dear, mother—big Anne Dawson?”
+
+“Then there’s Abigail Drew.”
+
+“Lord, mother, we know all them!”
+
+“Then they are all the A. D.’s I can think of; anyways she’ll tell us
+who she is when she wakes,” said the farmer’s wife.
+
+Now they had all heard the name of Lady Adelaide Deville, but so far was
+she removed from their sphere of thought as well as from their
+neighborhood, and so unlikely was she to be placed in the circumstances
+of their rescued wanderer, that neither her name or existence now
+occurred to them.
+
+“One thing I do not like about her,” said the worthy housewife, “that
+is, all her clothes under her cloak and hood are much too fine. I don’t
+like to see an unprotected young female wear purple and fine linen and
+costly jewelry, like the woman of Babylon.”
+
+While thus they freely conversed, their unfortunate guest, insensible of
+all her troubles, slept on in peace. She slept the sleep of deep
+exhaustion, consequently it was late when she awoke. Oh, what a
+different awakening to that of a few hours preceding, when she opened
+her unconscious eyes to close them soon in sleep. Now, with her
+awakening came first a vague but deep impression of some profound
+calamity, a heavy weight that could not be thrown from her heart. Then,
+with a slight effort of memory, and with a keen pang, came the full tide
+of consciousness. She remembered when and why she had left her home, how
+long she had wandered through the midnight, and when she had fallen and
+become insensible. She recollected opening her eyes a few hours before
+in this very bedchamber, where she could readily judge she had been
+brought by the kind-hearted people who had chanced to find her before
+her life became extinct. All this she knew, or judged, or recollected.
+There was, therefore, no occasion for her to ask questions. But how
+should she answer the questions that should be put to her?
+
+Alas, with her breaking heart, she cared not how! she cared only to save
+the name of Deville from discreditable gossip, and she resolved to
+conceal her identity, and as soon as possible to leave her present place
+of shelter. She was in no haste to be disturbed by the presence of
+others. She would have liked to be alone until she could die. So she lay
+with her arms clasped above her head, quite still for many heavy
+minutes—and until the chamber door was softly opened and the farmer’s
+wife crept cautiously to the bedside and looked over her. Now, much as
+Adelaide wished to be left alone, she was incapable of even a tacit
+deception for that purpose, so opening her eyes, she said—
+
+“I was not asleep.”
+
+“How are you, then?” inquired her hostess, sitting down beside her.
+
+“Well enough, I thank you.”
+
+“Indeed! I am very glad you think so! You—you do not look very well!”
+said Mrs. Fieldhurst. Then going to the door she called to one of the
+young girls in the kitchen, and said—
+
+“Susan, broil the breast of that chicken; make a round of toast and a
+cup of good tea, and bring it in here—quick.”
+
+Then going back to her patient and seating herself beside the bed, she
+said—
+
+“Poor girl! how came you to be out at that time of the morning in the
+snow-storm?”
+
+“I had been out all night,” answered Adelaide.
+
+“All night! powers above! how did that happen, child?”
+
+“My kind friend,” said Adelaide, very gently, “you see in me a poor,
+unfortunate girl who can give no account of herself.”
+
+The face of the honest wife and mother clouded.
+
+“You have been _very_ kind to me; be kinder still by letting me depart
+unquestioned, and I shall always pray God to reward you.”
+
+“She talks of _praying_—but then they _all_ do _that_ when it suits
+them,” thought Mrs. Fieldhurst, looking at her fair young guest and
+feeling completely confused and dumbfoundered by words at once so frank
+and so reserved. At length, recovering her speech, she said—
+
+“Oh, if you make a _mystery_ of it, I have done, of course.”
+
+“You are offended, my kind hostess. I am very sorry for it.”
+
+“No, I am not offended, but I do think after all we have done for—well!
+never mind, I did not mean that, either.”
+
+“You were about to say that after _all_ you had done for me, it was
+ungrateful in me not to confide in you. My kind friend, it is because I
+must not do so! There are many mysteries that nothing but the light of
+another world will make clear. This must remain one of them. Do not be
+displeased, but after I shall have left your house, remember me only as
+a poor, wandering child, whom you have saved from death.”
+
+“I am not displeased.—There, Susan, I will take the waiter; you need not
+come in here. No, I am not displeased, but I think that I shall wait on
+you myself instead of letting my daughters do so,” said the worthy but
+severe matron, as she brought the waiter of refreshments to her patient.
+Now, Adelaide did not in the least understand the drift of these words.
+Her perfect innocence was armor of proof, from which the cruel arrows
+rebounded.
+
+To please her hostess rather than to benefit herself, she partook
+slightly of the viands set before her, and then thanking Mrs.
+Fieldhurst, she said she believed that she would try to rise.
+
+“Why?”
+
+“To proceed on my journey.”
+
+“You are clean crazy. It is almost night now, and though the storm is
+over, yet the roads are impassible, even to my old man’s team; what must
+they be to you?”
+
+“I do not know; but I must attempt it.”
+
+“Young girl, I’m afraid you could not give a very good account of
+yourself if you tried; but one thing certain, unless you’re perfectly
+desperate, and want to make way with yourself, you will not take the
+road to-night.”
+
+“No—nothing on earth would drive me to wanton suicide,” said Adelaide,
+but with a tone and manner that caused the farmer’s wife to answer:
+
+“But let me tell you, young girl, that people who expose themselves to
+death _on purpose_, as may be _you_ did last night, are just as sinful
+as those that put a rope around their own necks or swallow poison.”
+
+Adelaide turned paler than before as she mused—
+
+“I never thought of that. I would not do any thing wrong. God help me,
+is _that_ way of escape closed up too! Lord pity me! Lord help me! Oh!
+what shall I do! Oh! what shall I do! how long must I bear this heart,
+throbbing and burning and aching, and finding no ease at last!”
+
+She clasped her hands upon her forehead and remained in silent anguish
+so long that the farmer’s wife, in a kinder tone, said to her—
+
+“I cannot think of letting you leave us, child, until the weather is
+settled and the roads in good order, and that will not be for several
+days yet.”
+
+“I will not go to-night, if you think I had better stay,” said Adelaide,
+humbly.
+
+“Very well. I am glad you consent. And though _I_ did say I would not
+let the girls come in, to wait on you, yet I will do everything I can
+myself.”
+
+“But why not let the girls come in?” asked the innocent and unsuspicious
+maiden.
+
+“Why not? humph! well I should think you might guess why not!”
+
+“I have no contagious fever—have I?” inquired Adelaide, in perplexity.
+
+“Not as I know of; but there be worse than catching fevers!”
+
+“What _do_ you mean?”
+
+“Well, there, I reckon we won’t say any thing more about it—but young
+gals do not wander about all night in a storm alone, and try to get
+themselves frozen to death, for nothing!”
+
+“Do pray explain yourself,” said Adelaide.
+
+“Well, now, enough said! You be either the cunningest or innocentest
+creetur I ever saw in my life! If you _don’t_ know what I mean, it would
+be a pity to tell you; and if you _do_, it would be no use—there! Make
+yourself easy,” and taking up the waiter, the farmer’s wife returned to
+the kitchen.
+
+The girls had supper prepared and the table set, and their father and
+brother were waiting for their evening-meal.
+
+Mrs. Fieldhurst took her place at the head of the table, and her
+numerous family gathered around the board.
+
+“Well! what do you make of our _find_ now?” asked Mr. Fieldhurst.
+
+“I cannot make any thing at all of her,” answered his wife, who
+thereupon begun and related the substance of the interview that had just
+taken place between herself and Adelaide.
+
+To this the young women listened with the deepest interest, the farmer
+and his son with curiosity.
+
+“Well, I’ll tell you what it is, mother,” said Mr. Fieldhurst, “_I_ do
+not think she is a bad one, because you see if she _was_, she need not
+displease you by reserve when she could so easily trump up a fair story
+to account for being out in the storm at night. So, until we find her
+out to be guilty, let us take it for granted that she is innocent.”
+
+“I think so too,” said John.
+
+And so said the girls.
+
+“You are not asked to think any thing about the young tramper,” sharply
+exclaimed their mother.
+
+The farmer arose from the table, took his pipe, filled and lighted it,
+and sat down in the chimney-corner to smoke.
+
+John took down his fowling-piece and established himself in the other
+corner to clean the barrel.
+
+The mother and her daughters busied themselves with washing up the
+supper-service, clearing away the table and restoring the room to order.
+
+After which they took their knitting-work and sat down to knit, until
+the farmer had finished his pipe.
+
+Then they gathered together and offered up family-worship. In his
+prayers, the father of this household remembered the wayfarer that had
+been so strangely cast upon their care.
+
+Then they separated for the night.
+
+The next morning the farmer’s family arose early, that the farmer and
+his son might breakfast by times, and once more try the road to market.
+
+For an hour or more they were all very busy until Mr. Fieldhurst and
+John were fairly started. Then Mrs. Fieldhurst began to think of her
+guest. She bade Susan make up some delicate butter-cakes, and broil a
+nice slice of ham, and set fresh tea to draw, while she herself carried
+water in to their patient.
+
+And so saying, she filled a ewer and opened the door of the inner room.
+To her surprise, she found both the bed and the room empty. Her clothing
+that she had lent to the young girl was folded neatly, and laid upon a
+chair. Adelaide’s own garments, that had been hanging on a wooden rack,
+were gone.
+
+While Mrs. Fieldhurst was looking around in astonishment, she descried a
+little note stuck in the corner of the looking-glass. She took it down,
+opened it and read these lines written in pencil—
+
+“Good friends: to avoid altercation and to relieve you from
+embarrassment I depart quietly. Last night I heard you in your evening
+devotions praying ‘for one in bitter need.’ For that and all your
+kindness to the poor wanderer may God bless you.”
+
+“Left the house, I do declare!” exclaimed the farmer’s wife in
+consternation. Her next thought was cruelly unjust:
+
+“Susan, Mary, Jane, the tramper has run off, without letting anybody
+know when she was going! run in all of you and help me to look over the
+press and the chest of drawers to see if there is nothing missing.”
+
+With many exclamations of astonishment, the girls hurried in and
+assisted in the search.
+
+It is needless to say that all was found safe.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XIX.
+                                LIONNE.
+
+                  And to be wroth with one we love
+                  Doth work like madness in the brain.
+
+
+Dashing her single spur into her horse’s flank, Lionne galloped
+furiously, with reeling, headlong speed, across the bridge and down to
+the road below. There the snow-drifts impeded her flight, and she had to
+labor heavily through them until she reached a bleak track blown clear
+by the winds. There she again spurred her horse and took flight as if
+possessed by a demon. And she _was_ possessed by a demon. Burning,
+agonizing, maddening sense of wrong, roused her whole soul to a frenzy
+of indignation, that seemed to hail down lightning from Heaven to scathe
+and consume and exterminate her enemy.
+
+Such just and fiery maledictions never bless their subject, and never,
+never fail to blight their object. Yet it is better to forgive; all the
+ends of justice are quite as well answered. Wrongs for which the law
+affords no remedy, never fail to receive punishment from the righteous
+hand of God, _even in this world._
+
+For instance, I have seen the slanderer “lying loud” against the
+innocent and helpless, brought to unexpected ruin.
+
+I have seen the scornful oppressor of God’s meek poor humbled to the
+very dust.
+
+I have seen the wrong-doer brought by God’s justice, overwhelmed and
+helpless, to the feet of his victim.
+
+These things I have seen with my eyes in the forenoon of my life.
+
+But what knew this wretched girl of God except his name, or of the sure
+retributions of this life, in anywise? Nothing.
+
+And frantic with her wrongs, craving vengeance with all the fierce
+passions of her fiery soul, breathing maledictions enough to have
+infested a continent with plagues, she hurled herself and steed
+furiously along the “river-road.”
+
+And thus she rushed wildly through the day.
+
+Night brought her to the cabin of a pioneer. The owner was absent, and
+the cabin empty; but, with the freedom of forest-life she entered, led
+in her horse, found oats for him and dried venison for herself, and
+water from the spring for both, and after tending him, and drinking a
+large draught of water to cool her burning thirst, she threw herself
+down upon a hard straw pallet, but not to sleep; to clasp her burning
+brow, and roll and toss and tear at her own distracted head and breast,
+as though she would tear thence the insufferable agony. There came
+another mood, a mood that must have surprised her had her soul had any
+room for surprise; it was a transient return of inexpressible tenderness
+for her destroyer—a longing to be with him, and to sob out her great
+agony on his bosom; then, with unutterable accession of woe, came the
+remembrance that this must not and ought not to be, and then a
+consciousness of utter and eternal bereavement, that whirled her whole
+soul in a storm of frenzy.
+
+So passed the night.
+
+With morning came the thought—the question, who has caused me all this
+anguish, and why has he caused it?—bringing again the frenzied sense of
+insufferable wrongs, and the raging longing for vengeance. Thus burning
+love and bitter hatred, relenting tenderness and desolating revenge,
+warring incessantly, made a pandemonium of her bosom.
+
+She resumed her journey, keeping the “river-road” along the eastern bank
+of the Potomac, until she reached the ferry-house opposite to
+Alexandria. There she crossed the river, and struck into “Braddock’s
+road,” leading far into the Western wilderness.
+
+At the close of her third day’s journey, when the sun was setting behind
+the ridge of mountains that sheltered the lonely stone-house, she
+reached home.
+
+She had been gone seven days.
+
+Vulcan, the giant-dwarf, was sitting in the doorway. Too accustomed to
+the eccentric manners of his mistress to feel surprised at her long
+absence or her sudden return, he grinned, nodded, and got up to open the
+gate. Then, on lifting his head up and meeting her eyes, he saw for the
+first time, the stony woe that had turned to marble every feature of
+that once fine face. That wistful glance was enough, and was instantly
+withdrawn.
+
+Not with her usual lightsome smile and spring did Lionne greet her old
+attendant, and bound from the saddle. With the ghost of a smile and a
+faint word, she let herself drop to the ground, and gathering up the
+skirt of her riding-habit, now deeply soiled with mud from the great
+thaw, she passed sadly into the house.
+
+“Has my father reached home yet, Vulcan?” was her first question.
+
+“No, Lionne, you know he said nine days; it’s been but seven! he won’t
+be here before day after to-morrow.”
+
+Lionne went up-stairs, threw herself on the bed and longed for death.
+
+Mr. Delaforêt did not come upon the ninth day, nor yet upon the
+eighteenth. And Lionne brooded in alternate moods of fierce or sullen
+anguish over her deep wrongs and the most terrible manner of avenging
+them.
+
+That last, fierce snow-storm had been the valedictory address of winter.
+The spring came on apace. Mr. Delaforêt returned; but not looking the
+same as when he left home. His form was drawn up, his head erect, his
+eye bright, his step elastic, a certain cheerful dignity in every tone
+and motion. His glance followed Lionne everywhere with proud joy.
+
+Alas, Lionne did not understand, nor care for, nor even, perhaps,
+observe her father’s change of expression. She was too absorbed in her
+own wretchedness to notice his cheerfulness. She only shrunk from his
+gaze; and as day followed day, more and more sensitively she shrank from
+all eyes around. As the weather moderated and settled, Lionne resumed
+her wild forest-habits, spending her days in long rides, long walks, and
+long watchings in the vast solitudes of nature.
+
+For sometime the exquisitely torturing memories awakened by the
+associations of her grotto, kept her from its neighborhood.
+
+Who has not, after the loss of a beloved friend, been pierced to the
+heart by even the accidental, sudden sight of some place or object
+closely associated with the lost love?
+
+Thus Lionne shivered in anguish at the sight of her grotto. It had been
+full of love and joy—it was now vacant and solitary as her own aching
+heart, or else filled with agonizing associations as was her desolate
+heart with perverted passions.
+
+At last, however, Lionne began to try to use herself to the sight of the
+grotto. Her first visit there was signalized by a gush of wild grief.
+Her second and third were scarcely less agonizing to her heart; but at
+last she bore the trial with equanimity, and even began to restore the
+place to order and make it almost habitable.
+
+Hay was thickly spread over the rugged floor to fill up its
+inequalities, and a carpet was laid down. Next a pitcher and glass were
+conveyed thither. Then a low chair; and finally a pillow and comforter.
+Here, in this grotto, Lionne spent many hours of each day; and as the
+season still advanced, here, unknown to her father, she came to sleep at
+night. One day she came down-stairs with the intention of going to her
+grotto, when her father called her from the door of his sitting-room.
+
+She turned and went in.
+
+He was sitting in his usual place beside the centre-table, his head
+raised and a look of proud exultation in his face, as he held out his
+hand to his daughter and said:
+
+“Lionne, you are very beautiful, my child!—I know you will be considered
+so in the world we are about to enter. Come near and sit down beside me,
+my dear.”
+
+Lionne approached and dropped wearily in the chair that her father, with
+stately, old-fashioned courtesy, had placed for her accommodation.
+
+“By the way, now that I look at you more closely, you are thin and pale,
+Lionne!—and—why do you wrap yourself in that large shawl? Are you not
+well?”
+
+“I am well, but—_cold_,” said Lionne, with a shiver.
+
+“Chills, I should not wonder! You expose yourself recklessly to the
+noonday sun and the midnight vapors. You must give up such wild ways,
+Lionne, or rather you will naturally resign them, in the world to which
+we are going. And in the meantime I must bring a physician from
+Winchester to prescribe for you.”
+
+“Oh, no, no, no!” exclaimed Lionne in alarm: “I am not sick; I never had
+a chill in my life; it is but the freshness of the day that I feel.”
+
+“Very well; I am glad to hear it. And now, my daughter,” said Mr.
+Delaforêt, solemnly, “I am about to speak of that which should drive
+chills from your heart forever!”
+
+Lionne turned suddenly and deadly pale, but a glance at her father’s
+calmly exultant face reassured her. He was not about to enter upon a
+humiliating subject—he knew nothing of _her_ secret.
+
+“Lionne,” continued the recluse, “have you ever suspected your father to
+be other than he has seemed, the poor Scotch pioneer?”
+
+“No, sir.”
+
+“Then, my daughter, know me now as the Earl of Glen Lennark, and the
+representive of one of the oldest earldoms of the united kingdom,” said
+Mr. Delaforêt, with pardonable exultation. For after so many years of
+renunciation, the resumption of his title filled him with triumph.
+
+Lionne did not seem in the least to sympathize with this feeling. She
+sat and gazed at her father in a sort of apathy, which he pleasantly
+mistook for the stupor of astonishment.
+
+“Yes,” he continued, “and my young lioness of the forest is no longer
+Lionne Delaforêt, but—Lady Leonore Lorne!”
+
+“LORNE!” exclaimed Lionne, with a half-smothered shriek, sinking back in
+her chair and covering her face with her hands.
+
+“Lady Leonora, what is the meaning of this agitation?” asked her father
+in the utmost astonishment.
+
+Lionne struggled with herself, and by a supreme effort regained
+self-command, dropped her hands from before her face, and looking up,
+said—
+
+“All this that you have told me, my father, is so strange that it quite
+startled me.”
+
+“_You_ hysterical? Who would have thought it of you?”
+
+Lionne made an effort to seem interested.
+
+“What has happened, father, that, after all these years of seclusion and
+secrecy, you at last reveal to me your rank and title, and talk of going
+into another world?”
+
+“My child, I was a warm partizan of Charles Edward, the young Chevalier,
+the last of the Stuarts. After his fatal defeat and the total dispersion
+of his followers, I became a fugitive and an exile. Within the last few
+months I have been pardoned, and restored to my rank and country.”
+
+“Then you will return to Scotland?” asked Lionne, forcing herself to
+talk.
+
+“No; first to France, where I shall place you at boarding-school for two
+years. At the end of which time I shall bring you out in London and
+present you at court, where I predict that the singular beauty of
+Leonora Lorne will rather startle those accustomed only to conventional
+faces.”
+
+Lionne shivered, but did not reply.
+
+“And now,” continued her father, “while I am making confidences, let me
+tell you why it was that last autumn, I, in one instance, departed from
+my usual rule of strict privacy, and admitted to my house young Orville
+Deville.”
+
+Lionne suddenly averted her head to conceal the deadly paleness of her
+face.
+
+“It was because he was my half-nephew, my step-sister, Elizabeth Lorne,
+having married Mr. Deville, of Maryland. You did not think, when you
+were succoring Mr. Deville, that you were saving the life of your own
+cousin!”
+
+“No, sir,” said Lionne, with forced calmness.
+
+“Well, my child, I have told you the great secret of my life. We leave
+this place on the first of July. Pack up what you need for your journey,
+or wish to preserve as souvenirs of your forest life. You will need
+clothing and many other things. Here is a purse with a hundred guineas.
+Take Vulcan as protection, and go to Winchester to make purchases of
+such things as you need,” said her father, putting a heavy purse in her
+hand.
+
+Lionne took it mechanically, and with faintly spoken thanks retired from
+the room, and then, despair in her heart and madness in her brain, she
+cast the purse into a corner of the hall and rushed wildly from the
+house, and on, on, on frantically to the brink of the river, and walked
+up and down its sands.
+
+Anon she threw herself upon her face and rolled in agony, smiting her
+breast, tearing her hair out by handfulls, and groaning—
+
+“Ah, what can I do? what can I do to escape the coming wreck? Would that
+I could go mad, or break my heart and die! But I cannot! I cannot! brain
+and breast are too strong to give way! What shall I do? oh, what shall I
+do?”
+
+Again she started to her feet, and walked wildly up and down the banks
+of the river, and wringing her hands and crying—
+
+“He is so proud and happy in his reviving fortunes! He expects so much
+from me; alas! he has no other child but me! and I am about to turn all
+the sweetness of his love to gall and bitterness! to change all the
+glory of his triumph to the deep dishonor of——Oh, heaven! I cannot—I
+cannot bear it! Why can I not die? Death! Death! you are this night, as
+always, battening on reluctant prey! Leave your unwilling victims
+to-night—restore the dying to the loving, and come and take me, who am a
+shame to the dead and a curse to the living! Come and take me, who calls
+for you as the greatest boon in the gift of fate! Alas! Death will not
+come! he is like man! he turns away from a too-willing bride!”
+
+She paused and gazed moodily down into the depths of the river. The
+water just below her was very deep, and clear, and still.
+
+“_There_ is peace—deep peace,” she said, musingly. “_Is_ suicide the one
+great, last and unpardonable sin?—the sin for which there is no pardon,
+because for it there can be no repentance. I do not know that! I never
+saw a command in the Scripture forbidding suicide! And the old classic
+moralists often looked upon it as an act of virtue. Ah, I know that it
+is not an act of virtue, but neither can it be in all cases an
+unpardonable sin! I die to expiate my sin! I die to save my father from
+the deep dishonor of my life! I die, oh heaven, repenting that I must
+die!” exclaimed Lionne, and raising both hands above her head, she
+leaped from the bank. She felt herself suddenly and powerfully checked,
+and she fell back into the arms of—Vulcan, the Dwarf!
+
+“You shall _not_ die! There is _no_ peace _there_ or _elsewhere_ for the
+self-destroyer!” said the old man, with stern solemnity.
+
+“Oh, Vulcan! Vulcan! you know not what you have done!” exclaimed Lionne,
+in a voice of despair, as she cast herself down upon the sands.
+
+“I _do_ know, my child! I know that I have saved you from changing
+transient trouble into eternal misery! there is no repentance in the
+grave, Lionne.”
+
+“Oh, Vulcan! Vulcan! which is worse, _death_, or _dishonor_?”
+
+“Death,” said the old man, sturdily—“when it is the death of a suicide.
+But there is no need, Lionne, for the one or the other. Ah, my child! my
+child, whom I have known longer than you have known yourself! my child,
+whom for sixteen years I have carried in my arms—confide in your old
+servant and he will save you! Confide in your old brute, who asks no
+better than to lay down his life in your service!”
+
+“Oh, Vulcan! Vulcan! you know not what you ask! You know not why I ought
+to die!”
+
+“I know all, my child, and I know that you ought to live!”
+
+“I ought to live! Oh yes, I ought to live for vengeance!”
+
+“‘Vengeance is mine, and I will repay, saith the Lord.’”
+
+“_Oh-h-h!_” aspirated the lost one, in a low, deep, quick, fierce tone,
+that thrilled to the very marrow of the hearer’s bones—“_Oh-h-h!_ may
+the judgment fall from heaven, a thunderbolt of fire upon his naked
+head—scathing! burning! blasting! biting through brain, and heart, and
+vitals, until his whole nature shrivels up as a worm in the flames!”
+
+As she spoke, her look was terrible! her eyes blazed, her lips glowed,
+her face was white as the light ashes of a living coal! One might almost
+fancy the vengeance she had invoked, darting, a fork-tongued serpent of
+fire from her lips, to strike its fangs deep in the heart of her
+destroyer.
+
+“Lionne! Lionne! for the Saviour’s sake, hush! hush! Your very breath is
+enough to wither all the fair herbage of this fair day!” cried Vulcan,
+in horror.
+
+“I know it! Oh, I know it! Oh-h! I know it!—I could cast my body in
+burning flames and not feel them, because of the fiercer fire in my
+soul! But it is a fire that shall consume my foe—mind, and soul, and
+spirit! flesh, and blood, and bones!”
+
+“Oh, my child! for the Lord’s sake, be patient!”
+
+“Don’t talk to me of patience or of the Lord! I am not patient and I am
+not a child of the Lord! I am a child of Satan, and will live to do the
+work of my father!”
+
+“Oh, my girl! my girl! you utter blasphemies!”
+
+“Yes! a child of Satan am I! could I not now live in his fires?”
+
+“Poor child, you are mad! God will not hold you accountable for these
+ravings!” said Vulcan, gazing piteously upon her.
+
+Lionne, felled by her own fierce passions, had fallen again upon the
+sands, where she writhed like a crushed worm.
+
+Vulcan stood and folded his hands and prayed for her.
+
+At last the “waters of Marah” flowed over her soul and quenched its
+fires. Her burning indignation was melted into bitter tears.
+
+“If I had been a weak or a selfish girl——I should have deserved my fate,
+and yet, not suffered from it so bitterly. But I was not! the love I
+gave that traitor was as pure as the loves of the angels!” she
+exclaimed, with a burst of grief.
+
+“I know it! I know it, my child!” murmured the dwarf, gently.
+
+“And _he_ was sure of it! thence his blackest deception! Vulcan! he led
+me before God’s minister and made me his wife, in the sight of heaven
+and earth! Look! here is the certificate of our marriage!” she cried,
+and drawing the document from her bosom, she held it up before the
+dwarf.
+
+“I knew there must have been something like that! but since you are his
+wife, he must be forced to acknowledge and protect you!”
+
+“If I _were_ his wife, he should not be forced to any thing, even if it
+were to save my life from death or my soul from perdition! but I am
+_not_ his wife! he was married before! and this certificate is not worth
+the paper it is written upon!” exclaimed Lionne, fiercely tearing the
+instrument.
+
+Vulcan snatched it from her hands, exclaiming—
+
+“It is worth every thing! A gold mine should not purchase it! it is
+_your_ justification and _his_ condemnation! This instrument produced in
+court would consign the proud Orville Deville of River-view, the husband
+of the high-born Lady Adelaide, to slavery in the penal colonies for
+half his life! Lionne, would that not be a just and satisfactory
+retribution?”
+
+“No! no! no! it would take him far away out of my reach and power! No!
+if I live for vengeance, I must work it out with my own hands, and watch
+its operation, and he must know it! No hand shall torture him but mine!
+no eye shall watch his writhing but mine! no soul shall know the secret
+that shall turn all his life to living death but me! You are right,
+however, about the certificate! It is a tremendous instrument of power
+in my hands!”
+
+“Lionne! come home!”
+
+“Home! home! I cannot! I dare not! Ah, Vulcan, did my father know what
+you know he would put a pistol to his forehead and blow his desperate
+brains out!”
+
+“He need not know it!” said Vulcan, soothingly. “Desperate evils require
+desperate remedies. The brilliant life that might have been yours in the
+revived fortunes of your father, is, of course, forfeited. You cannot
+carry your deep wrongs into that world of which he so fondly speaks.”
+
+“Therefore, you see there is nothing left me but to die,” said Lionne,
+in a voice of despair.
+
+“Oh, you must not speak of death! You dare not die! You must live for
+the sake of that other little life that your fatal love has evoked.”
+
+“Ah! what would you have me to do?”
+
+“Die to your father, but live for your child!”
+
+“Oh, what mean you?”
+
+“Your father, who could not bear dishonor, would be strong to support
+grief. You must inflict upon him sorrow to save him from despair!”
+
+“Riddles! riddles! you talk in riddles!”
+
+“Then I will speak plainly. I know an old Indian doctress, who will
+attend you faithfully in your coming trial, and take charge of your
+child, if it lives, for a season. Your father need know nothing of this.
+Afterwards, Kalougoora, my Indian, will give you a safe sleeping potion,
+that shall put you in a state closely resembling death. You will seem to
+die! Your father will grieve bitterly, but other matters will demand his
+attention and divert his sorrow! He will return to England, and in time
+find happiness. Meanwhile, I will ensure your safety, and convey you to
+the wigwam of Kalougoora, to stay until we can fix upon some plan for
+the future.”
+
+Lionne reflected for a moment and then said:
+
+“Vulcan, you have saved me for the present! for what after-fate—who
+knoweth?”
+
+“Will you now come home, Lionne?”
+
+“Yes,” she said, rising and giving him her hand.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XX.
+                               ADELAIDE.
+
+           And she was lost and yet I breathed,
+             But not the breath of common life.
+           A serpent ’round my heart was wreathed
+             That stung its every thought to strife.—_Byron._
+
+
+For many days all Mr. Deville’s efforts to trace Adelaide were vain.
+Those were not the times of telegraphs, railroads, country papers and
+cheap postage. Instead of flying in an instant from one extremity of the
+continent to another, news crept slowly from house to house. Thus,
+though Mr. Deville never left his saddle and his emissaries never
+relaxed their inquiries, yet ten days had passed before they heard a
+rumor that a young person, answering to the description of Lady Adelaide
+Deville, had been found in the snow, insensible with cold, and had been
+conveyed to the Fieldhurst Farm, distant about thirteen miles from
+River-view.
+
+Mr. Deville put spurs to his horse and galloped without delay to the
+house of John Fieldhurst.
+
+There he found the tale confirmed—a beautiful young girl, apparently
+about fifteen or sixteen years of age, of a slight and graceful form,
+fair complexion, golden hair and blue eyes with a gentle manner and a
+sweet-toned voice, had been picked out of the snow and succored at the
+farm-house.
+
+Her garments, like her person, bespoke her of high rank, refined habits,
+and delicate tastes. Her linen was marked with the initials A. D. She
+had remained but a night and departed silently the next day, leaving
+behind her a note and a costly diamond-ring.
+
+That was all that they could tell him. They had heard nothing of her
+after-fate.
+
+With a groan, Orville desired to see the ring and the note, and when
+they were produced he recognized both as belonging to Lady Adelaide, and
+took possession of them in her name. And with many thanks to the family
+for their succor of his bride, and many earnest requests that they would
+assist him in his search by making every possible inquiry for her in
+their neighborhood, Orville took leave and returned home.
+
+When he entered the parlor his mother, who sat by the centre-table
+engaged in sewing, drew an awkward looking letter from her work basket
+and handed him, with the words:
+
+“Here, Orville, I cannot help thinking that this queer-looking epistle
+brings news of our Adelaide—though the superscription is misspelled in a
+style that would be perfectly horrible, if it were not so ridiculous.”
+
+Orville seized the letter with almost rude haste, was ill-folded, dirty,
+greasy, blotted, and directed to
+
+                      “Mister Awful Devil Eskvire
+                             of River-vue.”
+
+“Did you ever in your life see such preposterous spelling?” said Lady
+Elizabeth.
+
+“It strikes me that the name is spelt correctly, mother,” said Orville
+Deville, with a sorrowful sarcasm, as he tore the letter open and read:
+
+  “MISTER AWFUL DEVIL SUR,—A yung wummun like the wun yu lawst, strade
+  to mi howse on Sadderdy last, whare she was tuk with a brane feever in
+  Hur hed. pleeze kum and se if it is the saim, and obleege yores toe
+  kummand
+
+                                 “JOHN TWIGS at the sine of the Myrtle.”
+
+“It _must_ be her, poor child! She is ill at the Myrtle Inn, on the New
+Cut Road. Oh, mother, you will go with me to attend her?” inquired
+Orville, in agitation.
+
+“I will go with you to ascertain the facts, and if I find her I shall
+remain to nurse her,” said Lady Elizabeth, ringing for her maid to
+assist her in dressing for the ride, while Mr. Deville went out to order
+the carriage.
+
+In another hour they were on their way to the Myrtle Inn, which was
+distant thirty miles from River-view.
+
+As more than half the day had been consumed by Mr. Deville in his ride
+to and from the Fieldhurst Farm, it was now three o’clock when they set
+out from River-view for the inn. They drove rapidly along the Bush Creek
+Road until they reached Bush Creek Mill, where they turned off to the
+left into the country road leading through the heart of the forest, and
+continued their journey until they reached Fieldhurst Farm.
+
+Here Lady Elizabeth would have alighted to make fresh inquiries, but her
+son, on fire with impatience, assured her that there was no more
+intelligence to be gained there, and ordered the coachman to turn to the
+right and drive faster.
+
+They entered the New Cut Road, and after a rapid ride of six hours in
+all, they reached the Myrtle Inn—a large, two-story, brown-stone house,
+situated in a small clearing of the forest, on the left hand of the New
+Cut Road.
+
+Leaving his mother seated in the carriage, Mr. Deville sprang out and
+ran into the quiet little bar, where his correspondent, the little,
+short, fat landlord, sat alone, idly smoking his pipe while waiting for
+a chance customer in the shape of a wagoner. This little personage laid
+down his pipe and inquired now he could serve the gentleman.
+
+“My name is Deville,” said Orville.
+
+“Oh! the gentleman as I writ to ’bout the young woman. What a desput
+pity she should o’ gone crazy and wandered off, afore her friends
+suspicioned any thing was amiss with her head-piece,” said the host.
+
+“Oh! that is the fortunate construction the people put upon her flight,
+is it?” thought Orville within himself. Aloud he inquired—
+
+“First of all, how is the young lady?”
+
+“She’s better, sir; but very feeble. Our doctor has fotch her through,
+as one may say, like a brand from the burning!”
+
+As they spoke, Lady Elizabeth, who had alighted and hastened after her
+son, entered in time to hear the landlord’s report of his guest’s
+condition.
+
+“I think, Orville,” she said, “that you had better remain here and
+gather all the details that you can get from Mr. Twigs, while I go up
+and see our dear girl.”
+
+“As you think best, mother,” said Mr. Deville.
+
+“Can you call some one to show me up to my daughter, sir?” asked Lady
+Elizabeth, of the landlord.
+
+“Certainly, ma’am!—here Jenny! Jenny!”
+
+A fair-haired, blue-eyed little girl of twelve came out from an inner
+room and curtsied respectfully to the strangers.
+
+“Jenny, show this lady up to the young lady’s sick-room.”
+
+With another curtsey, the little maiden said—
+
+“This way, ma’am,” and conducted Lady Elizabeth through a side-door into
+the hall, and thence up the narrow stairs to a medium-sized front room,
+where, on a neat, white-draped bed, lay Adelaide, alone and apparently
+sleeping.
+
+“Do you leave her alone?” inquired the lady, in a tone of displeasure.
+
+“Oh, no, ma’am. I watch her, and had only just run down to get a drink
+of water, when father saw me and called me in,” replied the little
+maiden.
+
+“You may go now, and leave me with my daughter,” said her ladyship.
+
+The little girl withdrew quietly, closing the door after her.
+
+Lady Elizabeth laid off her bonnet and mantle, and quietly drew a chair
+to the side of the bed, to wait until the patient should awake. Adelaide
+lay perfectly still, with her fair, transparent hands folded upon her
+young, saintly bosom in perfect repose, her eyelids resting upon her
+delicate cheek, and her long, pale hair flowing down each side of her
+paler face.
+
+“Poor child! poor, sensitive child! how much she must have suffered
+secretly, e’er she was driven to this!” said Lady Elizabeth.
+
+While she watched, Adelaide opened her gentle eyes, and with a slight
+start recognized her mother-in law.
+
+“Lady Elizabeth! _you_ here!” she exclaimed, in a faint tone of
+astonishment.
+
+“Yes, sweet girl! I have come to take care of you until you are able to
+return with me!” said the elder lady, judiciously refraining from
+expressing the least surprise or annoyance.
+
+“Ah! fate is against me! fate is against me!” mourned the unhappy one,
+covering her face with her attenuated, fair hands.
+
+“Why should you say fate is against you, our dear one? Providence has
+loaded you with blessings! Youth, beauty, accomplishments, wealth, and
+last, but by no means least, the first and undivided love of your
+husband!” said the matron, soothingly.
+
+Adelaide looked up in sad surprise, repeating almost unconsciously,
+“‘The first and undivided love’ of my husband.”
+
+“Why, surely yes! it is a truth too manifest to dwell upon! He scarcely
+knows another woman—scarcely shares his heart even with his mother. You
+have it all.”
+
+“Is it possible she knows nothing of Lionne?” thought Adelaide, looking
+wistfully into the face of her mother-in-law.
+
+The examination was satisfactory. Orville’s mother knew nothing of
+Orville’s duplicate marriage.
+
+“And yet how does she account to herself for my leaving the house?”
+thought Adelaide.
+
+Her thought was soon answered by Lady Elizabeth’s next observation.
+
+“I do wonder that you should have imagined Orville cold and neglectful
+of you, when nothing was farther from his heart, as he will soon prove.”
+
+“Oh,” thought Adelaide, “she thinks I left home because he slighted me!”
+She remained silent, while Lady Elizabeth continued talking very much in
+the same vein.
+
+Orville’s partial and confiding mother knew nothing of her son’s sins,
+and Orville’s heart-broken young wife would not accuse her husband. Yet
+how to escape without exposing him?
+
+“Will you see Orville now, my dear?” inquired Lady Elizabeth.
+
+“Is he here?” exclaimed Adelaide, in surprise.
+
+“Why, of course he is, my dear! Orville has been consumed with anxiety
+since you left. See him, my dear.”
+
+“Oh, not to-night, please! not to-night!” said Adelaide, clasping her
+hands pleadingly.
+
+“Well, certainly it _is_ very late—nearly ten o’clock! It was nine when
+we got here. He must wait until to-morrow,” admitted Lady Elizabeth, who
+then rang and ordered the chambermaid to make her up a bed in Adelaide’s
+room, saying that she should remain with her daughter both day and night
+until the recovery of the latter.
+
+And while the servant obeyed these directions, the lady who had given
+them went down-stairs to give her news of their patient to Orville, and
+to join him at their plain supper.
+
+Orville had gathered but little further details from the landlord, and
+that, such as it was, proved more mortifying than satisfactory: namely,
+that one evening, nearly two weeks before, the young lady had reached
+the inn, alone, on foot, and in a complete state of exhaustion. They
+could do no otherwise than take her in.
+
+That night, brain-fever had declared itself, and in the morning the
+chambermaid discovered her in high delirium. A purse of money was found
+in her pocket, but there was no clue to her identity.
+
+At noon, when the neighborhood’s physician stopped to water his horse
+and brandy himself, he was called to her bedside, and had since attended
+her regularly. That he, John Twigs, had heard only three or four days
+before of the missing girl from River-view, and had written accordingly.
+This was all, but quite enough deeply to humiliate the proud and
+fastidious Devilles.
+
+“I cannot understand at all your neglect of your beautiful bride,
+Orville! and neither can I comprehend how she should take it so _very_
+deeply to heart as actually to leave the house! The whole thing is
+incomprehensible to me!” said Lady Elizabeth.
+
+“I did not mean to neglect her, and heaven knows I was far from
+indifference; but she is a morbidly sensitive child,” said Orville,
+suppressing all mention of Lionne, which would have explained the whole
+matter.
+
+“Evidently she is so deeply, deeply hurt, that she shrinks even from
+hearing your name.”
+
+“Then I had better refrain from forcing myself upon her—for the
+present,” said Orville.
+
+After supper Lady Elizabeth inspected the chamber that had been prepared
+for her son, to see that the room was well ventilated, the sheets were
+well aired, etc., and then bade him good-night and retired to Adelaide’s
+apartment.
+
+“Do you sit up with her?” inquired the lady of the little girl who
+attended her with a lighted lamp.
+
+“The neighbors used to when she was very ill, but now I only sleep in
+the room in case she wants any thing.”
+
+“Then you may retire, and leave that duty to me for the future.”
+
+When the little girl had left the room, Lady Elizabeth drew an
+arm-chair, and took her place at the side of the bed.
+
+On looking more closely at Adelaide, she perceived, to her alarm, that
+the patient was not sleeping, but lying in a state of gentle delirium,
+and at intervals murmuring low, sad, inaudible lamentations.
+
+By means of stooping low and listening attentively, she heard her
+murmur:
+
+“Oh, lay me in the quiet earth, beneath the gentle overbending trees;
+let me sleep and forget—sleep and forget!”
+
+And then followed sighs and silence. Presently the feverish lips moved
+again, and she said:
+
+“I love too much, too much! My love _burns_ whom it means to _bless!_
+and it is thrown back upon me to consume the heart and frame in which it
+lives! Oh, lay me down where the shade is always deep and dark, and the
+dew is always fresh and cool—it will draw the fire from my burning heart
+and beating brain, and cool me into sleep!”
+
+Lady Elizabeth applied such sedatives as she found at hand and as her
+experience had proved to be efficacious in such cases of excitement.
+
+Presently, partially recovering from that wandering state of mind,
+Adelaide looked up, and recognizing Lady Elizabeth, said:
+
+“Oh, mother, mother, there is in this world no room at all for my
+heart—_none, none_! Like Noah’s poor banished dove, it wanders over a
+waste of waters, finding no single spot to repose for an instant.”
+
+To these plaintive words, Lady Elizabeth replied by the tenderest
+caresses, and the most affectionate words—
+
+“You are ill now, my love, and you labor under an illusion. Your heart’s
+home is in your husband’s bosom.”
+
+At that word, Adelaide shrank like a sensitive plant, and soon after
+relapsed into wandering and low delirium.
+
+Lady Elizabeth passed the night in watching beside the patient’s bed.
+
+The morning found Adelaide weaker from her night of fever and of partial
+delirium.
+
+In a word, the shock of the sudden arrival of the Devilles had
+occasioned in Adelaide a serious relapse.
+
+Orville, at the suggestion of his mother, returned to River-view.
+
+Lady Elizabeth remained and nursed her patient with tenderness and
+skill. The physician, stimulated by the discovery of his patient’s rank
+and wealth, redoubled his attentions. But with the best medical advice,
+and the most devoted nursing, it was still a fortnight before Adelaide
+could leave her chamber.
+
+Upon the third day after her first appearance in the parlor, Lady
+Elizabeth said to her:
+
+“Adelaide my dear, to-morrow Orville will arrive with our
+travelling-carriage, and we will return home.”
+
+“Oh, no, no, no! I cannot! Indeed I cannot! Send me away to some far
+distant place, to some quiet family, where I can live, obscure and
+unknown, until God is willing to let me die!” pleaded the suffering
+girl, clasping her fragile hands and raising her beseeching eyes to the
+face of her protectress.
+
+“Lady Adelaide Deville, your proposition is an insane one! Consider your
+husband! A wife has _no right_, thus, without just cause, to leave her
+husband! What would Orville say? What would your Christian friends—what
+would the _world_ say? My dear, your proposal is perfectly
+preposterous.”
+
+“Mother, you have been _more_ than a mother to me. Hear me! bear with
+me! Suppose that my honor and dignity, and—and Orville’s happiness, are
+concerned in my going; and let me, oh, let me depart!”
+
+“Nonsense, my dear child; you are hurt, _deeply_ hurt, and you think
+that Orville does not love you; but I know that he does, and that he
+will soon convince you of it.”
+
+“Oh, mother! mother! you do not know what you say! Oh, believe me, I
+_ought not_ and _must not_ return to River-view!” pleaded Adelaide, with
+her hands still clasped and her blue eyes still fixed beseechingly upon
+her companion’s face.
+
+“My sweet child, I not only know what I say, but I know what I _do_! I
+am thirty years older than you are, Lady Adelaide; I am, besides, your
+guardian, and my son is your husband. We have a legal, though limited
+disposal of your person. I shall assuredly take you back to River-view.
+And Lady Adelaide is too meek and modest, as well as too conscientious,
+to rebel against lawful authority,” said Lady Elizabeth, with a manner
+that admitted of no opposition.
+
+Adelaide dropped her hands upon her lap with a look of despair.
+
+“All that is left for me, then,” she thought, “is to have an explanation
+with Mr. Deville. Yes, painful, distressing, revolting as it is, I must
+see him once again, and leave it to him to explain to his mother why it
+is that I cannot remain under his roof.”
+
+While Adelaide was reluctantly coming to this resolution, Lady Elizabeth
+relapsed into silence, fearing that further conversation might too much
+excite her patient.
+
+Late that evening Orville arrived in the family-carriage.
+
+“How is my dear Adelaide?” was his first inquiry, on meeting his mother.
+
+“Heart-sick and brain-sick, though otherwise convalescent. I sometimes
+suspect that there may be more reason than appears for her sorrow,”
+looking wistfully into Orville’s face.
+
+“Where is she? I must see her,” said Mr. Deville.
+
+“You cannot, to-night! she has retired to rest, and is probably
+sleeping. And really, it is time that we should do the same.”
+
+In the morning Lady Adelaide arose before her usual time, and while her
+mother-in-law was still sleeping, dressed herself and descended to the
+parlor.
+
+At the same hour, Mr. Deville, while standing before his dressing-glass,
+had a note placed in his hand. It was from his young bride, requesting
+an immediate interview.
+
+He hastened his toilet and descended to the parlor, where he found
+Adelaide, delicate, fair and languid from recent illness and present
+sorrow.
+
+“My own, my dearest one, my heart’s life,” he began, softly approaching
+her and attempting to take her hand.
+
+But with a look, gentle and compassionate as it was firm and repellant—a
+look such as that with which a pitying angel might forever banish a
+sinner—she stopped him.
+
+Then with that candor and decision that often distinguishes the most
+gentle woman when called upon to act from duty, pointing to a chair near
+her, which he took, she said—
+
+“Mr. Deville, I took the liberty of asking you to come here to consult
+with you concerning my future course in regard to Lady Elizabeth,”—she
+paused, passed her hand before her eyes, blushed, and seemed
+embarrassed.
+
+“As for instance,” said Mr. Deville—
+
+“—For instance, then,” continued Adelaide, with a deepening blush—“Lady
+Elizabeth knows nothing at all of your—your—”
+
+“—Sins and follies you would say!”
+
+“—Nay, your marriage with Lionne Delaforêt; and consequently, neither
+can she understand the imminent necessity of my withdrawing from her
+roof,” said Adelaide, gathering firmness.
+
+“Lady,” said Orville, coldly and severely—“you have ventured directly to
+mention a subject to which it does not become one of your age, sex, and
+condition, even remotely to allude! What can the Lady Adelaide Deville
+have in common with the wild and frail girl, whom she has suffered to
+disturb her peace?”
+
+“What,” said Adelaide, sadly—“a common human nature, a common woman’s
+heart, in a word, a common capacity for suffering the same wrongs or
+enjoying the same blessings.”
+
+“I will not ask what you _mean_, Adelaide; but I _will_ request you not
+to offend me again with the mention of that wretched girl,” said Mr.
+Deville, with a sternness unusual in his manner.
+
+Delicate, gentle and retiring, how hard for her to nerve her heart to
+the contest now before her! a contest with the man she had from
+childhood exclusively and passionately loved as her husband—a contest
+not for her _own_, but for her rival’s and for his sake. Nevertheless,
+she braced her nerves by a strong effort of will, and said—
+
+“Mr. Deville, if you please, hear me while I tell you what I have heard
+and seen—a subject painful to me as to you; but which needs to be
+discussed.”
+
+“Adelaide, if you _will_ take advantage of your privilege to give me
+pain, you must do so, of course!” he said, coldly.
+
+Distressed, but not daunted by this sarcasm, Adelaide began and related
+the whole history of her interview with Lionne.
+
+Orville, with knit brows, compressed lips and severe countenance, heard
+her through in silence. At the close of her narrative, when she looked
+inquiringly at him, he expressed neither denial, assent, nor regret, at
+what had passed.
+
+“Oh, how hard! how hard under that gentle exterior he must be!” thought
+Adelaide, as she again resumed her speech and spoke of the note of
+renunciation that she had written, and of her plan of retiring from the
+neighborhood.
+
+The better nature of Orville Deville was deeply stirred by her beautiful
+spirit of self-sacrifice.
+
+“Here is a woman, young, beautiful and pure, who is ready to sacrifice
+her every good in life, that the man she loves may be happy with her
+rival!” he thought, as he gazed in wonder upon her angelic face.
+
+Alas! she dared not meet that gaze! Her pure, calm, trusting love of
+years had been by grief sublimed to passion, so that now every glance of
+his strong, dark eyes, every tone of his deep voice, every touch of his
+compelling hand, thrilled her sensitive frame with a deep, intense,
+sweet madness that must have been pure rapture, but for the blasting
+memories that traversed her bosom liked forked lightning. Now feeling
+his ardent gaze upon her, she turned, half-fainting, away, like a lily
+drooping under the hot noonday sun.
+
+He approached her again, and endeavored to take her hand, but she drew
+it away with a shiver, half pain, half pleasure, and trembled so visibly
+that Orville contented himself with drawing his chair nearer to her as
+he said:
+
+“Adelaide, you have told me that _you_ were _forced_ upon me, and that
+_another_ was the wife of my _choice_, that therefore you wish to leave
+me. In reply, I have but one thing to say and swear, namely, that you
+are not only my _lawful_ wife, but the wife of my deliberate _choice_,
+and that I not only love you _more_ than any _other_ woman, but I love
+you _only_ of _all_ women! Further, that nothing on earth shall ever
+induce me to part with you;” and so saying, in a voice vibrating with
+his soul’s profound passion, he swiftly and softly seized her hand,
+turned and gazed into her face, and surprised there—a smile of joy in
+the depths of her soft, dark blue eyes!
+
+“He loves me! oh, he loves me, notwithstanding all!” was the quick
+thought that had sent the thrill of rapture through her heart. But swift
+upon the track of that thought and that rapture came the Nemesis of
+memory, bringing anguish. Snatching her hand in horror from his clasp,
+she exclaimed, in a low, breathless voice:
+
+“I must not listen to you! oh, I must not! Oh, no, no, no!”
+
+It was too late! In that first light of joy Orville had read—not the
+calm love that he knew before, but the consuming passion of her heart.
+He caught her to his bosom, he strained her to his heart, he pressed his
+lips with devouring avidity to her lips, her cheeks, her eyes, and
+bosom, exclaiming passionately between the kisses:
+
+“You are my _wife! my own! my indisputable!_ no earthly power shall
+snatch you from my arms! none none! henceforth and forever you shall lie
+in my bosom, my wife! my own! heart of my heart! life of my life!”
+
+Suddenly he was stopped as by a death-stroke. While still hailing kisses
+like a storm of fire upon her lips, her form suddenly grew heavy in his
+embrace, her sweet eyes closed, her lips paled, and her head fell back,
+with all its long, golden tresses unwinding over his arm.
+
+“She has fainted!” he cried, in alarm, hurrying toward the sofa, where
+he laid her, and then rang a peal of bells that brought all the
+household and Lady Elizabeth Deville to the scene.
+
+That the delicate invalid should have swooned, excited more sympathy
+than surprise.
+
+Under Lady Elizabeth’s directions, she was removed to her bedchamber,
+where the best means were used for her relief, and where she soon
+recovered consciousness.
+
+The journey home to River-view was necessarily deferred until the next
+day.
+
+Leaving Adelaide reposing, Lady Elizabeth came down into the parlor to
+have a talk with her son.
+
+“Orville,” she said, “I know not how you have contrived to do it, but
+you have very deeply offended, or rather, I should say, hopelessly
+estranged Adelaide. She gently but firmly refuses to accompany us to
+River-view. As her guardian I shall take her thither, whether she will
+or no; but to make the task a little less difficult, I shall have to
+promise that you will not seek her company, or in any way molest her;
+and I wish you, my son, to give me your word to that effect.”
+
+“You have my word, mother, that I will not disturb the quiet of Lady
+Adelaide for—a limited time, say a week or two.”
+
+“Certainly, that is all that I require; for, surely, Adelaide’s
+displeasure cannot last longer—though I ought not to call her state of
+feeling displeasure; it is more like grief. There must be more in it
+than I know of! Your neglect, bad as it was, could never have made such
+a deep and lasting impression, never! But as neither of you volunteer to
+enlighten me, I suppose you prefer that I should not pry into your
+matrimonial secrets,” said Lady Elizabeth, with a doubtful smile.
+
+“At least it is not necessary that I should trouble you with the details
+of our misunderstanding, mother; it is sufficient to say that through
+all, Lady Adelaide Deville has not only been entirely blameless, but
+angelic; and however mistaken her acts, her motives were heavenly. As
+for me, with all my faults, I have no dearer wish for earth or heaven
+than the re-establishment of perfect confidence and a perfect union with
+her—the only woman on earth I love, except my mother.”
+
+Again the lady smiled, ambiguously, and the conference closed.
+
+The next morning the large family-carriage was drawn up before the
+inn-door, and several soft pillows that had been brought from River-view
+were arranged to support the invalid.
+
+Adelaide was placed within, lying upon the pillows, and supported by
+Lady Elizabeth.
+
+Orville, by his mother’s advice, rode on the box beside the driver. And
+thus they journeyed to River-view.
+
+They arrived late in the afternoon.
+
+Adelaide was immediately conveyed to her apartments, where she was laid
+upon a lounge and refreshments were served to her.
+
+And sitting by her couch, her mother-in-law reiterated her promise in
+behalf of herself and her son, that Orville should not approach the
+apartment of Adelaide until she herself summoned him to her presence.
+
+It was reported among the servants, that the Lady Adelaide, in a state
+of partial delirium from the approach of illness, had unconsciously
+wandered from her home; and in the absence of any knowledge of the
+facts, on the part of the community, this explanation of her strange
+conduct obtained general credence—with a single exception, that of Kate
+Kyte, who knew all about the matter; but who, for the sake of Lady
+Adelaide, continued to keep the secret.
+
+“It” was in the second week after her return to River-view, that Lady
+Adelaide sent to request Kate to come and see her.
+
+And the young Diana lost no time in complying.
+
+When questioned by Adelaide, Kate frankly told her all she knew of what
+had passed at Bush Creek, and also of the relentless anger and stubborn
+departure of Lionne.
+
+Adelaide heard all this with pain that was only eased by prayer.
+
+Kate spent the day with the invalid, and after that became her frequent
+visitor and favorite companion.
+
+Orville kept his promise, and never, by word or deed, molested the peace
+of his unhappy bride, or even betrayed a wish to seek her presence,
+until one day when, unexpectedly, an event occurred that promised to
+restore their mutual association, confidence and happiness.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXI.
+                      LIONNE AND THE INDIAN WITCH.
+
+       Be it what it may—or bliss, or torment,
+       Annihilation dark, and endless rest,
+       Or some dread thing man’s wildest range of thought
+       Hath never yet conceived, that change I’ll dare
+       Which makes me—any thing but what I am.—_Joanna Baillie._
+
+
+One morning as usual Lionne stole off to her grotto.
+
+Throwing herself down upon the rugged floor, she sat with her elbows on
+her knees and her forehead bowed upon the palms of her hands. Her long
+black hair escaping from its bands, fell all around her shoulders and
+bosom, half veiling her bent form.
+
+Unmindful of the passage of time, she gave herself up to bitter
+thoughts.
+
+While thus she sat, like another forsaken Ariadne or despairing Dido, a
+shadow came between the mouth of the grotto and the glimmering light of
+the river beyond, and at the same moment, a rough, kindly, respectful
+voice called out:
+
+“Mistress!”
+
+Lionne put aside her blinding hair and looked up to behold the dwarfed
+giant Vulcan, accompanied by the Indian squaw, the “great medicine”
+Kalougoora.
+
+They were a strange, startling, almost terrifying pair to rise so
+suddenly before a spectator—the dwarfed giant with his huge, square
+form, clad in a rude suit of coarse, gray cloth, and his great round
+head and hard brown face surrounded by a thatch of iron-gray hair and
+beard—and by his side the tall, thin, dark figure of the Indian crone,
+wrapped in her long, red blanket, down which streamed her stiff black
+hair, bound and platted with gay vipers’ skins.
+
+She advanced into the grotto and stood muttering weird incantations, and
+performing strange gestures.
+
+Lionne arose, bound up her long, black hair, and stood with somewhat of
+her old native dignity to receive her singular visitor.
+
+“Mistress,” said Vulcan, in a tone and with a manner of deep respect,
+intended to inspire the squaw with a proper reverence for the
+lady—“Mistress, this is Kalougoora, the ‘great medicine’ of the
+Shenandoahs, come to offer her services to your ladyship.”
+
+Lionne looked with a shudder of repulsion towards the old creature, who
+stood, still moving her lips and slowly wheeling her arms, as in solemn
+conjuration.
+
+“Take that seat,” said Lionne, pointing to one formed by a rock raised
+above the floor.
+
+The “great medicine,” with more incantations and conjurations, sat down.
+
+“You may leave us now; but do not go out of call,” said Lionne, turning
+to the dwarf.
+
+“Mistress, I will pace up and down before the opening of the grotto, to
+be within the sound of your voice,” answered Vulcan, with as good a bow
+as a square block could make, as he retreated from the grotto, leaving
+Lionne alone with her formidable looking visitor.
+
+“Midnight Star!” began the old crone, addressing Lionne in the
+picturesque language of her tribe—“Midnight Star, my dark, bright
+daughter, does not trust her red mother.”
+
+Lionne looked wistfully at the speaker and remained silent.
+
+“The Midnight Star fears the ‘great medicine’ of the Shenandoahs,” said
+the crone, in a key half affirmative, half interrogative.
+
+“I fear nothing in the heavens, earth or Hades; but my footsteps go down
+the deep valley where the powers of sleep and death mingle, and my face
+grows dark in their shadows,” said Lionne, falling into the picturesque
+style of the squaw’s language.
+
+“My dark, bright daughter need not stay for that. Her red mother has a
+firm foot and a strong hand, and will lead her safely through the valley
+of black vapors, to the sunny hills beyond.”
+
+“Do you know why I summoned you hither, and what I need?”
+
+“The great medicine of the Shenandoahs knows all things!”
+
+With a shrug of her shoulders, Lionne next asked: “Can you supply me
+with what I need?”
+
+“The great medicine of the Shenandoahs can do all things,” she answered,
+with an egotism half way between the sublime and the ridiculous.
+
+“What is it, then, that I need?” asked Lionne, with an almost
+imperceptible curl of her lip.
+
+“My pale daughter needs a medicine that shall lay her out so still that
+none but the Great Spirit shall know that _her_ spirit has not followed
+her pale warrior to the Happy Hunting Grounds.”
+
+“She believes me to be a widow!” thought Lionne, with a secret sneer at
+the professed omniscience of the “great medicine;” but aloud she
+said—“And you have such a drug?—a drug that shall _simulate_ without
+_causing_ death?”
+
+“I have an herb so potent, that when my dark, bright daughter swallows
+it and lies down to sleep, not all the plants that grow above ground,
+nor all the minerals that lurk below in the bowels of the earth, nor all
+the skill of man shall be able to rouse her from her death-like sleep
+until two suns have passed—when she will of herself awake! Does my pale
+daughter still doubt?”
+
+“No! I do not care enough about it to doubt! Even if the ‘death-like
+sleep’ should be the sleep of death, perhaps it were as well!” said
+Lionne, in a despairing tone.
+
+Then after a pause of some moments, she suddenly said—
+
+“Our interview is closed for to-day. Come to me to-morrow at this place,
+and at this hour, that we may confer further.”
+
+And placing her finger to her lips, she blew a clear, high, shrill call,
+that summoned the dwarf to her presence.
+
+The “great medicine” then arose, and with a repetition of her
+incantations, accompanied by Vulcan, she retired from the grotto. Lionne
+returned home, and entered the sitting-room, where she found her father
+busy in packing up his books and papers.
+
+When he saw her, he looked up and smiled, saying—“Ten years’ practice
+has enabled me to perform the duties of my own valet with some skill, my
+dear. And you, my child, find the functions of _lady’s maid to yourself_
+very easy.”
+
+“Quite so,” replied Lionne,—“any successor to _me_ as _attendant_ upon
+me, might prove awkward and embarrassing.”
+
+The earl laughed. How strange that laugh upon “lips of life-long
+sadness.” Did it bode good?
+
+It was a fortnight after her first meeting with the “Great Medicine of
+the Shenandoahs,” that Lionne, in the seclusion of her grotto, and
+attended only by Kalougoora, became the mother of a female infant, only
+in its unconsciousness of its misery, less wretched than its parent.
+
+Her father, in the habitual abstraction of his mind, in the absorption
+of business, and in his full acquaintance with her wandering habits,
+scarcely, for a day or two, missed the presence of his daughter. But
+when three days passed, and she had not made her appearance, he inquired
+on the fourth morning at breakfast—
+
+“Where is Lionne?”
+
+“Oh, your honor, she went out, before you were up!” answered Vulcan.
+
+(And so she had—_three days before_.)
+
+But unconscious of the prevarication practised upon him, the recluse
+merely answered to himself—
+
+“That girl grows more eccentric every day—well! well! let her have her
+run of the wilderness while she remains! it will not be for long.”
+
+Immediately after breakfast, Vulcan hurried to the grotto, where Lionne,
+exhausted more by despair than by illness, reposed upon her rude pallet.
+
+“Lionne, my child, the master has at last inquired for you.”
+
+“And—how did you answer for me?” exclaimed the wretched girl, starting
+up and leaning upon her elbow.
+
+“I said that you had gone out before he was up.”
+
+“_Oh_, this necessity of lying!” exclaimed Lionne, falling back upon her
+pillow, in intense disgust.
+
+“Nay, but it wasn’t lying—_didn’t_ you leave home on Monday before he
+was up?—I say it _wasn’t_ lying.”
+
+“It was as bad!”
+
+“Very well, then I take the sin on myself! But now, dear mistress, you
+must try to come home to satisfy the master,—that is, if you can come,
+without hurting yourself.”
+
+“Nothing can _hurt_ me now,” said the miserable girl, in a hopeless
+tone.
+
+“And then you will be so much more comfortable at home.”
+
+“Nothing can _comfort_ me now!” exclaimed the lost one, with a look of
+deep despair.
+
+“Don’t say so, Lionne! You are but sixteen, and a long life full of
+changes is before you!”
+
+“A long life! that is the very worst of it!—Well, but I must think of my
+father, and how to keep from him the knowledge of this blasting
+dishonor, the very suspicion of which would kill him. Kalougoora has
+left me for an hour; when she returns, I will leave this hapless infant
+in her charge and go home.”
+
+“Dear mistress, let me suggest something. Do not go home until late in
+the afternoon, and see your father about twilight. Then——”
+
+“Oh, I understand! he will not be startled by my changed face.”
+
+“No; and if in the morning he notices it, you can just tell him that you
+had a bad night’s rest.”
+
+“Which would be no falsehood, Vulcan, since I never have a good one!”
+
+“And you will stay until the evening?”
+
+“Yes! and now do _you_ return, lest my father should want you.”
+
+Vulcan obeyed, and Lionne was again left alone.
+
+When evening came, Lionne dressed herself, and leaving her child in the
+care of the old Indian woman, she set out from the grotto for her home.
+Walking feebly and resting frequently, she succeeded in passing the
+rapids, at the foot of which Vulcan waited with a boat to row her down
+the stream.
+
+She reached her home at early twilight.
+
+“Now, dear mistress, the master is still in his room; come away into the
+kitchen and sit down and rest. I left the kettle on the stove, and I
+will make you a cup of tea in less than no time. And then you’ll be able
+to meet him.”
+
+With a grateful look, Lionne followed her old servant’s advice.
+
+And then, refreshed by her rest and her tea, she entered the
+sitting-room, where she found her father engaged in strapping trunks,
+etc.
+
+She entered, as usual, so softly, that he continued his employment
+unconscious of her presence, until she had seated herself in the
+shadiest corner of the room, and had spoken to him, saying:
+
+“Cannot Vulcan do that for you, my father?”
+
+“Ah, are you there, Lionne?” said the recluse, looking up at the same
+time that he was tightening a strap, with his knee upon the trunk. “It
+seems to me that I seldom see you, Lionne.”
+
+“I have been very much engaged, my father.”
+
+“Ah, preparing for your new life in the old world. You have been to
+Winchester, making more purchases to-day, I suppose. But, Lionne, in the
+country to which we are going, when a young lady leaves home for a day,
+she apprizes her parents or guardians. However, I will not blame you, my
+child. I know that you have not been brought up as other girls. But now,
+are you quite ready? This is Thursday—we start on Monday.”
+
+“So soon!” exclaimed Lionne, involuntarily.
+
+“‘So soon!’ you say that as if you hated to leave your forest home. When
+you have seen your English one, you will not regret this.”
+
+It was no thought of her forest home—which she knew she was not about to
+leave—it was the thought of the dreadful deception she was about to
+practise upon her confiding father.
+
+“I shall not regret my home in the wilderness,” she said.
+
+“If you are not quite prepared to go, you have no time to lose.”
+
+“No, I have no time to lose,” responded Lionne, in a tone that all her
+self-command could not steady.
+
+But in his busy occupation her father failed to notice this.
+
+Pleading fatigue, Lionne bade her father good-night, and retired to her
+chamber, where she laid down to repose for a few hours. This rest was
+absolutely needed to enable her to reach the grotto.
+
+At ten o’clock she heard her father ascend the stairs and enter his
+room. She waited half an hour longer, and then, feeling sure that he had
+gone to bed and probably to sleep, she softly and silently arose, and
+stole down the stairs, and out of the house, to the river’s shore, where
+Vulcan awaited her with the boat.
+
+The starlight was bright upon the water as they rowed up the stream.
+They reached the grotto, at the mouth of which they found the old Indian
+woman sitting, crooning a wild song. She arose, and stood aside to let
+them pass; but Lionne called her in, and said:
+
+“When you come to me to-morrow, _bring the drug_.”
+
+With a nod of assent the old woman retired.
+
+Vulcan also left the grotto, and Lionne was left, as usual, to pass the
+night alone with her infant.
+
+Early the next morning, the Indian woman presented herself to her
+employer.
+
+“You have brought the medicine?”
+
+“My pale daughter may look with her eyes,” said the squaw, displaying a
+bunch of noxious-smelling dried herbs.
+
+“And my mother is sure that this will produce the effect she says?”
+
+“My daughter shall steep this in the fire-water of the pale-faces, and
+drink of it, and lie down. And for two days her people shall wail the
+Midnight Star set in death! Nevertheless, on the third morning shall the
+Star of the Wilderness rise again!”
+
+“Kalougoora, look at this handful of gold! Take it now for your herbs,
+and for your care of me. Take care of my child; and when I awake from
+that death-like sleep, bring her to me in good condition, and you shall
+have twice as much more.”
+
+“The little New Moon shall be safe.”
+
+The entrance of Vulcan put a stop to the conversation.
+
+“I have the boat below the rapids. Will you not come home, so that the
+master may find you at the breakfast-table when he comes down?
+Kalougoora will stay here until you return,” said Vulcan.
+
+Lionne arose, and leaving her infant sleeping, went down to the rapids,
+entered the boat, and was rowed to the house, where she arrived in time
+to meet her father at their morning-meal.
+
+As soon as she could escape from his observation she returned to the
+grotto, and passed the day with her babe and with the old Indian woman,
+whom she urged, by every argument and persuasion of self-interest and of
+compassion, to guard her child well for a few days, until she should be
+able to reclaim it.
+
+Then at length she left the grotto, and for the last time returned to
+her home.
+
+She met her father at tea, and afterwards accompanied him to his
+sitting-room, where she remained, assisting him, until he himself, worn
+out with work, proposed their retiring.
+
+Lionne was even more exhausted than her father; yet on this night she
+was very loth to leave him, for this she knew to be the last hour they
+could ever spend together. And when at length the moment came when they
+were to separate, as he believed, for the night—but as she knew for all
+time—she could scarcely command herself, or resist the impulse to fall
+at his feet and confess every thing! Only fears for him prevented her.
+
+“Good-night, my father,” she said; and oh! how she longed, but dared
+not, to throw herself into his arms in a parting embrace.
+
+“God bless you, my child!” was his calm reply. And so they separated.
+
+Lionne, utterly prostrated by the fatigues and anxieties of the day,
+crept slowly up-stairs to her room. Waiting on the outside of the door,
+she found Vulcan, with a glass containing her sleeping-potion.
+
+He put it in her hands with the words—
+
+“Courage, dear mistress.”
+
+“When I have drank this, come in some time before morning, and take away
+the glass, that no clue may remain to the cause of my state.”
+
+“I will, dear mistress; I will do all things right,” answered the old
+servant.
+
+“And be sure to look after old Kalougoora and her poor little charge,
+and——”
+
+Before Lionne could add another word, she heard her father’s step upon
+the stairs and hurried into her room.
+
+Vulcan slipped up into his own cockloft.
+
+The next moment the master of the house reached the top of the stairs,
+and unsuspicious of wrong passed into his own chamber.
+
+Early the next morning Mr. Delaforêt was astir. A the usual
+breakfast-hour Vulcan appeared at the sitting-room door and announced
+the morning meal ready.
+
+Mr. Delaforêt, as we prefer still to call him, went out into the kitchen
+and took his seat at the table. Looking around and missing Lionne, he
+said—
+
+“I hope my daughter has not gone out to-day! I particularly desired her
+to remain at home as this is the last day we have to complete our
+arrangements. Do you know, Vulcan, if your young lady has left the
+house?”
+
+“No, sir; I haven’t seen any thing of my young lady this morning, and
+the hall door is still locked on the inside; so I am certain she has not
+gone out.”
+
+“Then she must be in her room, and as she is an early riser, if she is
+well she must be up. Go, Vulcan, and tell her that I am waiting for
+her.”
+
+Vulcan left the kitchen apparently to obey orders.
+
+He was gone a few minutes, and when he returned his countenance wore an
+aspect of unassumed terror that alarmed his master, who started up,
+exclaiming:
+
+“Why, Vulcan, what is the matter?”
+
+“N-nothing much I hope, sir!”
+
+“Speak more plainly! What do you mean?”
+
+“Why, sir, as this is an hour when the young lady is usually up, and as
+her door was partly open, I looked in when I rapped, and—and—
+
+“And _what?_ speak, in the name of heaven, man!”
+
+“And she was lying on the bed like one in a dead faint!”
+
+Almost before the last word was uttered Mr. Delaforêt had left the
+kitchen.
+
+He hurried up the stairs and into the chamber of his daughter, whom he
+found extended on the bed with her chin fallen upon her bosom and her
+arms thrown up over the pillow.
+
+“My child! my child! Lionne! Oh, what is this!” exclaimed the alarmed
+father as he rushed to the bedside and tried to raise her head and
+shoulders in his arms.
+
+Her body was cold, stiff and senseless. Her condition seemed that of a
+corpse an hour dead!
+
+He laid her head back upon the pillow and hurried to the head of the
+stairs, calling—
+
+“Vulcan! Vulcan! mount the strongest and fastest horse and ride for life
+to Winchester and bring out a physician!”
+
+Then he hastened into his own chamber and snatched from his
+medicine-chest the most potent restoratives, which he brought and
+applied for his daughter’s relief.
+
+In vain! The rigid lips might be forced open, but the clenched teeth
+would not be unclasped to admit the passing of one drop of cordial. And
+the strongest stimulants applied with force and briskness to the surface
+of her neck and brow failed to bring the faintest shade of life-color
+thither.
+
+With the utmost solicitude he continued to work over her or to watch by
+her. Fruitless all his hopes! He might as well have sought to restore
+consciousness to a corpse twelve hours abandoned by the soul!
+
+Early in the afternoon the doctor from Winchester arrived, and was
+received by Mr. Delaforêt and shown immediately to the bedside of
+Lionne.
+
+Then followed a close questioning of her father, who could only speak of
+his daughter’s fatigued and haggard looks, which she always, he said,
+ascribed to sleeplessness.
+
+All the time the doctor was questioning the father, he was gazing upon
+the face or feeling the wrist, the jugular vein and the carotid artery
+of the patient, to ascertain if any pulsation remained. And at the end
+of the examination he said—
+
+“Mr. Delaforêt, you are probably prepared for what I have to tell you!
+Your daughter has ceased to exist. Her malady was very obscure and one
+that usually gives but little evidence of its fatal presence until its
+work, as now, is done!”
+
+“What was it then, sir?”
+
+“Organic disease of the heart,” answered the doctor, making not the
+first nor the last mistake ever made, or to be made, by physicians.
+
+The bereaved father drew up the sheet over the face of his young and
+beautiful dead, and turned to accompany the physician from the chamber.
+
+As the doctor was about to take his leave, the master of the house said—
+
+“We are alone here, myself and my man servant. Send me out some women
+from Winchester to prepare my girl for her last resting-place.”
+
+“If you will give me authority I will have every thing that is proper
+done in the best manner, as if for my own brother and niece.”
+
+In silent assent, Mr. Delaforêt pressed the hand of the kind physician,
+who immediately afterwards departed on his melancholy errand.
+
+The afflicted father then turned to enter his desolate house, and seek
+the solitude of his chamber, to give full sway to that bitter grief
+which he had only been able to suppress in the presence of others.
+
+As his hand was on the lock of his door, he heard a step at his side,
+and suddenly turning saw the dwarf Vulcan standing there.
+
+“Pardon me master, for coming to you now; but—it will be very late at
+night before the women can come from Winchester, and—my young lady ought
+to be attended to immediately.”
+
+“Well,” said Mr. Delaforêt, “what do you propose?”
+
+“Dear master, as there is no Christian women at hand, will you not
+permit me to fetch the old Indian squaw, Kalougoora? She is skillful
+enough for the business, and she is very faithful.”
+
+Mr. Delaforêt hesitated for a moment, and then, with his brow contracted
+with almost agonizing thought, he said:
+
+“There is no other course—Yes! bring the Indian woman!”
+
+And so saying, he passed into the solitude of his room and his sorrow.
+
+An hour later Kalougoora arrived, and entered the chamber of Lionne,
+whom she prepared as a corpse for burial. Then, as silently as she had
+come, she departed to her other charge at the grotto.
+
+Early on Sunday morning, Mr. Delaforêt entered the chamber of his
+daughter, whom he found dressed and laid out upon her bed. She had on
+the only white muslin gown she possessed—its folds neatly drawn down and
+arranged around her perfect form; the white and gloveless hands were
+folded upon the rounded bosom, and her shining dark hair was plaited in
+a thick braid and wound around her head, a natural crown upon her
+queenly brow.
+
+“The poor pagan has done her work well!” was the thought of the bereaved
+father, even in the midst of the grief with which he looked upon this
+beautiful ruin.
+
+He was interrupted by the voice of Vulcan at the door announcing to him
+the arrival of the undertaker and his wife, sent by the physician from
+Winchester. He went out to receive the new-comers.
+
+Upon account of the heat of the weather, it was deemed expedient to
+hasten the interment. By using great diligence, the undertaker went back
+to Winchester and returned with the coffin early in the afternoon. And
+the body of Lionne, the living dead, was placed in this last receptacle,
+and brought down and laid upon a table in the middle of the front
+parlor.
+
+When the room was closed and darkened and left in solitude, Vulcan and
+the old Indian woman stole into it, and stood each side the body.
+
+“They have opened a grave, under the shadow of the mountain, where they
+intend to bury her at sunset, when the clergyman is expected to arrive.
+It is a dreadful danger! I am afraid she may suffocate before we can
+deliver her!” said Vulcan.
+
+“The Great Rock (for thus the Indian woman called the dwarf giant) need
+not be shaken! Lungs that do not breathe, need no air.”
+
+“But if she should awake in that coffin!”
+
+“The Great Rock must be still. The Midnight Star will not shine again
+until the hour. If the Great Rock remains firm and unshaken, all will be
+well!”
+
+The slow and heavy step of the master of the house, approaching the
+connecting door between his sitting-room and the parlor, warned them to
+flee. Opening the side door into the hall, as Mr. Delaforêt entered,
+they passed out of the apartment.
+
+At sunset the clergyman, the family physician and another friend from
+Winchester, arrived and together with the bereaved father and his old
+servant, the Indian woman, the undertaker and his assistants, stood
+around the coffin while the solemn burial services of the Episcopal
+Church were performed.
+
+At their close, the undertaker approached and reverently raised the lid
+of the coffin, that all might take a last look at the face of the
+supposed dead, before it was closed down forever.
+
+With mute agony written upon his corrugated brow, the desolate father
+drew near and gazed upon his daughter’s still face, pressed his lips to
+her cold forehead, and turned away.
+
+Other friends approached and gave their farewell glance, and gravely
+withdrew.
+
+And then the undertaker came up and began to screw down the lid.
+
+Vulcan shuddered, and convulsively grasped the arm of the Indian woman,
+who whispered under her breath—
+
+“The Great Rock is shaken as by a storm! He must be still. The Great
+Medicine of the Shenandoahs knows what she does. The Midnight Star will
+shine again!”
+
+They bore the coffin out, placed it on the bier, and carried it
+reverently to the green and shaded spot under the shelter of the
+everlasting rocks, where the earth was opened to receive it. As the
+concluding services were finished, they lowered it into the grave, which
+they immediately begun to fill up.
+
+As the clods rattled heavily upon the coffin-lid, again Vulcan trembled
+as an oak-tree tossed by the whirlwind. And again the Indian doctress
+muttered in his ear—
+
+“The Great Rock need not shake to his base! The Great Medicine of the
+Shenandoahs is sure of her power. The Midnight Star will rise when other
+stars wane.”
+
+All then turned away. The clergyman drew the arm of the stricken father
+within his own, and led him back to the house. The others followed. The
+clergyman and physician had determined to remain with their afflicted
+friend through the night.
+
+Vulcan and the Indian woman concealed themselves in the thicket at the
+foot of the mountain, whence they watched the grave-diggers until they
+had completed their work, taken up their tools and departed, leaving the
+grave of the living in solitude.
+
+It was now quite dark, but for the light of the stars that just served
+to show the dim outline of the new-made grave.
+
+Bringing the pick with which he had provided himself, Vulcan, with the
+Indian woman, emerged from his concealment.
+
+And not the renowned Dousterswivel, digging for hidden treasure in the
+grave of Misticott, in the hope of boundless wealth, worked with more
+zeal and energy than did this poor servant, in mortal terror, lest he
+should be interrupted before his task should be complete, or that his
+young mistress should awake in that horrible pit!
+
+The earth flew from the grave in a reversed shower of clods. Before it
+seemed possible, he had laid bare the outside of the coffin.
+
+Gathering the cords by which it had been lowered, he climbed up to the
+surface of the ground, handed half of them to Kalougoora, and with her
+assistance drew the coffin from the grave. Snatching up the chisel that
+he had brought, he began to force the lid. That, with his immense
+strength, was the work of a minute, and the buried form of Lionne lay
+revealed!
+
+Throwing aside the coffin-lid, he stooped and placed his hand upon the
+face of his mistress.
+
+“Good heaven!” he cried, starting in horror—“we had not a moment to
+lose! Feel! there is a moisture upon her brow! She would have awakened
+in that appalling pit, had we left her there another hour!”
+
+“Nay—she will not awake until the time I have said! Now, lift the young
+woman out and hide her in the thicket here, while you put back the
+coffin and fill up the grave, lest some one should come to discover us.”
+
+This counsel Vulcan felt to be so wise that he immediately followed it.
+Raising the body of Lionne, he bore her to a nook in the thicket and
+laid her down upon a buffalo-skin, spread by the squaw to receive her.
+Then he returned, replaced the coffin, filled up the grave, and
+carefully obliterated every mark of his late work.
+
+It was well that he had toiled so diligently! for just as he turned from
+the grave and entered the thicket, he heard the sound of a slow and
+heavy footstep that he knew too well, and the next moment the dim
+outline of Mr. Delaforêt emerged into view.
+
+Believing himself to be unobserved the poor father fell upon the grave
+and gave way to the bitterness of his grief in groans and sobs, that
+rent not his own heart only, but even the rugged bosom of Vulcan, who,
+from his lurking-place, silently gave groan for groan and sob for sob.
+
+“Better so,” said Vulcan to himself, “for if he suffers so severely for
+her supposed death, how terrible would be his agony in knowing how much
+worse than death is her real fate! He will be consoled for her loss. He
+never, never could survive the knowledge of her true condition!”
+
+He watched from his concealment, until Mr. Delaforêt had risen from the
+ground, turned sorrowing away from the grave and disappeared down the
+thickly shaded path leading to his desolate home.
+
+Then Vulcan and the Indian woman carefully lifted Lionne and tenderly
+bore her to the boat waiting at the edge of the creek, made a bed of the
+buffalo skin, laid her down and rowed swiftly for the grotto.
+
+In fifteen minutes they reached the mouth of the cavern, bore their
+charge in and laid her upon her rude pallet.
+
+Then Vulcan struck a light and looked around with a solicitude that rose
+rapidly to amazement and anxiety.
+
+“Where is the child?” he inquired, suddenly turning to the squaw.
+
+“Where?—the New Moon beams on the bearskin there, in the corner, where I
+left her two hours ago!” replied Kalougoora.
+
+“She is not there!” cried the dwarf.
+
+The squaw sprang upon her feet and looked around.
+
+The babe was gone!
+
+“_Where is the child?_” repeated Vulcan, in gathering suspicion and
+wrath.
+
+Kalougoora slowly shook her head.
+
+“WHERE IS THE CHILD?” vociferated the dwarf, approaching the squaw with
+a threatening gesture.
+
+“Some one has carried her off,” said the latter.
+
+“Hag of Tartarus, _you_ are the ‘some one who has carried her off!’ You
+have spirited her away to your thrice accursed tribe!”
+
+“And what should the Great Medicine of the Shenandoahs do with a
+pale-faced baby? The Great Rock talks foolishly! Let him rather watch
+over the sleeping mother, while the Great Medicine goes forth to seek
+the child!”
+
+Vulcan looked fixedly at the old woman while she spoke. Something of
+calm dignity in her manner, and of sincerity and truth in her expression
+and tone, put his worst suspicions to flight, and made him feel ashamed
+of his violence. Believing, too, that the best chance of recovering the
+child lay in trusting or in bribing the squaw, he complied with her
+proposition, saying—
+
+“You were paid a large sum for the care of the child; you were promised
+a still larger sum upon restoring it to its mother. Bring back the child
+of Lionne in safety, and the promised sum shall be doubled! I speak in
+her name who will make good my words!”
+
+“The Great Medicine will do what she can,” replied the old woman, who,
+then turning, left the grotto.
+
+Vulcan kneeled down by the side of his insensible mistress, and gazed
+with the deepest commiseration upon her pallid but beautiful
+countenance, as it lay there, looking still whiter between the long
+black hair that, escaped from its fastenings, hung down on each side of
+her face and floated on the pillow.
+
+“Oh, Lionne, my child! is this sorrow also in reserve for you? Having
+lost husband, father, home, and all else must you now lose this babe—the
+innocent offspring of treachery that has cost you so dearly, and that
+yet you love! When you awake who shall have courage to tell you of this
+awful bereavement? Who shall say to you that this babe—this all that was
+left you on earth—has been carried off by some cruel beast of prey, or
+some scarcely less cruel savage? Who shall dare to slay you with such
+tidings? For oh, wonderful heart of a mother! the child whose birth has
+wrecked your peace is dearer to you than life! since, but for the sake
+of that child, you would have escaped all your mortal troubles by a
+voluntary death. Oh, Lionne, unless that child is recovered, may you
+never wake!”
+
+So moaning over the miseries he could in no wise relieve, watching for
+the least change in the aspect of his mistress, and looking anxiously
+for the coming of the old squaw, Vulcan passed the first half of the
+night.
+
+It was near midnight when the squaw returned. She entered the grotto
+alone.
+
+“Have you found the babe?” exclaimed Vulcan, starting up.
+
+Kalougoora shook her head.
+
+“You are an Indian woman. You can trace the recent passage of man or
+beast where no white person could possibly discover signs of either! You
+must have found some clue, with your dog-like instinct, of the manner in
+which the child was taken off!”
+
+“The Great Medicine knows all things!” exclaimed the squaw.
+
+“That means you _have_ found the clue! What is it? The babe has not—no!
+she has not been devoured by a beast of prey?” cried the dwarf, in an
+agony of excitement.
+
+“No wild beast has approached the grotto.”
+
+“Thank God for that! She has been carried off, then, by some of your
+tribe. Oh, Kalougoora, we will ransom her with all the gold we can
+collect! Go after her, and the sooner she is restored the higher we will
+pay! Hasten, Kalougoora, and bring her back!”
+
+“No red man has been near the grotto.”
+
+“Speak plainly then! Where is she? Who has car-her off?”
+
+“A party of hunters of your own race have passed this way. They have
+stolen the babe!”
+
+“How do you know that?”
+
+“The Great Medicine of the Shenandoahs knows the presence of the white
+man by a hundred signs. She followed their trail three hours’ journey
+down the borders of the Singing Stream, and then lost it on the water’s
+edge. The Singing Stream tells no tales! The Great Medicine has returned
+and spoken to her brown brother, the Great Rock!”
+
+And so saying the old Indian woman squatted down beside the unconscious
+sleeper, and commenced crooning a wild and mournful melody.
+
+Vulcan was in despair. Now, indeed, his best hope for Lionne was that
+her death-like sleep might end indeed in death. He did not believe the
+whole of the squaw’s story. He credited indeed the statement that a
+party of hunters had passed that way; but that they had stolen the child
+was an inference so improbable that he could not give it a moment’s
+serious attention. He believed that the babe had been devoured by a wild
+beast, and he prayed that the mother might never awake to the knowledge
+of her awful bereavement.
+
+But this was not to be granted!
+
+At the turn of the night Lionne began to exhibit signs of returning
+consciousness. Her bosom heaved with sighs, at first feeble and
+fluttering, and then deeper and stronger. Warmth came to the surface of
+her body; a faint color dawned upon her cheeks and lips; finally her
+long eyelashes quivered, and her beautiful dark eyes opened with a
+quiet, unconscious gaze.
+
+With a half-suppressed groan, Vulcan placed at her lips the wine with
+which he had provided himself for that purpose. Unconsciously she sipped
+it, and afterwards mechanically she swallowed the offered morsel of
+bread. And then, under the stimulus of these refreshments, she lifted
+herself up into a sitting posture and looked around with a vague,
+perplexed gaze. Evidently her faculties were not as yet restored. Vulcan
+and Kalougoora watched her with deep anxiety.
+
+After a few more wandering looks she placed her hand to her forehead and
+seemed to reflect intently, or strive for self-recollection. Then, with
+a sudden start, she dropped her hand and gazed wildly from one to the
+other of her companions. Then memory rushed back in a torrent.
+
+“_Is it—is it all over?_” she inquired, in a tone so hollow that it
+would never have been recognized as her own.
+
+“Dear mistress, yes! it is over!” answered her faithful servant.
+
+“And my father—how did he bear it?”
+
+“He grieved, of course.”
+
+“_Oh, my father! Oh, my father!_” exclaimed the wretched girl, in a
+paroxysm of bitter remorse and grief.
+
+“Remember, dear mistress, that the sacrifice was necessary to save him
+from a worse sorrow,” said Vulcan, gently essaying to comfort the
+mourner. In vain!
+
+“_Oh, my father! Oh, my father!_ Shall I never see your kind face again!
+Your face bowed down in bitter grief for your dead daughter—worse than
+dead! Oh, my father! how easily I might go to you now, and how the sight
+of my poor form would raise your stricken head and rejoice your
+sorrowful heart, but I must not! I must not! I must not! I must continue
+this cruel deception! I, your cherished, only daughter, must deceive you
+so! I must let you depart, mourning and alone, on your desolate way! Oh,
+heaven, that I who must not _live_ for you, might _die_ for you, my
+father!” So, bitterly lamenting, Lionne dropped her head upon her knees,
+and gave herself up to a perfect storm of grief. It passed at length, as
+all storms, moral as well as material, must; and when her convulsive
+sobbing had somewhat subsided, she raised her head and said, softly:
+
+“Bring me my child.”
+
+This was what they most dreaded to hear. In order to gain a little more
+time, they affected not to have heard it.
+
+The ruse failed.
+
+“Did you hear me?—Bring me my little daughter—(Ah! who will restore to
+_him_ _his_ daughter!)—Vulcan, are you deaf?—Bring me my child!” she
+said, in a more peremptory tone.
+
+“Dear mistress, compose yourself! You are not yet calm enough to take
+your babe,” pleaded the dwarf.
+
+“Bring me my child! I need her! I need her!”
+
+“Mistress! dear, dear mistress, be patient!”
+
+“Bring me my child, or my heart will break!” prayed Lionne, in a voice
+that sounded like a wail.
+
+“Mistress! my lady—”
+
+“_My child!_” wailed Lionne, pressing both hands upon her heart.
+
+“Lady—Lady Lionne—I am your poor old servant! I pray you to be quiet a
+little while. Your babe is—is asleep!”
+
+“Bring her to me, then! I will not wake her.”
+
+“Mistress—listen to me——”
+
+“Oh, something is wrong here!” exclaimed Lionne, starting up and gazing
+wildly around. “I do not see her on her pallet! Where is she? Something
+has happened to my babe! Speak, why don’t you tell me?”
+
+It was utterly impossible any longer to conceal her calamity from her,
+or in any measure to soften its intolerable harshness.
+
+Vulcan approached and dropped at her feet, and in sobbing, broken,
+almost inarticulate language, informed her of the awful fate of her
+child.
+
+And Lionne!—no, I cannot!—I cannot! accustomed as I have been to see and
+describe suffering, my mind now shrinks from detailing the particulars
+of that wild wild woe! that unutterable anguish which formed the climax
+of her sorrows, and which drove her mad that night!
+
+Yes; the sun that had set upon Lionne in her living grave arose upon
+Lionne—a MANIAC!
+
+Vulcan took care of her through the night, nor left her until from the
+violence of her frenzy she had sunk at last into a stupor. Then
+believing her safe in the helplessness of her prostration, he returned
+home to prepare breakfast for his master.
+
+He found Mr. Delaforêt and his friends who were to accompany him to
+Winchester, impatient to be gone.
+
+He quickly prepared their morning-meal, and brought up their horses.
+
+“Where is your own mule, Vulcan?” inquired the master.
+
+“Your honor will forgive me, but I am too old to travel I cannot leave
+the wilderness.”
+
+“Why, Vulcan? Why this change? I thought you were to accompany me
+abroad?”
+
+“My master will pardon his poor old servant.”
+
+“Oh, if you really wish to remain, I will not urge you to go. This house
+is left in charge of our doctor to sell. You can stay here until a
+purchaser is found, and then, from the purchase money, you shall be
+provided for.”
+
+Deeply Vulcan bowed his thanks; he had no strength to speak.
+
+Mr. Delaforêt and his friends departed.
+
+One incident of his journey should be noticed. At the hotel at
+Winchester he picked up the morning paper and listlessly looked over it
+until his eye fell upon this obituary:
+
+“Died suddenly of organic disease of the heart, at the country-house of
+her father in Alleghany County, Lenora, only daughter of Arthur
+Delaforêt, Esq.”
+
+Mr. Delaforêt gazed in trouble upon this paragraph.
+
+“This should not have been. The assumed name should not have survived
+her; but it was well meant and ignorantly written by the doctor; so I
+will say nothing about it.”
+
+In another fortnight Mr. Delaforêt sailed for Liverpool, where, on
+landing, he dropped his assumed name and appeared upon the books of the
+hotel as—the Earl of Glen Lennark.
+
+Vulcan, left behind in the old house, hastened to the grotto for the
+purpose of bringing Lionne to her old home, where he thought she could
+live for a time in concealment.
+
+He reached the grotto; but—
+
+LIONNE THE LUNATIC HAD FLED!
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXII.
+                          LADY ADELAIDE’S WOE.
+
+               Break—break—break—
+                 On thy cold, gray sands, oh sea!
+               But the tender grace of a day that is dead
+                 Will never come back to me.—_Tennyson._
+
+
+Adelaide, almost heart-broken by her first, bitter sorrow, recovered
+very slowly from the effects of her brain fever. To avoid meeting with
+Orville, she confined herself to her own room, except at such hours as
+she knew him to be absent, when she would creep down-stairs and steal
+out to the broad water’s side and wander far away along the solitary
+beach, out of sight and hearing of every human creature. Here seated
+upon a cold, gray stone, a bleached tree-stump, or a mass of dried
+seaweed, she sat and watched the sea like breadth of water, finding
+strange solace in the thoughts suggested by the dull, leaden hue, and
+the troubled, yet monotonous motion and moaning of the waves.
+
+It was like her own life!
+
+Why is it that extreme sufferers, broken-hearted or crazed, so
+frequently shun the society of even their nearest friends, and seek
+solace in the deepest solitudes of nature—in the darkest forest’s
+shades, in the wildest mountain’s gorge, by the bleakest ocean shore? A
+metaphysical treatise might be written in answer.
+
+Adelaide, in addition to reasons common to all the wretched, had
+especial ones of her own for avoiding her kind.
+
+Friends and acquaintances, she felt, looked upon her with compassion
+alloyed by suspicion and distrust—even as upon a girl, morbidly
+sensitive, highly eccentric, and very unsafe, who was at any moment
+liable to lunacy.
+
+Even the servants watched her with wonder and pity! Lady Elizabeth,
+grown impatient of her long-continued avoidance of Orville,
+characterized her conduct as a sullen resentment altogether
+unjustifiable and intolerable.
+
+Mr. Deville, of all others, only knew of the cause of her illness and
+despair; and with him she refused to speak. Had she been of age, and
+mistress of herself and fortune, she would have left the house; but
+being still under the bonds of minority, she was forced to remain. But
+her resolution, to hold no communication with Orville while she should
+be compelled to remain under his roof, she thought was fixed as fate.
+
+It was while affairs were in this position, that Orville, one morning,
+opening the Baltimore paper, was suddenly arrested by the sight of the
+following obituary:
+
+  On Sunday the fifteenth instant, at the residence of her father, died
+  suddenly of organic disease of the heart, Leonora, only daughter of
+  Arthur Delaforêt, Esq., in the sixteenth year of her age.
+
+It was a tremendous shock; but, oh! what a relief!
+
+The unhappy girl who seemed destined to be his curse through life was
+dead, he thought—dead, not by his act, not by her own hand, by fate! Her
+sorrows and his embarrassments were forever at an end! Adelaide would
+now have no excuse for repudiating her wifely obligations. He was
+impatient to inform her that the obstacle _she_ had chosen to raise
+against the consummation of their marriage, was removed by the hand of
+destiny, and that therefore she must have no further conscientious
+scruples to becoming his wife in fact as she was in name. Yet the
+selfish and impetuous youth perceived the propriety, nay, the necessity,
+while informing Adelaide of the event, of waiting some time for her to
+recover from the shock, and to comprehend the event, before urging it as
+a motive for the consummation of their marriage.
+
+It was an overclouded day, about the first of September, that Adelaide,
+quietly as usual, left the house and wandered down to the solitary
+shore. It was late in the evening, and the tide was coming in. The
+surface of the water was of a deep, dull gray, in harmony with the
+clouded heavens, in unison with her own sad heart.
+
+“It is the tenth wave,” she said, as she watched a long, dark ridge,
+rolling as it rose and rising as it rolled, onward towards the shore,
+where it broke with a heavy sound, and covered her with a shower of
+foam.
+
+“It is gone! It hurried on, joyous, confident, triumphant, to embrace
+the earth, broke itself upon the sands, and fell back again! Here comes
+another, as joyous, as confident, as triumphant; but like the other, and
+all the others, it will break and fall back—there, it is broken! another
+emblem of the vanity of human aspirations,” she said, as the last wave
+was shattered in thunder at her feet.
+
+The tide continued to advance upon the beach, the waves raising their
+crested heads, throwing out their arms of surf, leaping and grasping
+upon the shore as though they would snatch and carry off some priceless
+treasure, or make good an everlasting foothold.
+
+As she gazed, other and wilder fancies crossed her mind.
+
+“How like sentient beings are these waves! They seem as conscious of me
+as I of them! How they spring at me, as if to catch me in their embrace!
+How they lift their white hands to me! How they beckon! Now I would only
+have to sit still here for a few minutes longer, and they would embrace
+and carry me away from this troubled earth, down, down, down to the deep
+stillness of the middle sea! I would only have to sit still—the wooing
+waves would do the rest. Shall I sit quiescent, oh eager waves, and let
+you have your will?”
+
+“_Adelaide!_”
+
+Though the name was pronounced so softly close to her ear, Adelaide
+sprang to her feet in alarm, and turned sharply around to
+confront—_Orville Deville_.
+
+“Oh, Orville! oh, Mr. Deville, is this well? I only ask for peace, yet
+it is denied me; I avoid you, yet you follow me!”
+
+“Adelaide, your garments are wet with surf!”
+
+“Not wetter than my fate with tears!”
+
+“Adelaide, the next wave will break over your head!”
+
+“Many waves have broken over me, even here! I like! I like the physical
+shock, it numbs mental pain!”
+
+“Adelaide, come away! I have a very important communication to make to
+you, but I cannot make it here, not while you sit in wet clothes. THE
+WAVE!” he suddenly exclaimed, as he hastily snatched her from before a
+black ridge of water rolling in towards the shore. It was too late! the
+wave leaped and broke in thunder over both! It required all his strength
+to withstand the shock and hold her firmly. When the tumult was over he
+bore her far up the bank and sat her down.
+
+He was as thoroughly drenched as herself.
+
+“So, Adelaide,” he said, “may every wave of sorrow from which I cannot
+save you, break over us _both_! I hail this as an omen—the rude baptism
+of our union!”
+
+“Oh, why do you distress me with such talk, when you know this can
+never, never be?” she said, in despairing tones.
+
+“Dear Adelaide, come home, get on dry garments, and then I will make you
+a communication.”
+
+She allowed him to take her hand and raise her to her feet, but
+declining further assistance, she walked home. That evening after
+supper, he sent a note to her room, begging her, if she were
+sufficiently rested, to give him a meeting in the library, for the
+purpose of imparting to her the intelligence he waited to convey.
+
+“Tell your master that I will come,” she said to the boy who brought the
+note.
+
+And waiting only long enough to compose her nerves, she arose and
+proceeded to the library, where she found Mr. Deville. He placed a chair
+for her, seated himself and quietly handed her the paper, pointing out
+at the same time the obituary notice.
+
+She started as her eyes fell upon the paragraph. She grew pale as she
+read. And when she had concluded, she raised her eyes, full of solemn
+questioning, to the face of Orville Deville.
+
+“So you perceive, Adelaide,” he said, “that the miserable girl whom you
+chose to exalt into the importance of an obstacle to our complete union
+is removed!”
+
+“Oh! but this is dreadful! dreadful! Orville! Poor thing! poor thing!
+And who knows _how_ she died!”
+
+“She died—not by her own desperate hand—not through me—but by
+disease—disease of the heart!”
+
+“_Of the heart?_ Ah! yes, the chord most strained the soonest snaps!
+_poor heart!_”
+
+“You afflict yourself without cause, dear Adelaide! Hers was _organic_
+disease of the heart, a fatal malady, sure to kill even amid the
+happiest circumstances.”
+
+“And hers were most wretched.”
+
+“Adelaide, she died last month! May she rest in peace! Do not you
+trouble your tender heart vainly!”
+
+“And are not _you_ troubled at her untimely death?”
+
+“I am sorry; yet I think it best that it happened so! best for all
+concerned!”
+
+“Oh, Orville! Oh, Orville! You speak so of _her_, of her who thought
+herself your wife, and who was such in truth and justice!”
+
+“Adelaide! you are a monomaniac on that point! how is it possible that
+she or any other woman than yourself could be my wife! Yes, my dear,
+_you_, and _only_ you, are mine, even as I am yours, and _only_ yours;
+but I did not come here to urge unwelcome claims: I came only to inform
+you of the death of a poor girl in whose fate you deigned to take some
+interest,” said Mr. Deville, rising to leave the room, and permit her to
+reflect upon the new phase the supposed death of Lionne had put upon
+their affairs.
+
+As he passed out of the library, he encountered his mother in the hall.
+
+“You have been holding another interview with Adelaide?”
+
+“Yes, madam.”
+
+“And by your gloomy looks an unpleasant one.”
+
+“Rather so!”
+
+“I will tell you what, Orville, you had better travel.”
+
+“Travel, madam?”
+
+“Yes!—Cease to woo your unwilling bride and leave the neighborhood.”
+
+“Ah, to what good purpose, my dear mother, since I should take my
+unhappy passion along with me?”
+
+“Why, of course, to this good purpose: to bring Adelaide to her senses.
+The girl is really devotedly attached to you, and has been so from her
+childhood; but she is now full of bitter and sullen resentment, and so
+long as you stay and importune her, she will avoid you.”
+
+Now, of course, Orville Deville knew that his mother, in her ignorance
+of the true state of the case, misjudged Adelaide, and yet, upon the
+whole, he thought her advice good. She continued:
+
+“By withdrawing yourself from her presence you will bring her to the
+knowledge of her own heart, and of your importance to her happiness.”
+
+Orville dropped his head upon his breast and reflected deeply. And the
+longer he thought it over, the better he liked his mother’s counsel.
+
+“I see,” continued that lady, “that you are inclined to follow my
+advice. Do so. Leave home for a season, and when you return I will
+guarantee a kinder treatment for you from Adelaide.”
+
+“I think you are right, madam. I will be guided by your counsels,” said
+Orville.
+
+Orville Deville lost no time in preparing for his journey. He was ready
+for departure almost before he had quite made up his mind in what
+direction he should travel. Finally it was determined, between his
+mother and himself, that he should first visit the Canadian Provinces,
+where he should spend the earlier portion of the autumn; that he should
+then proceed southward and spend the winter in the French colonies of
+Louisiana and Mississippi; that in the spring it should depend upon his
+own inclination whether he should extend his travels or return home.
+
+His approaching departure was announced to Adelaide by his mother, in a
+manner likely to fill the mind of that young lady with self-reproach.
+
+Entering the bride’s room early one morning, the mother of Orville sat
+down, and, putting a handkerchief to her eyes, said—
+
+“Well, Adelaide, I hope that you will now be content! You have succeeded
+in banishing my son and your husband from his home!”
+
+“From his home!—I, madam?” exclaimed the poor bride, in wonder and in
+sorrow.
+
+“Ay, _you_! Your continued coldness has driven him away. He leaves home
+to-morrow, to travel how _far_, or how _long_, I cannot tell—to return
+_when_, if _ever_, I do not know!” and the lady, unused to betray
+emotion, dropped her face into her handkerchief and wept bitterly.
+
+Adelaide had shed many, many tears; yet it seemed dreadful to her to see
+Orville’s mother weep. It appeared to her tender, conscientious, and
+devout heart as unfilial, cruel, sacrilegious, to sit and look upon the
+matron’s tears and not seek to stay them, at any sacrifice save that of
+principle.
+
+“Oh, heaven help me! What shall I do?” she exclaimed, going and sinking
+at the feet and clasping the knees of the lady. “Madam! madam! oh, do
+not let me drive him away! do not! Let _me_ go, rather! Oh, if you had
+permitted me to stay away when I went, this might all have been
+prevented. Dear madam, it is not yet too late!—let me go!”
+
+“You are mad, Adelaide, to think of such a thing! Go! where should you
+go? and _why_ should you go? It is not to be thought of! Your frenzied
+proposal does not even merit a serious reply! Do not affront me again by
+making it!” said the lady, agitated between rage and grief.
+
+“Oh, then, _what_ can I do for you, or him? You know that I would _die_
+for either!”
+
+“It is not a question of dying, but of _living_ and _loving_—if that be
+not too late. You are Orville’s wife; give him your love! become _his_
+in _reality_ as you are in _right_!”
+
+“Oh, Lady Elizabeth, I would do any thing that is right, but——”
+
+“I see! speak no more! you will do any thing but _just what we wish_!
+any thing but _just what is your duty_! You would _die_ for us! very
+fine—nobody asks you; but my son, your husband, begs you to love him,
+and you refuse! yes, he _prays_ for rights which he might _demand_, yet
+_you_, who would die for him, refuse his reasonable prayer. Go to, Lady
+Adelaide, I will believe no more of your professions; nor will my son
+plead again, nor will his mother sue for him.” And rising in anger, the
+lady threw off the caressing arms of Adelaide, and left the room.
+
+“_Is_ it my duty to submit to his love? Oh, if I could think it was, how
+happy I should be! And—perhaps it may be so. We have been long married,
+and the poor, wild girl, who innocently divided us, is dead! Is it my
+duty now to give myself up to my husband? Oh, wavering heart, cease!
+inclination sets too strongly that way to let reason and conscience have
+fair play! I must wait—wait for more light,” said Adelaide, as she sat
+deeply reflecting upon her own strange position and obligations.
+
+Her question of duty was one that might have puzzled older and wiser
+heads. She was very young and inexperienced, and her difficulty was one
+upon which she could not seek counsel of any human being, not even of
+Orville’s mother, without an exposure of her husband’s sin, which she
+was determined never to make—no, not to his parent!
+
+“I will pray God to direct me!” she said; “but alas! we pray God to
+guide us, and then we follow our own inclinations and throw the
+responsibility upon him! Heaven save us from self-deception!”
+
+So she meditated, struggled and prayed, with a purpose single to do
+right.
+
+That night poor Adelaide spent in prayer, rather than in sleep.
+
+In the morning she met the family at breakfast, with the humble,
+subdued, and deprecating air of one who felt herself the cause of the
+approaching separation.
+
+The meal passed almost in silence. Lady Elizabeth’s tear-stained cheeks,
+Mr. Deville’s grave brow, and Adelaide’s pensive face, cast a deep gloom
+over the impending parting.
+
+Mr. Deville suddenly broke up the sitting by rising and saying that to
+meet the packet-boat at Belle Haven, it was time he should be in the
+saddle. He took an affectionate leave of his mother, and then advanced
+to his bride, whose hand only he raised in silence to his lips. With her
+whole form drooping to faintness, Adelaide submitted to this slight
+caress. And the minute after, when she raised her eyes, he was gone.
+
+“Oh, may God guide me aright, and then whatever may be my duty, may he
+forgive and bless my husband with great happiness,” she said.
+
+When Orville was gone, his mother, true to her promise, gave over
+importuning Adelaide upon the subject of their estrangement, but her
+manner as well as her feelings towards her daughter-in-law underwent a
+great change. She grew cold and distant to Adelaide. And not the least
+of the poor young bride’s distress, was the displeasure of one between
+whom and herself had always existed the most tender, filial and maternal
+love—who had always been a most affectionate mother to herself, but who
+was still dearer to her heart as the mother of her husband.
+
+But though Lady Elizabeth lectured Adelaide no more upon the subject of
+her “wifely duties,” yet she took care that the young bride should learn
+her responsibilities from other sources.
+
+She took old Doctor Wilmot, the pastor of their parish, into her
+confidence; told him under the seal of secrecy that a lover’s quarrel
+had arisen between her children, which had terminated in a permanent
+estrangement on the part of the bride, and a long journey on that of the
+bridegroom; gave him to understand that the chief difficulty of
+reconciliation lay with the young lady; and finally implored his
+counsel.
+
+Doctor Wilmot, who had known Adelaide from childhood, gave his opinion
+as follows——
+
+“Madam, your youthful daughter-in-law has a deeply religious nature; her
+duty to God is her first consideration; her duty to all his creatures
+grows out of that. She cannot be ruled through her passions or her
+self-interest; because both these are subordinate to her Christian
+principles; she can only be governed through her conscience and her
+affections. The matter in hand is one too delicate to admit of my
+personal interference, even as the pastor and counsellor of the young
+lady; but I will find a way.”
+
+Accordingly, the next Sabbath, good old Doctor Wilmot announced a course
+of sermons on the subject of domestic duties.
+
+His introductory discourse, rather a dull one, was addressed to
+husbands, and gave umbrage, more or less, to every married man present.
+His second was preached from the text, “Wives submit yourselves to your
+own husbands even as unto the Lord,” and because his heart, for his “pet
+lamb’s” sake, was in his subject, this discourse, in all respects,
+surpassed the first.
+
+Adelaide listened, and in her unsuspicious simplicity and meek
+reverence, she received every expressed opinion of this preacher as pure
+gospel-truth.
+
+She went home more disturbed because more hopeful saying to herself—“I
+almost believe it to be my duty, as well as my happiness, to yield to
+Orville.”
+
+The next day, while she was turning this subject over in her heart, as
+the conspirators knew that she would—the old clergyman called.
+
+Lady Elizabeth was out of the way.
+
+Adelaide received him in the breakfast-room. She turned the conversation
+on the sermon of the day before, and in the course of their discussion
+she put several supposititious cases to her pastor for his adjudication.
+As, for instance, in such and such circumstances of the husband, what
+should be the wife’s course?
+
+All these cases had reference to her own difficulty, and they received
+answers that eased her conscience and pleased her heart. And before the
+interview was ended Adelaide was almost persuaded to permit herself to
+be happy.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXIII.
+                         ADELAIDE’S CONSOLATION
+
+       Within that heavy heart of thine,
+         Love’s thrilling pulse is ever leaping;
+       So ebbs and flows the eternal brine,
+         Though winds lie calm, and earth is sleeping!
+       And o’er the gloom thy soul which shrouds,
+         Hope like a star her watch is keeping;
+       So sits the Iris in the clouds
+         And all the landscape smiles—though weeping.—_Sillery._
+
+
+In due time letters came from Orville Deville, for Lady Elizabeth—none
+for Adelaide.
+
+“Lady Adelaide, I have heard from my son—he sends his respects to you,”
+said the mother of Orville, coldly, addressing her daughter-in-law.
+
+“I thank him; when you write, please return my best wishes for his
+happiness,” said the latter, quietly, though she trembled at holding out
+this “right hand of fellowship.”
+
+It was the day succeeding the arrival of these letters that, in the cool
+of the morning, Adelaide ordered her little sail-boat, and went for a
+trip up the coast, as far as the mouth of Bush Creek. When she had
+arrived thither the beauty of the shaded stream tempted her on, and for
+the first time, she entered the mouth of Bush Creek for a sail up the
+stream.
+
+“How far can we go, Nero?” she asked of her old helmsman.
+
+“When de tide’s high as ’tis now, up far’s de mill, ma’am, and even
+furder.”
+
+“Then we will go up to the mill and pay Kate a visit.”
+
+“Ay, ay, ma’am!”
+
+“This is enjoying at once a sail on the salt-water and a ramble through
+the forest,” said Lady Adelaide, looking with delight up at the thicket
+of tall trees that grew upon each bank, and whose upper branches met and
+overshadowed the deep but narrow stream. Nothing could be more singular,
+picturesque and beautiful than the effect of that little graceful
+shallop skimming the surface of the creek—her white sail gleaming in and
+out among the dark green foliage.
+
+“We are navigating the forest instead of the ocean, Nero!” said the
+young lady, with a smile—“but when we get up a little farther will not
+the foliage interfere with the sail?”
+
+“No, ma’am—they never meets low enough.”
+
+They were going before a fresh wind, and might have flown, but for the
+necessity of constant tacking in follow—the serpentine windings of the
+stream.
+
+At length, however, in an hour they reached the bridge below the mill,
+and secured the boat to the posts.
+
+The helmsman sprang upon the bank and assisted his mistress to land.
+
+Adelaide looked up at the old house, once so lone and desolate, now in
+
+             “Solitude no more; but peopled by the furies,”
+
+in the forms of four savage-looking men, with tall, spare figures, harsh
+features, darkly-bronzed complexions, and long, wild, black elf-locks
+and beards that hung upon their shoulders and breasts. They were clad in
+tunics and leggins of ill-dressed buckskin, and were lounging about the
+broken doorway and walls of the house.
+
+“Who _are_ those barbarians?” inquired Adelaide, with some degree of
+uneasiness.
+
+“Dem? Why, dey must be Miss Kate’s older brothers come back from de
+hunting-grounds.”
+
+“Gracious! they look much more savage than the savage Indians
+themselves.”
+
+“So do all white men when dey grow wild,” was the sapient and truthful
+observation of Nero.
+
+“Ay! the Anglo-American race are bound to excel in every thing they
+attempt—even when they try to be savages!” remarked Adelaide, as she
+entered the yard and approached the door.
+
+The said “savages” showed their civilization by giving way and retiring
+with respectful bows, which Adelaide answered by a nod as she entered
+the house.
+
+Kate sprang from the inner room to meet and greet her.
+
+“Oh, Lady Adelaide, I am so glad to see you! Oh, Lady Adelaide! my
+brothers have come home! all safe! every one of them safe!” exclaimed
+the wild girl, tears of joy rushing to her dark eyes!
+
+“I rejoice with you, Kate! with all my heart, I rejoice with you! When
+did they come, my dear?”
+
+“They got here yesterday evening! And oh, Lady Adelaide, the oddest
+thing—” exclaimed Kate, with a laugh and a blush, and above all a look
+of ludicrous embarrassment.
+
+“Well, what is it, dear?”
+
+“Such a find!”
+
+“A _find_?”
+
+“Yes! such a waif!”
+
+“_Waif?_”
+
+“Such a treasure trove!”
+
+“I don’t in the least understand you, my dear.”
+
+“Well, then, my brothers have found—open your eyes wide and look for a
+soft place to faint on—a baby in the forest!”
+
+Adelaide’s eyes opened sufficiently wide; but instead of fainting, she
+only continued to stare in silent amazement at her informant.
+
+“It is some poor squaw’s papoose,” at length the young lady ventured to
+say.
+
+“Come in the parlor, and sit down, while I tell you; but, first of all,
+have you had breakfast?” asked Kate, as she installed her visitor in a
+pleasant seat beside the breezy front window.
+
+“Oh, yes; before I left home,” replied her guest.
+
+“Well, then, now listen. It is such a ‘cock-and-a-bull story,’ that if
+Nim’, my eldest brother, did not tell it, and my other three brothers
+swear to it, I shouldn’t believe it, that’s all——”
+
+“Excuse me for interrupting you, but where _is_ the baby?” asked Lady
+Adelaide, looking around.
+
+“On my bed, in my own room, asleep, the poor little starveling!”
+
+“Well, go on, dear; I am listening.”
+
+“Well, you see, they—my brothers, I mean—were on their way home,
+travelling on foot, when they came to a stream of water whose name they
+did not know. You may judge they meet many such in the wilderness.”
+
+“Yes; well?”
+
+“It was late in the evening, and they walked some distance up and down
+the banks to find a good fording-place; and while they were so hunting,
+the dogs pointed a place in the rocks, and when my brothers came up they
+found the brutes at the mouth of a dark cavern in the side of the
+mountain—I forgot to tell you that this stream ran at the foot of the
+mountain.”
+
+“Yes; but proceed!”
+
+“The dogs continued to point, and my brothers, with their guns cocked,
+crept close and listened for some sound to come from the cavern to help
+them judge what sort of a beast might be concealed within; for, you see,
+experienced hunters like them can tell from the very character of the
+growl what manner of beast may be in lair.”
+
+“Yes, I know.”
+
+“But this time never the sound of a growl issued from the cavern! That
+looked ugly, they thought; so Nim’, who is an impatient sort of a
+fellow, swore a big oath that he would bring the varmint out. So he
+crept closer, with his gun cocked, and—fired into the cavern——”
+
+“Ugh!” shuddered Adelaide.
+
+——“expecting fully to see a wild beast bound forth. But never a thing
+came forth! ‘The mountain’ did not even give birth to a mouse!—only the
+piteous, weak, wailing voice of a new-born baby, that smote their hearts
+with horror, for they feared no less than that they had mortally wounded
+an infant.”
+
+“Oh, oh, go on! Was the child hurt?” exclaimed Adelaide, clasping her
+hands in excess of pity.
+
+“Why, of course it wasn’t! Do you think I’d take it so easy telling you
+the story if it _was_? In a word, when the smoke cleared away, my
+brothers entered the dark cavern, and struck a light, and looked around.
+And there on a bearskin, on the floor, lay this little female Orson, too
+young, and wee, and helpless, even to hold out its arms to its
+preserver!”
+
+“Its perfect helplessness being its greatest strength and strongest
+appeal.”
+
+“Yes; well, there was not a black hair of its little head hurt. From all
+the savage surroundings—wampums, pouches, belts, rattlesnakes’ skins and
+rattles, buffaloes’ tusks, scalps, and other Indian devilisms—my
+brothers thought it was the home of an Indian ‘medicine,’ and that the
+infant was a white child, stolen from some settler’s cabin, or carried
+off from a massacre.”
+
+“And they determined to rescue and take charge of the child, although it
+must have been a great, great care! It was very merciful of them!” said
+the young lady.
+
+“My poor, rough brothers are as merciful and as gentle as—as the Lady
+Adelaide Deville herself.”
+
+The young lady blushed intensely at this compliment, while Kate resumed:
+
+“With the very best care of its rough, inexperienced nurses, the poor
+infant must have suffered, for when they brought it to me you never saw
+such an object! But come, I will show you my waif!” and so saying, Kate
+Kyte conducted her visitor across the front passage to her own room, on
+the other side of the house, where, on the bed, lay the little
+foundling—a wretched looking little creature, thin as a skeleton, dark
+as an Indian, with black hair, and great, wild, black eyes.
+
+As Adelaide looked upon those wondrous eyes, a thrill of emotion shook
+her frame—her bosom heaved—her color fluctuated. Turning to Kate, in a
+stifled voice, she asked:
+
+“What day was it that this child was found?”
+
+“On the seventeenth of August,” replied Kate, looking in wonder at the
+agitated countenance of Lady Adelaide.
+
+“And Lionne died suddenly on the _fifteenth_,” murmured the poor bride
+to herself.
+
+“Now, what _ever_ shall I do with this infant, Lady Adelaide? If my
+brothers had brought me as a present a young bear, or a young panther, I
+might have raised the cub—but a baby! As I am a human woman, and a
+_humane_ woman to boot, I don’t know what to do with it! Seriously, I am
+sure it will perish in my inexperienced keeping!”
+
+“Poor little lost one!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, gazing with deep pity
+upon the child. “I am afraid indeed, Kate, that you will——”
+
+“Kill it! I am sure I shall!”
+
+“If I were my own mistress—if I could—if I dared——”
+
+“Ah, if you only _would_, Lady Adelaide, what a mercy it would be to
+this poor little wretch! what a blessing it would bring you!”
+
+“I will consult Lady Elizabeth.”
+
+“But—are you not the mistress of River-view? Can you not do as you
+please?”
+
+“Not to that extent, perhaps. And I please not to abuse my prerogative.
+But, indeed, I should like to adopt this poor, desolate little one.
+True, I do not know more of infants than yourself, Kate; but then Lady
+Elizabeth does; and besides, we have experienced servants and nursing
+mothers among our people, some one of whom would take this infant to her
+bosom. I will speak to Lady Elizabeth.”
+
+“_Do_, dear Lady Adelaide! But please don’t think that I am anxious to
+get rid of the poor, dear little waif! I am only desirous that it should
+be in better keeping than my own.”
+
+“I know it, Kate. And at all events I—I will find _some_ way of
+providing the babe with a proper nurse,” said the gentle girl, and
+stooping until her golden ringlets touched the dark cheek of the infant,
+she silently vowed to protect its feeble life.
+
+Then she announced her intention of returning home, and attended by her
+young hostess, she left the room and the house.
+
+“Put up the helm for River-view, Nero,” was the order given her dark
+helmsman as she re-entered the boat.
+
+An hour’s sailing down the thickly shaded stream, and then a half hour’s
+run up the river, brought them to the landing-place at River-view.
+
+It was now noon, and Lady Elizabeth was standing upon the front piazza,
+on the look-out for her son’s wife.
+
+“You have been absent four hours; you should not have stayed so long. I
+feared some accident had happened,” said her ladyship.
+
+“I went up Bush Creek—it was such a tempting sail—as far as the mill,
+and saw Kate. I am very sorry to have caused you any uneasiness,”
+replied her daughter-in-law.
+
+“Seriously, Lady Adelaide, in one way and another, you give me a great
+deal of uneasiness.”
+
+“I truly regret it; please forgive me.”
+
+“Well, lunch is waiting. Go take off your things and cool yourself, and
+come to the table,” said Lady Elizabeth, somewhat mollified.
+
+The young lady obeyed and soon joined her mother in the sitting-room.
+
+There was never an hour in which, all other things being as usual, in
+which Lady Elizabeth was so good-humored as at lunch. Adelaide knew
+this, and therefore chose this very opportunity to speak of the little
+foundling at the mill. She told the story as it had been related by the
+Kytes, and if she had any private suspicions as to the parentage of the
+child, she reserved them to herself. She finished by saying—
+
+“There is no one about here capable of taking charge of the poor baby;
+it is, in a manner, thrown upon our mercy; if we do not save it, it will
+perish.”
+
+“In a word, you would like to adopt this motherless infant? Having
+neither parrot nor poodle, you would like to take this baby for a pet.”
+
+“Indeed, I would like to succor the poor thing. And what says our
+Saviour—‘Whoso receiveth one such little one in my name, receiveth me.’”
+
+“Well, Adelaide, I tell you honestly that if this child were an ordinary
+city-foundling, I would have nothing more to do with it than to send it
+to the county poor-house; but being, as it probably is, the child of
+honest parents, stolen from some cabin, and rescued from an Indian
+wigwam——”
+
+“Grotto.”
+
+“Well, from a squaw’s lair of some sort—I—have no objection to your
+taking it home. Yes, I think it would be a meritorious act. Polly, who
+has a young child and is hearty enough to nurse two, can take it to her
+breast. And if the pet give you pleasure, I shall be glad, my dear.”
+
+Adelaide’s eyes filled with tears of gratitude; she suddenly took the
+hand of her mother-in-law and pressed it to her lips, then impulsively
+put her arms around the lady’s neck, and said:
+
+“I have displeased you lately, how unwillingly you do not know. Oh,
+forgive me, and let us be the tender friends of old.”
+
+“Dear child, I was displeased with you, as I might have been with a
+child of my own blood, who did not know her own mind, or heed the
+matters that involved her own interest. Let us trust to time and
+Providence to remedy all our evils. And—let our estrangement be
+forgotten,” said Orville’s mother, drawing her daughter-in-law to her
+bosom.
+
+And thus the two were reconciled.
+
+In the cool of the afternoon Lady Elizabeth ordered her carriage, and
+attended by the mulatto woman Polly, went up to Bush Creek Mill to fetch
+the babe.
+
+Half smiling, half crying, Kate gave up her little charge, with the
+words—
+
+“To think that in twenty-four hours I should have grown so attached to
+the little thing!”
+
+“That is natural,” said the lady from River-view.
+
+“But to think that I should be so good-for-nothing as to be incapable of
+taking care of one little baby!”
+
+“Your incapacity in this single respect does not imply general
+worthlessness, though I should advise you, as your best friend, my dear,
+to apply yourself more to feminine occupation than has been your
+custom,” said Lady Elizabeth.
+
+“La! what odds? Who cares what I do, or leave undone?”
+
+“Yourself should care more than all, Kate. All who like you care. Above
+all, your Saviour cares,” said the lady, launching into a little lecture
+on the beauty of Christian womanhood and woman’s sphere, to which Kate
+Kyte listened in silent respect.
+
+When the lady had finished her little sermon, she bade her woman Polly
+wrap up the child, and precede her, into the carriage. And as she
+prepared to follow her attendant, she suddenly turned to Kate, and said:
+
+“You do not know whether the child has been baptized, or what is its
+name?”
+
+“Of course we don’t! There is no mark upon its linen, and—it is so very
+young, that the probability is, it has never been christened.”
+
+“It would be safer at least to baptize it,” said the orthodox Lady
+Elizabeth, as she entered her carriage.
+
+She ordered the coachman to drive fast; and in an hour they were at
+home.
+
+Lady Adelaide sprang from the front door to meet them.
+
+The babe was carried into the house, and under the directions of Lady
+Adelaide, preparations for its accommodation were immediately commenced.
+
+The family crib was brought down from the garret and made up in
+Adelaide’s chamber.
+
+And from that day to the end of the month, the nimble fingers of the
+young lady were engaged in making up for her protégé an ample set of
+baby linen.
+
+The afternoon of the first Sunday in every month was set apart in their
+parish church for the baptism of infants.
+
+Accordingly during the last week in September, Lady Elizabeth said to
+her daughter—
+
+“We should have your little charge baptized next Sunday. Have you
+thought of a name for her?”
+
+“Yes, madam,” said Adelaide, with some hesitation, “as she also was left
+to perdition, we will call her after the great bard’s beautiful
+creation—Perdita!”
+
+“A pretty name, as well as a rare one—it will do.”
+
+“And, as she has no ascertained family name, we will add our
+own—Deville—that is if you have no objection.”
+
+“None whatever, my dear.”
+
+Accordingly, the next Sabbath, the infant was taken to church and given
+in baptism the name of Perdita Deville—a name that the negroes forthwith
+contracted first into “Pert,” and afterwards into “Ditto.”
+
+As the weeks passed, the infant Perdita grew in health and beauty, and
+in favor with all the household. One circumstance only, connected with
+the babe, troubled the ladies; it was this:—There had been no time for
+consulting Orville, and the child had been adopted without the consent
+of the master of the house, and there was just a possibility that this
+addition to his family might not be acceptable to Mr. Deville.
+
+Circumstances soon occurred that required the presence of Adelaide’s
+husband at home. As the fogs and rains of November came upon them, the
+Lady Elizabeth suffered a return of the malady that had so nearly proved
+fatal to her on the preceding winter.
+
+Notwithstanding all the medical science of the village doctor, and all
+the skill and attention of her best of nurses, Adelaide, the strength of
+Lady Elizabeth rapidly declined. From her easy chair she took to the
+sofa, and from that to the bed. Singularly enough, now that her life was
+in imminent danger, she never thought of dying.
+
+“I suppose I shall be ailing all the winter, and get well in the spring,
+as I did before,” she said to Adelaide.
+
+“God grant it, dear mother,” replied her sorrowing daughter.
+
+Still her strength decayed. She was no longer able to raise herself up
+in bed.
+
+Doctor Williams, her physician, visited her twice a day. After one of
+his morning visits, as Adelaide attended him to the door, he suddenly
+said to her—
+
+“My dear, you had better write at once for your husband to come home.”
+
+“I—I wished to summon Mr. Deville; but Lady Elizabeth will not hear of
+such a thing as his visit South being cut short,” said Adelaide.
+
+“Nevertheless, _write_, or permit me to do so, which will be still
+better. Shall I write to him?”
+
+“I thank you, doctor, very much—pray do so,” replied Adelaide, as the
+physician entered his carriage, hurrying away to conceal her tears. Well
+she knew that in the doctor’s words she had heard the death-sentence of
+her beloved friend. A long time she wept before she could compose
+herself sufficiently to venture into the sick-room.
+
+When at last she did, she was shocked to hear the invalid, unconscious
+of doom, speak only of worldly matters, and talk of sending to Bell
+Haven for drygoods, and a dressmaker to make up their winter suits!
+Alas, what would be their probable winter suits? A shroud for her, and
+deepest mourning for the rest!
+
+The doctor kept his word, and the same night wrote to Orville Deville.
+
+Adelaide also wrote to him. But long before either of those letters
+could have reached their destination, the malady of the invalid had
+brought her close upon the confines of the grave. She now required
+watching by night as well as by day.
+
+One night, while Adelaide sat beside her, she suddenly said:
+
+“Adelaide, my child, I feel something within my chest—giving—giving
+away—like the breaking up of the very central core of life. Adelaide!
+Adelaide! quick! I am going!”
+
+“It is nothing but a fainting-spell, dear mother, drink this!” said the
+tender nurse, placing a cordial to the lips of the invalid.
+
+“No fainting-fit was ever like this, my child! It is the breaking up of
+the wreck!” said the sick woman, as she took and drank the cordial.
+
+“You feel better now?”
+
+“A little, dear; but, Adelaide, this is death! I feel it, I know it, I
+am sure of it!”
+
+“No, no, do not say so; let me send for the doctor.”
+
+“Useless, dear, useless! nay, I will not have him sent for! Oh, that my
+son were here!”
+
+“Oh, that he were!” said Adelaide.
+
+The invalid subsided into a soft slumber.
+
+Adelaide slipped down-stairs and despatched a man in haste for the
+doctor.
+
+When she returned to the sick-room the patient was still slumbering.
+From that slumber she awoke with a start, exclaiming:
+
+“Adelaide!—quick!—some stimulant, or I sink into death!”
+
+With the speed and silence of lightning the young lady placed the
+cordial to her lips.
+
+She was somewhat revived by the draught, and as she sank back upon the
+pillow she said:
+
+“Oh, Adelaide, I must not die until Orville comes!”
+
+“Orville?” repeated the young nurse, in her perplexity not knowing what
+her mother-in-law meant.
+
+“Yes, my child, though this is death, I shall live till Orville comes!
+for he is on his way! Far off I hear the gallop of his steed!”
+
+“Oh, that the doctor were here,” groaned Adelaide to herself.
+
+“I know you think I rave; but I do not! You see me dying here, and you
+think Orville two thousand miles away, and that I wander when I say I
+shall live till he comes. Oh, Adelaide, the spirits of the dying reach
+out to their beloved; mine has met my only son thundering through the
+forests of St. Mary’s, on fire to reach home! He knows not what it is
+that attracts, that pulls him onward—though it is the spirit of his
+dying mother that cannot be released until she blesses him!”
+
+Exhausted by this long and rambling speech, the dying woman sank into a
+slumberous state, in which way she lay for nearly an hour.
+
+“Oh, that the doctor were here!” said Adelaide, in despair, “surely my
+messenger could not have found him at home, and must have gone to seek
+him elsewhere—there, I do believe he is come!” she exclaimed, as the
+sound of horses’ hoofs were heard approaching the house.
+
+In another minute a servant came to the sick-room door and rapped.
+
+Adelaide opened it.
+
+“Has the doctor come, Keziah?”
+
+“No, ma’am—but some one wants to see you in the parlor,” said Keziah,
+mysteriously.
+
+“Who is it?—wait here with your mistress until I return,” said Adelaide,
+in a breath, as she hurried down-stairs and opened the parlor-door. The
+room was dimly lighted by one wax candle that stood upon the
+mantle-piece; but its direct rays fell upon the tall and elegant figure
+of Adelaide’s husband.
+
+“Mr. Deville! Oh, thank God that you have come!” exclaimed Adelaide,
+eagerly.
+
+“How is my mother, Adelaide?”
+
+“Oh, very, very ill! How providential that you should have come! Thank
+God! Oh, thank God!”
+
+“Your letters mentioning my mother’s ill health, and the absence of all
+letters from her, made me very uneasy. At length I could bear the
+anxiety no longer, and set off for home. And here I am.”
+
+“Oh, surely it was the leading of Divine Providence!”
+
+“Can I see my dear mother at once?”
+
+“I think so. Let me go to her first,” said Adelaide, and stealing a
+glance at the pale and anxious face of her husband, she left the room
+and hurried into the sick-chamber.
+
+With astonishment and terror she found Lady Elizabeth sitting up in bed.
+
+“I feel that my son has come! bring him to me, Adelaide!” she said.
+
+Orville, who was just without the door, heard these words, hurried in
+and dropped on his knees by the bedside, exclaiming, as he kissed her
+hand:
+
+“My dear mother! my dear, dear mother!”
+
+“Adelaide, come hither,” said the dying woman, retaining her hold upon
+her son’s hand.
+
+The young lady came and knelt beside her husband.
+
+“Adelaide, whatever Orville’s offences against you may have been, you
+will forgive him by the death-bed of his mother!” she said, as she
+placed the hand of her daughter in that of her son.
+
+“I am not my husband’s judge, dear mother; but while I live, by God’s
+grace I will be to him a true wife,” said the gentle lady.
+
+“Thank God! And as you are merciful to each other’s faults, may he be
+merciful to you, as it is written—‘Unless ye forgive men their
+trespasses, neither will your Heavenly Father forgive you.’ ‘Forgive
+that ye may be forgiven.’ Now may the Lord bless and comfort you! may
+the Lord love you and lead you through all the trials of earth to the
+eternal bliss of heaven! Amen,” said the dying woman, sinking back upon
+her pillow.
+
+After this she subsided into calm repose that lasted several hours, and
+then softly sank to her eternal rest.
+
+Bitter was the grief of the bereaved young couple. Let us draw the vail
+of silence before such sacred sorrow.
+
+The funeral of Lady Elizabeth Deville was solemnized upon the third day,
+and her remains were laid in the family burial-ground on the wooded hill
+behind River-view. During the sacred days of death and burial, not to
+disturb her husband by any new subject of interest, Lady Adelaide had
+ordered the little Perdita to be kept in the nursery or walked out into
+the back lawn. Thus the infant had escaped the notice of Mr. Deville.
+
+It was the day after the funeral, while the young pair sat at breakfast
+in the sitting-room so often mentioned, that Lady Adelaide rung the bell
+and ordered the babe to be brought in.
+
+“What babe?” inquired Mr. Deville.
+
+“A desolate infant rescued from the savages by Kate Kyte’s brothers,
+while the latter were on their hunting-expedition in the far West. I
+adopted the child, hoping that the act might meet your approbation.
+There was no time for consulting you, but the affair is of course at
+your disposal,” said Lady Adelaide.
+
+As she spoke Keziah entered with the child, now a blooming infant six
+months of age.
+
+“Bring her to your master, Keziah,” said the young lady.
+
+And the babe was brought up in front of Mr. Deville for inspection. He
+looked not unfavorably upon the pretty creature; and then turning and
+meeting the eager eyes of his wife, he smiled and said—
+
+“Well, love, you wish to keep her?”
+
+“If you please—oh, yes!”
+
+“Then keep her, love. The most troublesome pet you could find, perhaps;
+but that is your affair.”
+
+“And my delight!” exclaimed Adelaide, with sparkling eyes, as she caught
+the infant from the nurse’s arms to her own bosom.
+
+The child danced, and crowed, and laughed, as she clasped her rosy arms
+around her pretty foster-mother’s neck.
+
+The face of Orville Deville was overshadowed.
+
+“She will give her whole heart to that black-eyed infant,” was the
+jealous thought that crossed his mind.
+
+He half regretted the consent he had given to the adoption of the child;
+but his word was pledged, and his pledge was sacred.
+
+With the wife’s quick instinct, the Lady Adelaide divined the cause of
+the cloud upon her husband’s brow, and hastened to dispel it by putting
+the infant in the arms of her nurse, with the order to take her out for
+a walk.
+
+From that day Lady Adelaide was careful to avoid exciting the jealousy
+of her husband against the child, and only lavished caresses upon her
+_protégé_ in the privacy of the nursery, or in the absence of her
+husband.
+
+As the winter passed, the infant grew in strength, and beauty, and
+intelligence.
+
+It was upon the afternoon of a pleasant day in May, that Orville Deville
+returned from the post-office and entered the sitting-room, holding an
+open letter in his hand.
+
+“Our uncle, the Earl of Glen Lennark, has written to me; it is a very
+kind letter and a very sorrowful one!” he said, seating himself by the
+work-table of Lady Adelaide.
+
+She looked up from her sewing, and he continued:
+
+“Our uncle writes that the last of his children—his only daughter—lies
+in a foreign grave——”
+
+“Oh, poor, bereaved father!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide.
+
+“Yes, he has indeed been ‘a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief.’
+He has seen his king dethroned, and his throne given to a stranger. He
+has seen his own family impoverished, scattered, or destroyed by the
+sword or the axe. He has had his estates confiscated, his blood
+attainted, and himself outlawed. He has passed years in exile, poverty
+and solitude. And now that he—an old and gray-haired man—is restored to
+his country, his home and his old hereditary honors, he loses his
+last-remaining, his only daughter, and finds himself without a child to
+inherit his ancient name and title.”
+
+“But—could his daughter have inherited his title and landed estates?”
+
+“By the terms of his ancient patent of nobility, the females of his line
+are not excluded from the succession, and failing heirs-male, the title
+and estates ‘fall to the distaff,’ as it is called.”
+
+“So that, at the death of her father, his only daughter would have
+become——”
+
+“Countess of Glen Lennark and Baroness Lockburn, in her own right, with
+the power of transmitting both title and estates to her heirs.”
+
+“_I_ think only of the personal bereavement—poor father.”
+
+“Yes, but _he_ thinks of his line! and he writes and invites me, as his
+nearest kin, his nephew and his heir, to come with my wife and spend a
+year with him at his castle of Glen Lennark, in the Highlands of
+Scotland.”
+
+“My dear, old home! Oh, how I should be pleased to revisit it!”
+
+“Well, love, I think that we should go,” said Mr. Deville.
+
+And thus the voyage was agreed upon.
+
+Rapid preparations were made for the journey. A competent steward was
+engaged to take charge of River-view in the absence of the proprietor.
+
+In the midst of all her bustle of preparation, doubt troubled the bosom
+of Lady Adelaide—the doubt whether Mr. Deville would permit her adopted
+child to accompany them—whether, in a word, he would be willing to
+suffer the annoyance of a child and nurse, and all their paraphernalia
+in the confined quarters of a packet ship. Indeed, she dreaded and
+deferred to put the question.
+
+He surmised her embarrassment and relieved it, by saying, with a smile,
+as he caressed the little pet:
+
+“This child will be taken for ours when we present her at Glen Lennark,
+Adelaide.”
+
+She understood this pleasantry as a delicate manner of authorizing her
+to carry Perdita along with them; and accordingly she made arrangements.
+
+It was upon the first Friday in June that they sailed, in a fine
+merchantman, from Baltimore to London.
+
+I shall not fatigue my readers with any description of this voyage; it
+passed without incident worth recording; and at the end of four weeks, a
+rapid run for those days, the “Thetis” entered the Thames and dropped
+anchor off St. Katherine’s Docks.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXIV.
+                        LAKE ISLAND AND CASTLE.
+
+                      That dear old home!
+            Something of old ancestral pride it keeps,
+            Though fallen from its early power and vastness;
+            The sunlight seems to her eyes brighter there
+                      Than wheresoever else!—_Fanny Kemble._
+
+
+The voyagers landed and took quarters for the day and night at the
+Queen’s Head, Fleet street.
+
+Early the next morning they took the first coach for Edinboro’, where
+they arrived in due time, and whence they took a chaise to the post town
+nearest the bourne of their journey, Glen Lennark. At the small hostel,
+they found a carriage from the castle awaiting them. They entered it and
+drove slowly through a wild and rocky country, beautiful, now, in the
+rich luxuriance of summer. It was near sunset when they passed through a
+gorge and came upon the borders of a small, clear lake, set like a
+crystal gem in a circle of mountains diversified with snow-white rocks
+and clumps of dark-green firs, the whole of which was deeply reflected
+in the mirror of the water. In the midst of this lake was a tiny islet,
+a solid rock, from which arose the gray and hoary walls of Glen Lennark
+castle, an ancient feudal tower and keep, now showing marks of many
+centuries of storms, of war and weather bravely withstood. The waters of
+the little lake that surrounded this islet, had served in barbarous
+times as the castle moat; and a relic of the middle ages, an ancient
+drawbridge, whose chains and pulleys had long fallen into disuse,
+connected the isle with the road down which the travelling carriage had
+rolled. They crossed this drawbridge and entered through a high arched
+gateway the court-yard, and crossed to the main entrance of the
+castle-hall, which stood directly opposite. Here they were met by a
+servant out of livery, who conducted them into a modernized reception
+room, and with a low obeisance, went to announce their arrival to his
+master.
+
+Left alone together, Mr. Deville and Lady Adelaide looked around
+themselves and then at each other. Their eyes met, and smiled.
+
+“Do you remember the last time we were in this room, Adelaide?”
+
+“I do, indeed.”
+
+It was the room in which they had been married, at the death-bed of the
+old lord.
+
+They had no opportunity for further conversation, for the door opened
+and their host entered—a tall, distinguished looking man, whose
+snow-white locks contrasted finely with his deep mourning-suit of full
+black velvet.
+
+“I am very happy to welcome you, my niece and nephew, to Glen Lennark,”
+he said, courteously advancing and offering Adelaide and Orville each a
+hand.
+
+Both arose to receive this greeting. But when Mr. Deville looked up—in
+spite of the changed circumstances, the altered dress, the prematurely
+aged face and whitened hair—he recognized in the Earl of Glen Lennark,
+his old host of the forest-lodge, the father of the lost Lionne.
+
+“Mr. Delaforêt!” burst in stupefaction and despair from his pallid lips;
+for in the same moment that he made his discovery, he knew that he
+himself had made his aged uncle childless.
+
+“Mr. Delaforêt no longer; but your uncle,—Glen Lennark, who, even in the
+wilds of America, recognized in his chance visitor, his sister’s son,
+and who would then and there, in exile and poverty, have made himself
+known to his nephew, but for prudential considerations,” said the Earl,
+courteously waving to his young relatives to resume their seats, while
+he set them the example.
+
+Adelaide gazed in silent surprise from one to the other.
+
+“_Oh_, that you had trusted me with your secret! oh, that you had told
+me who you were! or that I had had wit to discover our relationship!”
+groaned Orville, in the pangs of revived and augmented remorse.
+
+“To what purpose? what could my fiery young relative have done for his
+poor exiled uncle?—he would, no doubt, have tried to move heaven and
+earth to restore the banished old man to his country; but at that time
+would have succeeded only in getting himself into trouble,” said the
+Earl, entirely misconceiving the cause of his nephew’s emotion.
+
+Orville, for his part, was almost overwhelmed. In vain he struggled to
+banish the image of the lost Lionne and the visitations of remorse. He
+could not conquer, he could only partially conceal his emotion.
+
+Adelaide also had learned in this conversation that the poor victim of
+her husband’s deceit had been _his_ own, _her_ own cousin, the only
+remaining child of their uncle and host, the aged man who had
+unconsciously invited to his house the destroyer of his daughter. Should
+they—_could_ they dare to accept his hospitality and remain his guests?
+And in the future—could Orville venture to wear the title and estates
+gained by the death of Lionne—of Lionne, destroyed by his own act?—oh,
+never, never, thought Adelaide within herself: and pale and silent from
+these distressing reflections, she scarcely dared to raise her eyes
+either to her husband or her uncle.
+
+“My fair niece looks very weary after her journey! Courage, my dear,
+supper will be served in a few moments; after which, Mrs. Posset will
+show you your apartment. Orville, do you remember the suppers in my
+forest-house, prepared by the hands of my poor Lionne?”
+
+Ay, he did remember! though he had scarcely voice to say so.
+
+“She died very suddenly,” said the earl. And then, in a faltering voice,
+he related all he knew or supposed of the loss of Lionne.
+
+Each word was a dagger to the hearts of Orville Deville and his wife.
+The Earl not understanding the cause of their extreme emotion, and
+attributing it all to their excess of generous sympathy, said—
+
+“Do not grieve for me, young people. I—am equal to my burthen, and I try
+to think that—‘All is for the best.’”
+
+Very soon after supper, Lady Adelaide, acknowledging fatigue, retired to
+her apartment, where at a late hour she was joined by Mr. Deville. He
+looked pale and troubled, and well she knew the cause of his distress,
+though the subject of Lionne was by mutual, silent consent, avoided
+between them.
+
+Yet now Adelaide could not refrain from asking:
+
+“Shall we remain here as long as we had intended, Mr. Deville?”
+
+“Assuredly not; we shall remain no longer than I can find a plausible
+excuse for departing,” he answered.
+
+“Is such an excuse necessary?” inquired the truthful young creature.
+
+“Certainly, Lady Adelaide. You would not have me offend our uncle.”
+
+A silent sigh was her only comment and so the short conference ended.
+
+The next day a number of the county nobility and gentry were received at
+dinner to meet Mr. Deville, whom the Earl of Glen Lennark presented as
+his nearest kinsman and his heir.
+
+This dinner was followed by reciprocal invitations from the guests which
+the uncle and nephew felt obliged to accept, and thus a fortnight was
+spent in a round of dinner parties. Of course, Lady Adelaide was
+frequently of the company; though she often preferred to stay at Glen
+Lennark, and amuse herself with her adopted child, who, by the way, had
+found great favor in the eyes of their host. He felt a strange
+attraction towards the infant; he would have her brought in every day
+with the dessert; he called her “Lady Adelaide’s whim;” and said that he
+hoped that when an heir should be born to them, the poor “whim” might
+not be utterly thrust aside.
+
+“Oh, no,” said Lady Adelaide, “I should so distrust myself. I should so
+fear to slight my little waif, that I do believe I should be more
+attentive to her than to one of my own.”
+
+“At least, if ever, when surrounded by your children, you grow tired of
+Perdita, send her to me,” said the Earl.
+
+“You have taken a strange fancy to my little gipsy,” said Adelaide,
+smiling.
+
+“Well, yes; shall I tell you the reason?—_She is the very image of what
+my poor Leonora was at her age!_ It is one of those strange,
+unaccountable likenesses that we sometimes see in life! and that it is
+not only my fancy I will prove. Come with me into the adjoining
+cabinet,” said the Earl, rising from the table and giving his arm to his
+niece, and leading her into an apartment in the south turret.
+
+It was a small, octagon-shaped room, richly carpeted, and furnished with
+cushioned seats running around the walls. It was lighted by one tall
+gothic window, of stained glass, that occupied one of the eight sides of
+the octagon immediately opposite the door by which they entered, and
+which filled another side; the remaining six, three on each hand, were
+hung with the portraits of the Earl, his late wife, and their four
+children.
+
+“This is a sacred room to me; I call it my ‘family-circle,’” said his
+lordship; as he conducted his niece into this sanctuary, and led her
+straight up to the portrait of a child on the space at the right hand of
+the window.
+
+Adelaide started and grew deadly pale. It seemed to be Perdita her very
+self whom she saw on the canvas before her! There was the little, lithe,
+willowy form; the little, elegant head; the jet black hair, rippling in
+thousands of tiny, glittering ringlets down about the broad forehead and
+crimson cheeks, and falling upon the ivory shoulders; there were the
+same large, fierce, intensely black eyes, with their long, fringe-like,
+black lashes; there was the same delicate, aquiline nose; short, curled
+upper lip, fierce and fine; and the full, voluptuous, lower lip, and
+rounded chin. And more striking than all this, there was the same little
+haughty air of carrying the small, queenly baby-head, the same trick of
+elevating the eyebrows, and protruding the under lip; the same careless
+way of carrying the arms; the same——oh! Lady Adelaide sickened at the
+thought—the suspicion that arose in her mind!
+
+“It is a wonderful likeness, considering that the original of this
+portrait was a noble infant, born in this castle seventeen years ago;
+and that the babe, whom it so strangely resembles, was a peasant child,
+perhaps a half-breed, found in the wilds of America only a year since!—a
+very wonderful likeness!” said the Earl, gravely.
+
+Lady Adelaide could not answer.
+
+“You understand now why it is that I have formed so sudden and strong an
+attachment to your little protégé.”
+
+Adelaide nodded; she could do no more; the power of speech seemed denied
+her.
+
+“You are as much moved as though you considered this
+resemblance—uncanny—as we Scots say,” remarked the Earl.
+
+“It seems—supernatural!” gasped Adelaide, and, without looking at
+another portrait, she turned to leave the turret-cabinet.
+
+The Earl gave her his arm and led her to the door of the drawing-room,
+where, with a bow, he left her, to return to the dinner-table to Mr.
+Deville and the wine.
+
+Lady Adelaide, pale, dizzy and trembling with the dreadful suspicion on
+her mind, went as fast as her failing limbs would carry her, to her own
+room, and locked herself within its privacy.
+
+“Oh, should this child that I protect be really the child of Lionne,
+and, of—of—oh, no, my Lord, it is not so! it cannot be so! this is an
+accidental likeness, as my uncle thinks! The unborn child of Lionne must
+have perished with its wretched mother! and _she_ ‘died and gave no
+sign!’ it could not have been otherwise, for the Earl gave us every
+particular of her death and burial; he did not know her wrongs, and he
+does not even suspect but that he laid a virgin daughter in the grave. I
+am sure of it! and yet, and yet, I know that had Lionne lived she would
+have been a mother; and that the age of this unknown foundling of the
+wilderness, that bears such a wonderful resemblance to her, corresponds
+to what would have been the age of her child, had she had one! I must
+investigate this.”
+
+Thus Adelaide mused, until she was interrupted by the entrance of Keziah
+with the infant subject of her perplexed thoughts.
+
+Then she took the babe from the arms of the nurse saying—
+
+“You may leave her with me, Keziah. I can take care of her for an hour.”
+
+When left alone with her little charge, Lady Adelaide sat the child upon
+her lap, and gazed long and wistfully into her great, fierce, black
+eyes.
+
+“Ah, little one, you know no more of your own sad story than do I! If
+that lisping, silvery tongue could speak, it could tell me nothing of
+your origin! but, oh, if those great, bright eyes could give back again
+to me the images painted upon their retina before I ever saw you—what
+scenes they might reveal!” said the lady as she gazed upon the wondering
+child.
+
+Little Perdita, impatient of the sober face of her foster mother, began
+to dance and laugh and lisp, and use all her infant arts to wile the
+lady into play; and failing of this, she twisted herself out of her fond
+nurse’s arms and took the responsibility of amusing herself upon the
+floor, until the return of Keziah.
+
+That night, Mr. Deville having gone out to a gentleman’s party in the
+neighborhood, Lady Adelaide found herself and the Earl alone in the
+drawing-room.
+
+The dampness of the evening rendered the small, bright wood-fire that
+burned in the fireplace very acceptable.
+
+And the young lady and the old peer drew their chairs up close to the
+hearth.
+
+Adelaide’s work-table, standing between them, served as a rest for the
+old man’s elbow.
+
+Adelaide availed herself of the opportunity, and requested her uncle, if
+the recital would not be too painful to him, to relate to her all the
+particulars of her cousin Leonora’s last illness and death.
+
+With a deep sigh the Earl commenced and faithfully related every
+circumstance of that tragedy, so far as they were known to himself.
+
+Adelaide listened, on the alert to detect any suspicious feature. But,
+when the sorrowful story was ended, she was obliged to confess to
+herself that there was not the slightest reason for supposing that
+Lionne had become a mother before she died, but _every_ reason for
+believing the contrary.
+
+Still she was deeply troubled. For many causes she hoped that her
+husband might shorten their visit and return immediately to America. And
+she resolved, as soon as she reached home, to visit the neighborhood of
+Singing Stream, and make inquiries on the spot concerning the family of
+“Mr. Delaforêt.”
+
+She retired early to her room; but, being unable to sleep, she put on
+her dressing-gown, and threw herself into an easy chair, to await the
+coming of her husband.
+
+It was very late when Mr. Deville came in from the supper.
+
+“Up yet, Adelaide?” he asked, with a yawn.
+
+“Yes—I cannot sleep, Mr. Deville. Oh, when shall we leave this house?”
+
+“Why—are you not comfortable?”
+
+“As comfortable as the kindest of hosts can make me; but—I thought that
+you _also_ were anxious to leave?”
+
+“So I was, and so I am; but to _leave_ is not so easy a feat as you
+suppose! We came with the understanding between our uncle and ourselves
+that we should stay a year. And when I spoke to him of shortening our
+visit, pleading unexpected business as my excuse, he looked so annoyed,
+so incredulous, and opposed our going with so much earnestness of
+emotion, that I find I cannot distress him by hurrying off. I have
+caused him trouble enough, heaven knows, and I will occasion him no more
+that I can avoid! So, painful as it is to my feelings to remain, I must
+stay out the proposed period of our visit,” said Mr. Deville, most
+likely deceiving his own soul as to his motives.
+
+Lady Adelaide made no comment.
+
+“You do not approve this resolution, I suppose!” said her husband.
+
+“Excuse me—the decision does not rest with me,” she gently replied.
+
+“Nevertheless I should like to know your opinion, Adelaide,” he
+persisted, with the unconfessed desire of forcing her to agree with him.
+
+“Indeed, I would rather not express one, knowing full well that my
+individual judgment would not, perhaps should not, influence the
+question.”
+
+“Is that a complaint, madam?”
+
+“Indeed, no.”
+
+“Then I insist upon hearing your sentiments in respect to our staying
+here!” he said, in a tone so peremptory, as to admit of no refusal from
+his wife.
+
+“Well, then,” said Adelaide, gently, “I think, under the circumstances,
+that it would be scarcely honorable in us to accept for a whole year the
+hospitality of poor Lionne’s bereaved father.”
+
+The face of Orville Deville flushed purple with anger. He was offended,
+as she foresaw that he would be.
+
+“Lady Adelaide, your words are insulting!” he said, in the deep, low,
+steady tones of suppressed but concentrated and intense rage. And
+rising, he went into the adjoining room and threw himself upon the
+lounge, where he passed the remainder of that night, and many nights
+thereafter.
+
+Remorse, when it is not refined into repentance towards God, only
+hardens the heart and sours the temper. Any allusion to Lionne, the
+subject of _his_ remorse, always exasperated the anger of Orville
+Deville, who, being a pure Saxon, was of course a natural despot, and
+would have laid the absolute law of his lordly will, not only upon his
+wife’s words and actions, but even upon her very _thoughts_. And thus
+against her will, he would drag forth her opinions, only to sit in harsh
+judgment upon them, whenever they did not happen to flatter or to please
+him.
+
+Could Adelaide have blinded her own judgment as easily as she could
+yield her will, she might have been happier where “ignorance” would have
+been “bliss.” But, though her intellect could not be deceived, nor her
+conscience dulled—though daily, as he hardened his heart, and conformed
+his soul in selfishness, she wept over his decline of moral strength—yet
+her affections had been too long and closely bound up in him to fall
+away now. She loved him as devotedly as ever, the only difference being,
+that she loved him in fear and sorrow, instead of in pride and joy.
+
+For days Orville Deville maintained a cold and distant demeanor towards
+his wife. He was evidently waiting for some sign of submission on her
+part. And the gentle Adelaide would readily have asked forgiveness, only
+that in this case self-crimination would have been a falsehood, and a
+betrayal of principle.
+
+How long this estrangement would have continued is not known, for an
+event occurred that necessarily forced the estranged parties into
+confidential relations.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXV.
+                           DEATH AT THE FETE.
+
+       Leaves have their time to fall,
+   And flowers to wither at the northwind’s breath,
+       And stars to set,—but all—
+   Thou hast all seasons for thine own, oh, death!—_Felicia Hemans._
+
+
+The Earl of Glen Lennark had observed and deplored the coolness that
+seemed to exist between Lady Adelaide and Mr. Deville,—or, to speak more
+correctly, he had noticed and grieved over the freezing reserve with
+which the husband treated the wife, who evidently suffered acutely under
+his displeasure. And, without venturing to speak to either party upon a
+subject so delicate, his lordship resolved upon a measure which should
+bring the young couple into closer communion. He announced his intention
+of giving a grand fete, in honor of Orville Deville’s birthday, which
+was near at hand.
+
+The nobility and gentry of the neighborhood were invited to a sumptuous
+dinner, to be followed by a ball in the evening; and the tenantry and
+villagers were to be made free of the ground, where roast beef, bread
+and cheese, cakes and ale, etc., were provided for their refreshment,
+and fireworks and fiddlers for their amusement.
+
+The eventful day arrived. It was a lovely day, early in October, and the
+entertainments commenced with the most auspicious prospects.
+
+But, alas! in the afternoon of that day the festival came to a sudden
+and dreadful end.
+
+It was about six o’clock, P. M., that the villagers and tenantry were at
+the height of enjoyment of feasting and dancing; the artizans were at
+their posts, ready, at the appearance of the Earl and his guests, to
+begin letting off the fireworks; and the Earl himself was seated at the
+head of his dinner table, having on his right hand Lady Adelaide and on
+his left Mr. Deville, and surrounded by his distinguished friends.
+
+The cloth had been removed, and the dessert set upon the table, when the
+Earl of Glen Lennark arose in his place to propose a toast.
+
+All eyes were riveted upon him as he stood there, his tall figure, clad
+in a suit of sable velvet; his snow-white hair parted over the broad
+brow and descending upon his shoulders; his venerable face elongated
+with age and care; but his noble form as erect, and his eagle eye as
+keen as when, in middle age, he had led the armies or the councils of
+his country.
+
+“Friends and neighbors,” he said, “be pleased to fill your glasses and
+pledge me in one sentiment.” And filling his own high with wine, he
+stood waiting until his guests with brimming glasses, were upon their
+feet. Then lifting his goblet, he bowed and said—
+
+“We drink to the health and prosperity of the next Earl and Countess of
+Glen Lennark! May their future be——”
+
+The last syllables trembled upon his lips; the brimming goblet shook in
+his hands, and fell shivered into fragments, spilling all the red wine
+upon the floor.
+
+The butler, regarding this as merely an awkward accident, quickly and
+coolly filled another glass and handed it to his master.
+
+The Earl, who was resting one hand upon the table, received the second
+goblet and stood once more erect. The eyes of his guests were fixed upon
+his venerable pale face; they saw the quivering of his aged lips as he
+attempted to articulate; noticed the twitching of his fingers as he
+tried to hold his glass, which instantly fell with a crash to the table.
+
+“My lord, you are ill!” exclaimed Orville Deville, starting up just in
+time to receive the falling form of the old man in his arms and lay him
+gently back in the chair.
+
+All became confusion.
+
+The guests left their seats and gathered around their host, who, livid
+and helpless, lay back upon the chair, supported in the arms of Orville
+Deville.
+
+“Lay him on a lounge!”
+
+“Give him brandy!”
+
+“Put ice to his head!”
+
+“Plunge his feet into hot water!”
+
+“Fetch a lancet to bleed him!”
+
+“Run for the doctor!”
+
+These and other miscellaneous orders were hurriedly given and obeyed.
+
+A messenger was despatched for the doctor, the patient was laid upon the
+lounge hastily brought for the purpose, and all proper remedies were
+resorted to for his relief. In vain; the old man never spoke again. And
+when half an hour afterward the physician arrived, he found a corpse!
+
+The guests, with grave faces, left the house of mourning. The villagers
+and tenantry, filled with consternation, lingered, talking in groups
+upon the grounds, until by the orders of Mr. Deville they were dispersed
+and sent home.
+
+The proper officials were then summoned, and preparations for the
+funeral solemnities were commenced.
+
+The body of the late Earl lay in state in the castle-hall for three
+days, during which it was visited by a large number of his friends,
+tenants and dependants. And on the evening of the fourth day, with all
+the “pride, pomp, and circumstance” of rank Alexander, seventh Earl of
+Glen Lennark and tenth Baron Lochburn, was laid in the tomb of his
+fathers.
+
+On the morning of the day succeeding the funeral, the nearest friends
+and neighbors of the late lord were assembled in the library of the
+castle to hear the reading of his lordship’s last will and testament.
+
+Lady Adelaide and Mr. Deville were present in deep mourning.
+
+They were scarcely seated when the attorney of the late Earl entered,
+bearing the will. He bowed to the small assembly, walked up and took his
+stand at the head of the table around which the company were gathered.
+
+He then opened the document, observing that as the title and landed
+estates fell by inheritance to his late lordship’s nephew, there
+present, the instrument in his hand related merely to such personal
+property as the late Earl had in his power to bequeath. With another bow
+the attorney spread open the parchment, and proceeded to read. The great
+bulk of his lordship’s personal property was left where his title and
+estates had descended—to his “beloved nephew, Orville Deville.” Then
+followed some considerable legacies to servants and humble friends. And
+finally, there was a codicil by which he left to Orville Deville the sum
+of five thousand pounds sterling, in trust, for the use of his adopted
+daughter, Perdita.
+
+The attorney having finished the perusal, rolled and tied up the
+parchment, laid it upon the table, and turning with a deep bow to
+Orville Deville, said—
+
+“I hope your lordship will accept my humble congratulations on your
+accession to your title and estates, and also my best wishes for the
+health and happiness of the present Earl and Countess of Glen Lennark. I
+have enjoyed the honor of doing business for the late Earl, as well as
+for his predecessor, and hope to merit the confidence of your lordship.”
+And with a second and deeper bow, the lawyer withdrew.
+
+Then friends and acquaintances approached with congratulations and
+flattering speeches. Doctor Bowne, the venerable rector of Glen Lennark,
+approaching Adelaide, said—
+
+“I congratulate, not you, madam, but the people over whom you are called
+to rule; for some centuries have passed since this castle has welcomed
+so young, fair, wise and good a Countess of Glen Lennark.”
+
+“Reverend sir, I thought your mission upon earth was to _rebuke_, and
+not to _flatter_ the pomps and vanities of life,” said Adelaide,
+tempering the austerity of her words by the sweetness of her tones and
+looks, as she turned away. In truth, she was shocked to see with what
+irreverent alacrity the world hurried from the tomb of the dead Earl to
+do homage at the footstool of his successor. The new title by which they
+hailed her, Countess of Glen Lennark, rang a knell through her brain and
+heart; for she thought of _her_, that beautiful and wretched girl, who,
+as the last lineal descendant of her house, should have worn its
+hereditary coronet; and by whose untimely fate alone she, Adelaide, now
+bore its ancient title.
+
+Her husband saw by her pale and suffering countenance that this new
+accession of rank and wealth gave her no pleasure, and, as usual, he
+resented her difference of feeling. Just as soon as he could get an
+opportunity, while the tide of talk was “fast and furious,” he slipped
+up to the side of his wife, and murmured—
+
+“As usual, you do not in the least sympathize with me, Lady Glen
+Lennark.”
+
+“Oh, do not call me thus!” she exclaimed, with a shudder. “Oh, do not
+call me thus! You know _who_ should have borne that title! I feel I have
+no right to it! Oh, Orville, my husband, I will never, never put that
+countess’s coronet upon my brow; like a diadem of fire, it would scathe
+my brain! Oh, Orville, drop this honor! drop it! it is accursed! let us
+return to our quiet place in Maryland——”
+
+“Madam! for decency’s sake be silent; you are attracting attention by
+this vehemence,” replied her husband, in a tone of displeasure, as he
+moved from her side.
+
+“Poor girl! she is very sensitive, and has not yet recovered the shock
+of our dear kinsman’s death,” he said, in explanation of her distressed
+looks, as he rejoined his friends.
+
+Just at this moment the doors of the lunch-room connecting with the
+library were thrown open, and the butler announced—
+
+“My lady is served.”
+
+Whereupon the host invited his guests to enter and partake of a
+sumptuous collation, served in excellent style.
+
+“Lord Inchloch, will you lead the Countess in?” said the husband of
+Adelaide, presenting her, with a smile, to his friend.
+
+The venerable peer just named, gave his arm to the fair hostess, and led
+the way to the lunch-room, followed by all the company.
+
+They gathered around the table. The memory of the newly dead checked all
+hilarity, but did not lessen the appetite of the guests for the viands
+set before them.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXVI.
+                        THE SPECTRE AT THE FEAST
+
+                    ——Speak! if voice thou hast,
+        Tell me what sacrifice can soothe thy spirit;
+        Can still the unquiet sleeper of the grave,
+        For this most horrid visitation is
+        Beyond endurance of the noblest mind
+        In perishable flesh and blood enrobed.—_Joanna Baillie._
+
+
+“To the Earl and Countess of Glen Lennark,” said the young Lord
+Inchburn, filling his goblet and rising in his place at the right hand
+of his host. “To the Earl and Countess of Glen Lennark! gentlemen, you
+will surely pledge me in this sentiment.”
+
+“Pray excuse me, but—that was the toast that died on the lips of my late
+dying relative,” said the Earl, gently laying his hand upon that of the
+young nobleman.
+
+“Ah! was it? I did not know! your pardon! put it in some other form!
+Gentlemen, we will drink the health of our noble host and hostess
+separately—our fair hostess first! Gentlemen, fill your glasses!”
+
+All complied and rose, goblets in hand.
+
+“To the lovely Countess of Glen Lennark! Long and happily may she rule
+over the fair lands of her ancestors,” smiled the young peer, with a
+profound obeisance.
+
+All honored the toast with deep bows and full bumpers, and so resumed
+their seats.
+
+“_Lady Glen Lennark accepts and thanks your countess!_”
+
+All started! The earl gazed in wild terror around!
+
+Whence came that deep-toned solemn, vibrating voice that tolled like a
+death bell through the room?
+
+Not from the rosy lips of Adelaide whose melodious organs never knelled
+forth such a _de profundus_. Not from any one there present.
+
+“Who spoke?” demanded the host, with pale lips.
+
+There was no answer, but the guests sought each other’s eyes in inquiry,
+and Adelaide leaned forward upon the table as if about to faint.
+
+“Do not be alarmed, it is nothing,” said the earl, to his wife, in a
+hoarse whisper, whose faltering tones belied his words.
+
+“Who spoke?” he repeated, in a raised voice.
+
+Still there was no reply. But the guests gazed at each other in
+amazement, and fair Adelaide shuddered in her seat.
+
+“Control yourself, madam!” he said, in a stern whisper, then raising his
+voice, for the third time, he reiterated the question whose form he
+seemed to have no power to change—
+
+“Who spoke?”
+
+There came a response, tolling like a deep-mouthed bell, through the
+room:
+
+“_Leonora Countess of Glen Lennark and Baroness Lockburn._”
+
+With a stifled cry, Adelaide sank back in her chair.
+
+The guests all started upon their feet looking around as if in the
+expectancy of some strange denouement.
+
+The Earl arose in extreme agitation—
+
+“Gentlemen, we are the victims of some impudent imposture! Let us
+unearth this invisible speaker!” he said, in a tone that he vainly
+endeavored to make calm.
+
+“_It shall not need!_” spoke the same profound voice.
+
+And the door of the turret cabinet swung open and a tall dark woman of
+exceeding beauty and unearthly pallor, clothed in deep mourning, slowly
+advanced to the foot of the table and stood directly opposite to the
+Earl of Glen Lennark, who, with a deep groan, sank back in his chair.
+
+“You, who did not know the _voice_—do you now recognize the _form_ of
+Lionne Delaforêt? And do you remember this document?” she said, drawing
+from her bosom and holding out a small written paper.
+
+He covered his face with his hands and groaned.
+
+“Call yourself now Earl of Glen Lennark if you dare!—Abide in the halls
+of Glen Lennark at your peril! Lay down the title that you dishonor!
+depart from the roof that you desecrate! Away! begone! while a semblance
+of honor and liberty remain to you!” and with her arm raised on high,
+with a gesture of supreme command, this woman of unearthly beauty swept
+from the room and was gone, ere any one recovered their astonishment or
+thought of preventing her.
+
+“Some escaped lunatic,” said the clergyman, who was the first to find a
+voice.
+
+“Some poor beauty that Deville had flirted with and abandoned!”
+whispered the young Lord Inchburn.
+
+“A ghost, if ever one appeared to mortal eyes,” said an old lady.
+
+“Follow her! she should be stopped,” said a magistrate, present.
+
+And all these various expressions of opinion were uttered at the same
+instant, while their host pressed his hand before his agonized
+countenance.
+
+And in the next moment a heavy fall was heard, and several voices
+exclaimed—
+
+“Look to Lady Glen Lennark! she has fainted.”
+
+The Earl was the first to spring to the assistance of his wife. She
+seemed quite dead; she was, in fact, quite insensible. He bore her to a
+lounge, where every effort was made for her recovery; but in vain. The
+guests, unable to render assistance and feeling themselves in the way,
+took a hasty leave, and departed.
+
+The countess was borne from her couch to her chamber, where she lay many
+hours in that death-like swoon, from which she was only at last aroused,
+by the fierce pangs of premature maternity. The struggle was long and
+terrible. And the life of the mother trembled in this strife of nature,
+as trembles a frail barque in a furious storm.
+
+It was the deep midnight of the third day of agony that a son and heir
+was born to the Earl of Glen Lennark—but born DEAD.
+
+_The first bolt of Lionne’s vengeance had fallen!_
+
+When this sad news was carried by the doctor to the Earl, who was pacing
+the floor of the library, in unutterable anxiety, the erring man paused
+and muttered inaudibly—
+
+“The curse of the ruined girl has fallen and not _her_ curse only. Even
+so! ‘the sins of the fathers shall be visited upon the children unto the
+third and fourth generation!’”
+
+“Sir,” said the physician, who deeply pitied the father’s
+disappointment, “I offer you great comfort, in the news that the
+Countess is out of danger. She has been in extreme peril happily now
+passed.”
+
+“_Happily?_” querulously repeated the Earl.
+
+“Happily for _her_ and for _yourself_ assuredly, my lord. Your lordship
+will admit that grievous as is your disappointment, it is yet not the
+deep distress that would have been yours, had the Countess lost her
+life.”
+
+“Doubtless, doubtless,” said the Earl, in an absent tone. “When can I
+see her ladyship?”
+
+“I would advise, not to night. Her welfare depends upon her having
+perfect quiet. To-morrow, should all continue well, you shall see her.”
+
+With this speech the physician retired to give some final directions to
+the nurse. And the Earl threw himself upon the sofa to take the first
+repose that had for three days and nights of suspense, visited his
+anxious mind and exhausted body.
+
+And even through this period of intense anxiety, the mysterious
+stranger, whose inexplicable appearance brought on this catastrophe, was
+not for an hour forgotten. Inquiries were pushed in every direction, but
+failed of finding either an explanation of her sudden presence in the
+castle or a clue to her retreat.
+
+Opinions concerning her varied. Some said that she was an escaped
+lunatic; others that she was a gipsy; while the superstitious whispered
+in awe-struck tones that it was no other than the ghost of the late
+lord’s daughter, the dead Lady Leonora!
+
+At noon the next day the Earl received an intimation that he might now
+visit the chamber of the Countess.
+
+He entered the darkened chamber, so dark that it scarcely gave to view
+the white lace draperies of the bed that held her fragile form.
+
+He signed for the attendants to leave the room. When they had gone, he
+approached and put aside her curtains, and looked upon her fair, wan,
+spiritual face.
+
+“How are you, Adelaide?”
+
+“Well—oh, well—as—I wish to be,” she said, wildly—“Is any one here?”
+
+“No, love; we are alone.”
+
+She fixed her dilated eyes upon him, and said—
+
+“Oh, Orville! the curse has fallen! the dread girl’s curse has fallen!
+Our first-born lies dead in his shroud!”
+
+“It was the will of heaven, my love; do not look upon it in any other
+light,” he said, soothingly.
+
+“Orville, _what was it_ that appeared to us from the turret chamber? was
+it herself? _was it her spirit?_” she asked, in a tone of deep, wild
+terror.
+
+“Dear love”—he began, and stopped. What, indeed, could he reply to her?
+The “horrid visitation” remained to _him_ as to _her_, and to _all_, an
+inexplicable mystery. “Dear love”—he repeated, “think no more of it! it
+has caused mischief enough already! thank heaven that your own precious
+life is safe, and think only of getting well!”
+
+“Oh, I cannot! I think of nothing but of that dread girl! her spectre!
+her voice! her malediction and its fulfillment! Oh, like a thunderbolt
+her curse fell and blasted where it struck! I can think of nothing
+else!”
+
+“Then do not talk of it! words will feed your excitement.”
+
+“_But what was it, then?_ oh, you have not told me that, yet! what was
+it that spoke to us from the turret chamber?”
+
+“Dear love, many people think it was an escaped lunatic.”
+
+“Oh!” she broke forth, wildly—“do not tell me what _others_ think! for
+how can _they_ judge? Tell me what you think! Oh, Orville, tell me what
+_you_ think!”
+
+“Dear Adelaide, I know not _what_ to think! I saw what you saw, heard
+what you heard! and know no more than you do!”
+
+“_She died, and was buried, you know!_ Her father saw her in the coffin,
+and saw the coffin put into the grave! _and yet she came to us! she
+spoke to us!_—she, herself, or her spirit!—one or the other!—herself
+risen from the grave, or her spirit! Oh, Orville, this is maddening! it
+is maddening!” she exclaimed, growing wild with excitement.
+
+“Adelaide, love, I insist upon your changing the subject. Let us speak
+of yourself! Are you easy—free from pain?”
+
+“Yes! no! I do not know!——_It was not night! I was not alone!_ it cannot
+be said that it was fancy! No, It was in broad daylight in a large
+company—that _she, that dread girl who died and was buried a year ago,
+arose up and spoke to us_! Can such things be—or am I going mad?” And
+overwhelmed by the horror of the recollection, the Countess shuddered
+and fell into spasms.
+
+In terror for her, the Earl rushed to the bell and rang a peal that
+speedily brought her attendants into the room. A nearly fatal relapse
+followed. The convulsions continued through the day, and at night
+subsided into coma, which lasted until the next morning, when, contrary
+to the most sanguine expectations of her friends, Adelaide’s youth and
+constitutional health triumphed over death, and she returned to
+consciousness. But the most profound quiet was enjoined. The subject of
+the mysterious stranger was tabooed. The visits of the Earl were
+prohibited. All exciting conversation forbidden.
+
+“And,” said the doctor to the Earl, “just so soon as the Countess is
+able to leave her apartments, she must not be permitted to visit the
+other parts of the house, but must be conveyed immediately, by easy
+stages, from the scene and the neighborhood. It is better that she risk
+some fatigue, than suffer the pain of exciting recollections.”
+
+The Earl, for many strong reasons, assented to this.
+
+Very protracted was the convalescence of the Countess. One great and
+all-absorbing desire consumed her heart—to escape from the castle of
+Glen Lennark, _once_ the happy home of her childhood, and the desired
+bourne of her exiled youth; but _now_ the scene of so many painful,
+exciting and maddening events. Her physician continued strenuously to
+advise change of place, and as soon as she could bear motion extensive
+travel.
+
+It was late in October before Lady Glen Lennark was permitted to receive
+her husband. The meeting was very affectionate; though at first almost a
+silent one. But when the Earl, taking her transparent hand and gazing
+fondly into her fair, wan, spiritual face, inquired—
+
+“My Adelaide, what can I do to prove how much I love you—how grateful I
+am for your life restored?”
+
+She answered—“Oh, my lord, take me away from this place! take me quickly
+away!”
+
+“That I had already resolved upon. What more, my Adelaide?”
+
+“The next I ask is a great sacrifice that I scarcely dare to name!”
+
+“Nay, speak, my dear Adelaide; there is nothing that I would not do to
+make you happy.”
+
+“But this is something so unreasonable that I am afraid and ashamed to
+ask it.”
+
+“Do not hesitate, sweet Adelaide, to trust your husband with your
+thoughts.”
+
+“No, I _must_ not! I must not! I must speak! An instinct stronger than
+reason, or fear, or shame, compels me—and yet——”
+
+“Well, Adelaide, what is it you would have me do?”
+
+“_Do as the awful voice commanded._ Leave title, castle, and estate, and
+let us go forth as we came!” said the Countess, clasping her hands, and
+gazing into his eyes in wild entreaty.
+
+The Earl dropped his head upon his bosom, and seemed to hesitate and
+reflect. His wife grew more painfully earnest in her appeal.
+
+“Oh, my lord! my husband! do as the dreadful voice commanded. I feel! I
+feel! that your honor and safety, your life and liberty are at stake!”
+
+“Adelaide, not for safety, life or liberty, would I abdicate my present
+position; but for your dear sake, I will do as you desire,” he said,
+with involuntary self-deception; for, in strict truth, it was a secret,
+unconscious regard for his imperilled honor, safety and liberty that
+impelled him to this concession. For after the shock of surprise and the
+tumult of excitement caused by the sudden appearance of the mysterious
+visitor had subsided, and left him opportunity for calm reflection, on
+leisurely reviewing all the circumstances, he had come to the
+conclusion, that the stranger had been no other than his ruined love,
+the fell Lionne Delaforêt, or, as she rightly called herself, Leonora,
+Countess of Glen Lennark! and he knew, that if he disregarded her stern
+injunction, she would not hesitate to put her threat in execution,
+and—using against him the terrible power with which his own crime had
+armed her—to deprive him of rank, honor and liberty. And thus his
+resolution to abandon his title and estate was not a voluntary
+renunciation, but an inevitable falling before the dread fate that
+pursued him.
+
+“Make your gentle heart easy. You have my promise, Adelaide,” he said.
+
+It was December before the convalescence of the Countess was
+sufficiently advanced to admit of her travelling. Then, without any
+formal or acknowledged abdication, the castle of Glen Lennark was simply
+left in charge of the old steward, who had acted in that capacity for so
+many years, and the Earl and Countess left Scotland with the intention
+of passing the winter in Italy.
+
+And there, according to his promise, his lordship dropped his title, and
+the Earl and Countess appeared upon the hotel-register only as Mr.
+Orville Deville and Lady Adelaide Deville.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXVII.
+                          THE CLEAVING CURSE.
+
+              Through many a clime ’tis his to go,
+                With many a retrospection curst,
+              And need the solace e’en to know,
+                Whate’er betide, it is the worst!—_Byron._
+
+
+The fate of Mr. Deville was that of Tantalus. Than Orville Deville,
+there never lived a man with a greater thirst of ambition, and here was
+the spring of wealth, rank and honor within his reach, even at his lips,
+yet he might not drink of its water, guarded as they were by an awful
+Nemesis, whose avenging arm would be raised to hurl him down to the deep
+dishonor of detected crime!
+
+Called Earl of Glen Lennark, with no apparent bar to his right, he might
+not retain his title or enjoy his estate, yet unwilling formally and
+finally to renounce his claim, he took the middle course of quietly
+leaving Scotland, ostensibly travelling for the benefit of his wife’s
+health.
+
+The winter was passed in Italy; the spring in Germany; the summer in
+Switzerland; and autumn saw them on their way home.
+
+Their nine months of continental travel had been without incident in
+their private life worth record.
+
+And after a moderately pleasant voyage they landed late in October at
+the pier of Norfolk, whence they took a packet for the Potomac river.
+
+They reached home early on a fine morning of the first week in November.
+
+They found all things well. The homestead and farm and prospered under
+the care of John Fielding as overseer, and his wife as housekeeper.
+
+The necessity that brought the master and mistress once more to their
+American home was manifest—Lady Adelaide would soon again become a
+mother. Mr. Deville, deeply anxious for the issue of this event,
+surrounded her with every aid and comfort that wealth, directed by
+affection and skill, could provide. Adelaide, whose wounded love and
+woman’s pride had subsided into patience and resignation, looked forward
+to her second maternity without dread and without desire.
+
+In due time, early in December, Lady Adelaide Deville became the mother
+of a delicate little girl, so fragile that its life was scarcely
+expected to hold out beyond a few hours; but it survived and grew even
+in its feeble infancy the loving image of its mother.
+
+Lady Adelaide slowly regained her usual slight average of strength, and
+it was the week before Christmas that she was sufficiently convalescent
+to resume her place at the head of the breakfast-table.
+
+The christening of the heiress was fixed for the afternoon of
+Christmas-day, and a party of friends and neighbors were invited to
+assist at the ceremony.
+
+It was upon this occasion that the youthful parents laid off their deep
+mourning, and with it much of the vague gloom and dread that had lately
+overshadowed their lives.
+
+Their whole house was thrown open. The two drawing-rooms, thrown into
+one saloon, were decorated with wreaths and festoons of holly and
+mistletoe, lighted up by many-colored lamps that threw a
+rainbow-radiance over the scene, and warmed by two fine hickory-fires,
+in the wide old-fashioned chimneys at opposite extremities.
+
+The two parlors across the hall were also thrown into one, and a long
+table, extending the whole length of the two rooms, was adorned with an
+elegant service of goldplate and Sevres-china, loaded with all luxuries
+of our own and other climes, and lighted up by three large
+rainbow-chandeliers. Such preparations for a christening-festival the
+old woods and watersides of St. Mary’s had never seen before.
+
+On Christmas-morning, Mr. Deville, Lady Adelaide, and their household,
+had attended divine service at the parish-church, and at the close had
+brought the aged pastor and his family home with them to a late, but
+sumptuous dinner.
+
+By the time the lamps were lighted, the guests invited for the evening
+began to arrive, and soon filled the saloon.
+
+Never, even in the days of her bridehood, had Lady Adelaide looked so
+lovely as now, when, just within the drawing-room door, she stood
+receiving her friends. Her pale, golden hair fell in soft, shining
+ringlets down each side the snowy forehead and roseate cheeks; her
+clear, blue eyes beamed, and her blooming lips smiled with a mother’s
+holy happiness. She wore a robe of rich white lace, open over a dress of
+pale, blue satin; and a tiara, necklace, bracelet, and brooch of pure
+opals, completed her rich but delicate costume.
+
+When all the guests were seated, and the hour for the ceremony had come,
+the venerable pastor advanced to the centre of the room, where, beneath
+the radiant light of the central chandelier, stood a marble statue—the
+angel of the annunciation—holding in his hand the baptismal font, a vase
+of Parian marble, in the form of a lily.
+
+When the minister had taken his stand, the youthful parents, and the
+young sponsors, with the infant, came before him and formed a crescent.
+The guests gathered together, making an outer semicircle. The solemnity
+commenced. Very impressive is always the baptism of an infant; and most
+imposing was now the sacred ritual in the hands of the venerable pastor.
+
+The ceremony was well-nigh over, when the minister lifted up his voice
+in an extempore prayer for this “first-born daughter of the house.”
+
+Every head was bowed and every heart was raised and every tongue engaged
+in that petition, when—hark!
+
+Suddenly through the room rang a deep, bell-toned, authoritative voice,
+that commanded—
+
+—“_Pause!_”
+
+And all, struck dumb with amazement, paused.
+
+“_The first-born daughter of Orville Deville is beyond your prayers._
+_Living_, no home on earth sheltered her! _Dead_, no grave on earth
+received her! Born like a wild beast in a cavern, she was devoured by
+the wild beasts of the wilderness,” spoke the awful voice of the
+invisible.
+
+A thrill of horror ran through the assembly, rousing them from the
+stupor of astonishment into which the first word of the unseen speaker
+had plunged them.
+
+“What is this? Who is it? Where is she?” ran in startling whispers
+through the room.
+
+“Look at Lady Adelaide!” exclaimed one of the guests. And all eyes were
+turned towards the spot where, whiter than the marble, Lady Adelaide
+leaned, half-fainting, against the statue.
+
+Mr. Deville sprang to her side, and whispering:
+
+“Be firm, Adelaide! I pray you be firm!” He led her to a side-sofa, and
+laid her reclining upon it.
+
+Then returning to the minister, he said:
+
+“Reverend sir, if you please we will cut short this formula, until the
+intruder is turned out! Friends, I pray you excuse this strange
+interruption,” he added, turning to his guests. He then gave directions
+to the attendants to search the premises for any stranger that might be
+upon them. But through all his action, in all his aspect there was a
+pallor, a tremor, a dread, strange and undefined, but visible to every
+observer.
+
+The house and grounds were searched, but no vestige of the intruder
+could be discovered. The servants were closely questioned, and all
+information that could be gained from them was, that one of their number
+had seen a tall, dark woman, of exceeding beauty, glide through the
+shadows of the night, and disappear in the gloom of the forest. This
+might, perhaps, be set down to the credit of imagination.
+
+The master of the house then dismissed his servants with the order that
+supper should be immediately served. And in a half hour it was
+announced. The guests filed into the supper-room, and took their places
+at the table; but the spirit of the festival was departed. At the head
+of the board sat the mistress of the house, as pale and still as marble.
+At the foot sat the master, whose forced composure and spasmodic efforts
+at gayety were too palpable to be pleasant. The prolonged supper came to
+an end at last, and the company adjourned to the saloon, where various
+parlor games had been prepared for their entertainment. The youthful and
+more elastic spirits of a portion of the company, rebounding from their
+temporary depression, entered eagerly into any scheme of evening
+amusements, and diverted themselves with various games of puzzles,
+forfeits, parlor magic, etc. Their elders passed the evening in
+conversation, chess and backgammon, until a late hour, when all
+adjourned to the music-room, where, with Lady Adelaide seated at the
+piano, and the best singers of the neighborhood gathered around her,
+they were enlivened by a series of choice Christmas-songs and ballads.
+
+Finally, the parting bowl of egg-nog was served, and the company took
+their late leave, and set out for their respective homes, to talk over
+the mysterious event of the evening, for which no satisfactory
+explanation had yet been offered.
+
+When all the guests had departed, the married pair found themselves
+alone together in the hall, scarcely daring to lift their eyes, or to
+encounter each other’s gaze.
+
+“You are quite exhausted; you had better go to rest, love,” said Mr.
+Deville.
+
+“And _you_—will you not also come?”
+
+“I have letters to write in the study.”
+
+“_Mr. Deville, it was her voice!_” said Lady Adelaide, laying her hand
+upon his arm, and gazing searchingly in his face.
+
+He started slightly, but did not reply.
+
+“_Oh, did she speak the truth of her child’s fate?_” she asked, with an
+agony of anxiety in her intense look and eager tone.
+
+“Good heaven, I do not know, Adelaide, if the voice spoke truth, or what
+voice it was that spoke!”
+
+“_Her babe devoured by wild beasts! oh, it is horrible!_”
+
+“No more, my Adelaide! oh, speak no more of that, I implore you!”
+
+“Ah, heaven! if I could but banish it from my _mind_ as from my
+_tongue_!”
+
+“Think, then, that we have been the subjects of some deep deception! _We
+know that she died and was buried!_ Therefore the vision at Glen Lennark
+and the voice here were alike deceptions, practised upon us by some
+skilful juggler, whom I shall bend all my faculties to unmask and
+discover.”
+
+“Mr. Deville, you know we purposed to travel into the wilderness, and
+seek the home where _she_ lived and died, and make inquiries on the
+spot.”
+
+“Yes! we will do so, just as soon as the state of the roads will admit
+of our travelling. And now, dear love, go seek your rest. I will join
+you before long,” said Orville Deville, with a soothing caress, as he
+took up and placed a night lamp in her hand.
+
+And the husband went to his study, and the wife to her nursery.
+
+As Lady Adelaide entered this holy sanctuary of sleeping innocence, a
+silent prayer arose from her heart—an earnest petition for the safety
+and welfare of her own infant charge.
+
+The clean and quiet chamber seemed indeed the very abode of peace and
+security. The silvery moonlight, stealing in through the white-curtained
+windows, and falling upon two white-draped cribs, filled the room with a
+soft, subdued radiance.
+
+Lady Adelaide entered, and went first to the nearest crib, when she put
+aside the muslin curtains to look at the little sleeper, Perdita. Spite
+of all the gloom and terror that overshadowed her mind, the lady smiled
+faintly as she gazed. It is said that the attitude in unconscious
+slumber indicates not only the momentary mood, but the prevailing
+disposition and character. The posture unconsciously assumed by little
+Perdita was almost always one of defiance, of hostility, or of assault.
+Now, her attitude was wonderfully bellicose. She was lying on her side,
+her little limbs bent as for a spring, her little elbows doubled, her
+tiny fists clenched, her baby lips compressed, her infant brow frowning;
+yet all in deep sleep. Turning with a sad smile from this fierce,
+unconscious little combatant, Lady Adelaide went to the other crib, and
+drew aside the curtains to look upon the angel brow of her own, scarcely
+more beloved child. The peace of heaven was on this babe’s face. The
+youthful mother gazed with pure joy for a few still moments, and then,
+breathing a blessing upon both the children, she passed into her own
+chamber, offered up her evening prayers, and retired to rest.
+
+Meantime Orville Deville had entered his study, and seated himself at
+his writing-table, to indite those letters whereof he had spoken. He
+drew the paper before him, and essayed to commence his task. But by some
+strange fatuity he was unable to withdraw his thoughts from the one
+subject of Lionne Delaforêt to fix them upon his work. Do what he might,
+his mind, as turns the needle to the magnet, turned ever to the lost
+girl. We all know the stupefying, the soporific effect of concentrated
+thought. Therefore it might have been that Orville Deville dropped
+asleep and dreamed what follows:
+
+But it appeared to him thus: that he had sat there, with his elbow
+resting upon the table, and his head bowed upon his breast, in a stupor
+of perplexity and conjecture as to the meaning of the mystery that had
+so troubled them all at Glen Lennark and at River-view, until his very
+blood seemed slowly curdling in his heart and brain. It was then that
+the door swung silently open, and a shadowy form glided in and paused
+before him. He raised his eyes and saw a tall figure of a woman,
+shrouded in black, and closely vailed. Her white arm was raised to throw
+aside her vail, and the features of Lionne were revealed before him.
+White and motionless as monumental marble was that beautiful face.
+Compressed and colorless were those full-curved lips. Still and burning
+as two midnight stars were those bewildering eyes!
+
+Held by a spell resembling terror, the sinful man gazed on without the
+power of withdrawing his eyes from the vision. At last his stiffened
+tongue and frozen lips moved in a hollow whisper, and—
+
+“_Lionne!_ living or dead, what would you with me?” he asked.
+
+“_To warn you!_” spoke the deep and terrible voice from the almost
+moveless lips.
+
+“How say you—to warn me?”
+
+“Ay! the lion roars before he springs! the serpent hisses before he
+stings—all creatures warn their prey before they strike! _all save
+man_!”
+
+“What mean you?”
+
+“I, a woman, would be more generous than man, and not less so than beast
+or reptile.”
+
+“Again, in heaven’s name, what mean you?”
+
+“I would warn before I strike!”
+
+“Explain!”
+
+“Look to your child and save her, if you can! for, by my own wrongs and
+sufferings, and by the mangled body of my murdered infant, I have sworn
+to sacrifice your child to her manes!” and, raising her white arm with
+its hand towards heaven, as if to record there her oath, the dark vision
+of the woman glided away.
+
+“Lionne! Girl! Fiend!” exclaimed Deville, starting up, as if to stop
+her.
+
+The spell was broken. Once more his blood flowed freely through his
+veins, his power of respiration returned. He stared around,—the dark
+form had vanished.
+
+Was it a vision? a dream? a reality? He could not decide.
+
+“I have lingered here too long,” he said; and rising, he went up-stairs
+and entered his wife’s chamber. He moved softly, so as not to awaken
+her. The door connecting with the nursery was open, and he caught a
+glimpse of the peaceful scene within—the white-curtained windows, the
+white-vailed cribs, and the fair moon-rays, flooding the room with soft
+light—a pure and holy scene, a heavenly contrast to his dark vision in
+the study!
+
+Turning from it to look upon the face of his reposing wife, he met the
+eyes of Adelaide fixed in solicitude upon him.
+
+“Awake yet, love? That is not well.”
+
+“I could not sleep. And you, you look weary Orville.”
+
+“I fell into a doze by my study-table, and had an attack of incubus, I
+think. What a night this has been!”
+
+“Pray; prayer will compose your mind,” said Adelaide.
+
+“The children, are they well?” he asked.
+
+“Of course they are! I visited them the last thing,” said Adelaide.
+
+“Nevertheless, I will go and see them,” said Mr. Deville, passing into
+the moonlit chamber. He drew aside the curtains of one crib, and saw the
+little Perdita, who had turned over and thrown herself into a new
+attitude of defiance. He left her, approached and drew the curtains of
+the other crib, when a cry escaped him!
+
+“What is the matter?” exclaimed his wife, starting up in affright.
+
+“Your child, Adelaide! Where is she?” cried the father, breathlessly.
+
+“In the crib, where I laid her!” exclaimed the poor mother, springing
+from her bed and hastening into the room.
+
+“No, she is not in the crib!” said Orville Deville, wildly.
+
+“She is! she must be!” cried Lady Adelaide, running thither and tossing
+about the bedclothes in a distracted manner.
+
+“Oh, my child! my child! where is she? where is she?” continued the
+almost distraught mother, running about the room, and throwing things
+around, in her frenzied search.
+
+The confusion awakened little Perdita, who began to scream with mingled
+fear and anger; and roused Keziah, who slept on a pallet in a corner of
+the room, to be near the children at night, and who now raised herself
+up and looked around in stupid amazement.
+
+“Keziah! Keziah! _where_ is my baby?” screamed the distracted mother.
+
+“Sleeping soundly in the crib, ma’am, for sartain!” answered the
+wondering nurse.
+
+“No, no, she is gone! she is gone! Oh, my child! my child!” cried Lady
+Adelaide, wringing her hands and running wildly about, searching madly
+the places that she had searched vainly before.
+
+“Fore marster, then, the fairies must o’ got her!” exclaimed Keziah,
+starting up and joining in the vain quest.
+
+“It is of no use; the child is not in this apartment. Keziah, hasten at
+once and wake up all the women-servants, while I rouse up the men! The
+house and grounds must be thoroughly searched. Adelaide, will you lie
+down?—No, I see rest is impossible to you! Come along, then, with me!”
+said Mr. Deville. And taking down a cloak, he hastily wrapped it around
+the form of his wife, drew her arm within his own, and led the way from
+the room. The servants, male and female, were aroused, informed of the
+abduction, and set upon the search.
+
+The men, led on by their master, hurried with lanterns through the
+grounds to intercept, if possible, the retreat of the abductor.
+
+The women, following their frantic mistress, ran from room to room
+through the house.
+
+No clue to the lost child or her abductor could be found.
+
+It was near morning when Orville Deville and his men returned to the
+house from their fruitless search, to find Lady Adelaide prostrated upon
+the parlor-couch, with her frightened women around her. Their quest had
+been equally vain, though desperately prolonged, until the strength of
+the agonized mother utterly succumbed and she sank swooning upon the
+floor.
+
+In this condition she was found by her afflicted husband. She was
+immediately conveyed to bed, and all usual means used for her recovery.
+But she was only roused from that swoon to fall into bitter anguish and
+dreadful ravings that reached their climax in delirium and convulsions,
+and then subsided again into exhaustion and insensibility.
+
+In a state nigh desperation, Mr. Deville flung himself upon his swiftest
+horse and galloped away, first to despatch the family physician to the
+relief of his suffering wife, and then to raise the constabulary force
+of the county, and set them upon the track of the abductor.
+
+Let us hasten to the result.
+
+The most strenuous efforts, the most vigilant quest of the constables,
+united as they were by the whole force of the county people, failed of
+even obtaining the slightest clue to the flight of the fugitive.
+
+Advertisements were put in all the papers, handbills were posted in
+every public thoroughfare, and large rewards were offered for the
+recovery of the child; but all in vain?
+
+Lady Adelaide was prostrated by a long and nearly fatal nervous fever,
+during which her delicate frame vibrated between life and death. Once
+more, however, her youthful constitution gained the victory, and she
+arose from her bed of death—she arose, but oh! to what a life of almost
+unappreciable sorrow!
+
+Pause one moment, reader, to try if you can conceive the awful nature of
+this mysterious bereavement, worse than of death!
+
+Had her child only _died_, she would have wept gentle tears over its
+grave, and cherished a tender memory of its little earthly life, and in
+time would have found sweet resignation with the thought that its soul
+was with God. But her child was lost, stolen, carried off—she knew not
+whither—to what a life of poverty, privation and exposure—to what
+sufferings of hunger, cold and disease—to what future temptations of
+want, vice and misery—to what final fate worse than death—she could not
+know! It was a sorrow for which there was no help but in prayer; no
+comfort but in faith; no hope but in God.
+
+
+
+
+                            CHAPTER XXVIII.
+                               VENGEANCE.
+
+          One sole desire, one passion now remains
+          To keep life’s fever still within her veins—
+          Vengeance! dire vengeance on the wretch who cast
+          O’er her and all she loved that ruinous blast,
+          For this she still lives on, careless of all
+          The honor that upon her head might fall;
+          For this alone exists—like lightning fire
+          To speed one bolt of vengeance and expire!—_Moore._
+
+
+It is impossible to define the boundary line that separates extravagant
+emotions from absolute madness. Evil passions lose themselves by fine
+gradations in the dark shadows of insanity.
+
+Who can adequately describe the effect of monstrous wrongs upon a
+temperament sensitive, ardent and impassioned as that of Lionne? Grief,
+shame and rage made a hell of her heart. Maddened at last by what she
+supposed to be the dreadful fate of her child, she had rushed from the
+cavern and plunged into the darkest depths of the forest. Here for many
+days and nights she had wandered about in a state of frenzy.
+
+Vulcan wildly sought her through the woods in vain. At last, by heavy
+bribes, he gained the assistance of the old squaw in the search.
+
+And Kalougoora, with her matchless Indian tact in tracing a fugitive,
+soon fell upon the trail of Lionne and tracked her to her lair.
+
+There, in a thicket of undergrowth in the depths of the forest, she lay
+collapsed, prostrate and exhausted from madness, hunger and exposure.
+
+Vulcan hastily constructed a rude litter of brush, upon which he placed
+her unresisting and almost insensible form, and with the help of
+Kalougoora bore it back to the lodge by the Singing Stream.
+
+Here the wretched girl lay a long time in a state bordering upon idiocy.
+At length, by the united care of her faithful attendant and the skill of
+the old Indian doctress, Lionne slowly recovered some degree of life.
+And with this new life came the restlessness of a reviving sense of
+pain.
+
+“I cannot stay here, Vulcan,” she said, addressing her humble friend. “I
+cannot stay here! every feature of this land is too fraught with
+agonizing associations.”
+
+“But where will you go, then, dear mistress?”
+
+“Anywhere! anywhere! out of this place!”
+
+“At least you will let me attend you, wherever you go, dear mistress?”
+
+“No! no! no! no! I will not be followed! No one that loves me, however
+humble, shall share my fate, my sins and sufferings!”
+
+Vulcan did not presume to insist; but from that day he resolved never to
+lose trace of his wretched young mistress, but to watch over her, to
+protect her, and to follow her, if need should be, (to use his
+expression) “to the end of the world.”
+
+And thus, one night, when Lionne, with some dark purpose goading her
+onward, arose and stole to the stable, and saddled her horse and set out
+for the East, Vulcan mounted his old mule, and, unknown to his mistress,
+set forth upon the same road, only taking care to keep out of sight in
+the rear.
+
+The miserable girl reached River-view only to learn from the poor people
+of the neighborhood, from whom, as a stranger traveller, she received
+hospitality, that Mr. and Lady Adelaide Deville had gone to Scotland to
+spend the ensuing winter with their uncle, the Earl of Glen Lennark.
+
+With her own deeply-wronged, awfully-bereaved father!
+
+Some fatality led Lionne still farther to pursue her recreant husband.
+She was still in possession of a part of that large sum of money given
+her by her father some months previous, and with that she embarked in a
+small merchant vessel trading between Norfolk and Glasgow.
+
+Vulcan, who, unknown to her, had followed his mistress, shipped as a
+seaman on the same barque. His presence here could not possibly be long
+concealed from her.
+
+On the third day after sailing, she recognized him among the crew. As he
+was engaged with three or four others in taking in sail, she could not
+speak to him. But the next day, an opportunity offering, she approached
+and accosted him.
+
+“Vulcan, my poor friend, why are you here?”
+
+“Mistress, I belong to you!”
+
+“Ah, Vulcan! why have you followed me?”
+
+“Because I am yours.”
+
+“Vulcan, do you know whither my dark path leads?”
+
+“I know! I know!”
+
+“And _yet_ you follow me?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Alas! why?”
+
+“To _save_ you, if I _may_! To _perish_ with you, if I _must_.”
+
+The approach of the mate cut short the colloquy, and Lionne turned sadly
+away.
+
+A short passage of four weeks brought the vessel to Glasgow.
+
+Lionne left the vessel and commenced her journey into the Highlands.
+
+Vulcan, who had only shipped for the voyage, received his pay and his
+discharge, and attended his mistress, who no longer attempted to prevent
+him, to Glen Lennark.
+
+There the first news that met them from the simple peasantry was that of
+the death of the Earl of Glen Lennark.
+
+Again was Lionne overwhelmed with affliction.
+
+She threw herself down beside the wild rocky path leading through the
+glen, and abandoned herself to the wildest frenzy of woe. Vulcan stood
+in silent, respectful sympathy beside her, while her informants passed
+on their way with many a wondering look behind at the “poor daft
+stranger body” and her queer guide.
+
+Suddenly Lionne started to her feet, turned, and taking the path leading
+up to the most savage fastnesses of the mountains north of Glen Lennark,
+disappeared among the rocks.
+
+In great terror for her life, Vulcan followed her as fast as age and
+clumsiness would permit.
+
+He found her far up in the mountain, seated upon the brink of a dreadful
+precipice; a shelving crag overhanging her head and overshadowing her
+whole form; a wild torrent raging below her feet. She sat with her black
+dress flowing upon the bleak rocks; her elbow resting upon her knee; her
+chin dropped into the palm of her hand; her long black hair streaming
+like a meteor around her; her fierce black eyes glaring into
+vacancy;—she sat—where all around was desolation—the most desolate
+object!
+
+With the yearning tenderness of a mother, Vulcan stretched his arms
+towards her, praying—
+
+“Oh, mistress, come down!”
+
+“Oh, Vulcan!” she wailed—“when that black traitor betrayed me unto
+death, and I arose from the grave to find my child devoured of wild
+beasts, I thought that fate, with all her malignity, had no more
+poisoned arrow left. But now! now! oh, my father! my dear, my gentle, my
+noble father! your heart has been broken by the loss of your child.
+‘Your gray hair has been brought with sorrow to the grave!’ Oh, Vulcan,
+I seemed to die that he might live! Ah, it was useless all! My loss
+killed him even as the knowledge of my _dishonor_ might!”
+
+“Your _misfortune_, mistress! there can be no dishonor where there is no
+fault,” replied the poor dwarf.
+
+“Ah, Orville! traitor! destroyer! this is but another count in the awful
+indictment against you!” she hissed through her clenched teeth.
+
+Vulcan climbed to where she sat, and with almost worshipping servility
+cast himself down upon the rocks before her, grovelling at her feet and
+praying—
+
+“Mistress! Lionne! my child! my nursling! my lady! Oh, look up! listen
+to me! to me, your poor old servant, who would lay down his life, and
+think it all too cheap a price, if it purchased you one hour’s peace!
+Listen to me!”
+
+“Well, Vulcan; well, speak!”
+
+“Lady, look up and see what life has left for you. Your child is gone;
+your father dead; your secret safe in one faithful heart that would be
+torn bleeding from its breast rather than betray that trust——”
+
+“Do you speak, then, only to remind me of my wrongs and sorrows?”
+
+“No, but to pray you to cast from you all memory of your wrongs and
+sorrows, and all thoughts of hatred and revenge: to become your better,
+nobler, higher self. The hereditary coronet of the Earls of Glen Lennark
+awaits your brow. Your mortal foe is at your mercy, and dares not
+dispute your claim. Countess of Glen Lennark, arise, dispossess the
+usurper, assume the insignia of your rank and the rule of your domain.”
+
+She gazed upon the speaker with wild, amazed, incredulous eyes.
+
+“Would you leave that unsullied coronet upon the unworthy brow of the
+traitor, the destroyer, the usurper?” asked Vulcan, pointedly.
+
+She started violently.
+
+“No, never! Vulcan, you are right. Leonora Lorne, dead to all the world
+else, must survive to him! The living bar to his succession; the living
+retribution of his crime; the living fate to all his future! I may not
+claim my RIGHT nor forget my WRONG; but I will hold the POWER with which
+both right and wrong has invested and armed me—a sword of Damocles above
+his head. With this invisible sword will I drive him forth from all his
+possessions! With this sword will I come between him and every blessing
+of nature! Ay, with this fire of vengeance and sword of power will I lay
+waste his life! Arise, let us go.”
+
+“Lionne, my mistress, oh, think of what you do!” prayed Vulcan.
+
+“By day and night I think of nothing else!”
+
+“Good heavens, lady, if all is lost on earth, need all be lost in heaven
+too? Alas! is it well to send your own soul to ruin after your lost
+happiness?”
+
+“Yes—for _love_ I risked heaven! for HATE I would dare hades!”
+
+Appalled by the ruthless spirit of revenge that raged in her heart, yet
+resolved to save her or to share her fate, Vulcan arose and followed his
+mistress down the step.
+
+Seeking concealment, they found shelter in a mountain cavern. And from
+this obscurity kept watch upon the castle.
+
+Deeply vailed and hidden in the crowd, Lionne was present at the funeral
+ceremony, and even looked, for the last time, upon the loved face of her
+father, before the coffin lid closed down upon it forever. She then
+concealed herself within the turret-cabinet, to hear any chance details
+of his last illness and death. Alas! she was not gratified. His form was
+hidden from the eyes; his name banished from the lips; his very memory
+exiled from the minds of men.
+
+Already, as I said before, the world had turned from the grave of the
+dead Earl to do honor to his living successor, neither knowing nor
+caring to know, how the one had risen upon the fall of the other.
+
+Lionne writhed with rage.
+
+“The Earl of Glen Lennark lies broken hearted in his grave! His heiress
+wanders, a vagrant and pariah on the face of the earth! And while the
+old man moulders in his shroud, and the young woman sorrows in her
+bitterness, shall _he_, the miscreant, the traitor who brought the one
+to misery and the other to death, sit in the Earl’s seat, be hailed by
+his title, and enjoy his estates? No! no! no! no! not while I have power
+to prevent it! This hand may not be raised to grasp my father’s coronet,
+but it _shall_ be lifted to hurl its usurper, his destroyer, my enemy,
+from his seat!”
+
+From her hiding place in the turret-cabinet she watched the company that
+gathered to hear the reading of the will; she saw them go into the
+dining-room and take their places at the table. She listened to the
+fulsome flattery, the flippant conversation, and the formal toasts. She
+heard a toast proposed in honor of the Countess of Glen Lennark, and
+recognizing in that incident her best opportunity to break “the good
+meeting with most admired disorder,” she glided from her concealment,
+stood shrouded in mourning habiliments, and paler than a visitant from
+the grave, and in deep, bell-like tones, that tolled like a funeral
+knell through the room—uttered these startling words:
+
+“_The Countess of Glen Lennark accepts your toast and thanks your
+courtesy!_” The effect of this speech, spoken by what seemed a spectre
+from the grave, might be easily imagined, if it had not already been
+described. The so-called Earl of Glen Lennark started to his feet; the
+guests arose in disorder; the Lady Adelaide dropped, swooning, from her
+chair.
+
+In the general confusion that ensued, Lionne glided away and made her
+escape to the fastnesses of the Highlands.
+
+Vulcan attended her, and remained as before, her sole connecting link
+with the outer world. From Vulcan she continued to hear news of those
+whom she called usurpers at the castle. With savage joy she heard of the
+calamity that disappointed the quasi Earl of an heir, and prostrated his
+wife upon a bed of illness that had nearly been one of death. She
+learned the horror and amazement with which Lady Adelaide regarded her
+(Lionne’s) appearance at the feast, and of the orders of the family
+physician that her ladyship should travel far from the scene of her
+distress.
+
+Finally she was told of the family’s departure for the continent. And
+then she left her hiding place to follow them. How she kept upon their
+track, never revealing herself, yet never losing sight of them, waiting,
+like some bloodthirsty wild beast, the time to spring upon her prey,
+needs not to be related here at length. Suffice it to say, that when
+they sailed for the United States, she embarked by the next vessel bound
+for the same place, and that she arrived at Norfolk the very day upon
+which they landed at that port.
+
+She followed them to River-view, where, unseen and unsuspected, she
+hovered as some ill-omened bird of night about their path—their secret,
+terrible, relentless enemy, consuming with a fierce, insatiable passion
+of vengeance—a passion that grew by what it fed upon!
+
+She was aware, by observation, of the fond parental hopes that had
+brought the young pair to their native home. And she ruthlessly resolved
+to thwart their hopes!
+
+“Through his treachery _my_ one child was left to be devoured by wild
+beasts! Therefore, no child of his shall be left to bless him! every one
+of them, as it is born, shall be offered a sacrifice to her manes! One,
+the first-born, the heir, has already perished! the next shall follow,
+and every infant his dainty wife shall live to bring, shall share the
+same fate!” muttered the wretched girl, as with a malignity that nothing
+but insanity could explain, she watched and waited to wreak her frenzied
+vengeance upon a being that always stands the very type of perfect
+innocence and perfect helplessness—“an unborn babe!”
+
+Seldom does any other than tender cares and fervent prayers and devoted
+love, wait to greet an infant on its entrance into life! This child of
+Adelaide was met at the very threshold of existence by a fierce,
+terrible and relentless foe! Like the prowling leopardess, she could
+lurk, and watch, and wait for the time to pounce upon her prey! Nay,
+like the same beast, when sure of the steadiness of her eye, the length
+of her spring and the sharpness of her claws, she, certain of her power,
+could even trifle with opportunity and play with her victim! It was in
+this perverse spirit that she let chance after chance of stealing the
+new-born infant pass by, and waited for some signal opportunity when the
+theft of the child should be felt by the whole community, with the most
+tremendous effect.
+
+Thus she waited for the christening-festival. She contrived to steal,
+unseen, into the house, and to conceal herself within the shubberies of
+the conservatory connecting with the drawing-rooms on the one hand and
+with Mr. Deville’s study on the other. Here she waited until the lamps
+were lighted and the guests assembled. With the savage joy of
+anticipated triumph, she watched the ceremonial of the baptism to its
+conclusion. She heard the mother’s pretty name—“Adelaide”—bestowed upon
+the infant. She heard the officiating clergyman invite his hearers to
+unite with him, in a final prayer for God’s blessing upon this
+“first-born daughter” of the youthful parents.
+
+Then from her concealment in the shrubberies, she uttered the awful
+words—
+
+“The first-born daughter of Orville Deville is beyond your prayers!
+_Living_, no home sheltered her infancy! _Dead_, no grave received her
+corpse! Born in a cave and devoured by wild beasts—the first-born
+daughter of Orville Deville is past your prayers!”
+
+The tremendous effect produced by this horrible speech, uttered as it
+was, by the hollow voice of an invisible speaker, has been already
+described; the shock, the confusion, and the fruitless search, that
+followed, have been depicted.
+
+Secure in her hiding place, Lionne, unseen, saw every thing!
+
+She waited until the spoiled festivities of the evening came to a
+conclusion. She saw the guests take leave and depart.
+
+She heard Mr. Deville persuade his wife to go to rest. She saw him enter
+his study and sit down to his writing-table, and then, through the
+vine-shaded glass door, between the conservatory and the study, unseen,
+she watched him at her leisure.
+
+The conservatory was in deep darkness, the study was lighted up, so that
+invisible herself, she had the clearest view of him as pale, weary and
+disturbed, he sat leaning his elbow upon the table and his head upon his
+hand. So still he sat that she supposed he slept, and envying that
+repose, and drawn by an irresistible attraction, she softly opened the
+glass door, parted the foliage, glided into the study and stood before
+him.
+
+Her form intercepting the light, her shadow falling upon his face,
+startled him!
+
+He raised his eyes, and recognizing the shape or _shade_ of the dreaded
+girl, he faltered forth the question—
+
+“Lionne! why are you here?”
+
+Then came the fearful answer—
+
+“TO WARN! The wild beast growls before he springs! the serpent hisses
+before he stings! and _I_ speak before I strike! Look to your child!”
+
+And before he could recover from the panic produced by these words, she
+had glided away!
+
+With the swiftness and silence of thought, she sped to the nursery,
+softly raised the sleeping infant in her arms, fled down the
+back-stairs, out through the back-door into the shrubberies, thence
+through the vineyard, the orchard, and the field, to the forest.
+
+And by the time the child was missed and the search was commenced, both
+were lost beyond pursuit, in the interminable intricacies of the
+wilderness.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXIX.
+                           AN ACT OF MADNESS.
+
+
+“What is’t ye do?—A deed without a name!”
+
+Lionne, palpitating, excited, frenzied and hurrying with her stolen
+treasure through the forest, was met and stopped by Vulcan the dwarf,
+who, holding up both hands to intercept her, cried—
+
+“Mistress! mistress! for the love of heaven, mistress!”
+
+“Vulcan! you here again!” she exclaimed hoarsely.
+
+“Mistress! I have never been far from you! Oh, child! what is it you
+do?”
+
+“Vulcan! I bade you keep away from my sufferings and sins and perils!
+why have you disobeyed me?”
+
+“Mistress, I will never forsake you! I will stand or fall by your side!”
+
+“Then you disobey me!”
+
+“Mistress, I _serve_ you!”
+
+Both—the dwarf and the wild girl—stopped and looked at each other
+wistfully, fixedly, defiantly—unflinching resolution in the eyes of
+each.
+
+“Vulcan! you shall not ruin yourself for me!”
+
+“Mistress, I follow you to save you, from yourself, your passions and
+your madness! Oh, lady! lady! what is it you do?”
+
+“_A deed of retribution!_”
+
+“Oh, lady! lady! is it the justice of retribution to avenge the guilt of
+the strong upon the innocence of the weak? What is that which you carry
+within your arms?”
+
+“_My revenge._”
+
+“A babe! Oh, Lionne! Lionne! has sorrow so changed you that you see not
+even what you do? Would you punish a helpless infant and its most
+innocent mother for crimes in which neither could have the smallest
+part?”
+
+“I would strike the heart of my destroyer were it through the hearts of
+as many innocents as Herod slew at Bethlehem!”
+
+“Horrible! she is a fiend! treachery has transformed her into a fiend!
+But no! she is mad! only mad! poor girl! trouble has turned her _brain_!
+not perverted her _heart_! I will save her! I must save her!” thought
+the dwarf to himself. Then softly he spoke:
+
+“Lionne, my lady, my child, listen to me. Your morning of life has been
+_darkened_ with great _sorrow_; but it has not been _cursed_ with any
+_crime_. Oh, take care that you do not rush from the _darkness_ into
+_fire_, from _sorrow_ into _remorse_! You have suffered through the sins
+of _others_. Oh, avoid the deeper grief of suffering through your _own_!
+Lionne, let me take back the babe to its mother, and pray God to heal
+your own sick, sad heart. He will do it. Lionne, give me the babe.”
+
+“NEVER!” exclaimed the desperate girl, through her set teeth, invincible
+resolution burning in her fixed eyes.
+
+“Lionne, what would you do with it? You would not hurt it, I know.
+Lionne, in three hours from this the whole country will be up in arms
+and upon the track of the abductor.”
+
+“I am in the pathless forest,—they will not find me.”
+
+“Mistress, with the trained blood-hounds used in tracking fugitives,
+they will hunt you through the wilderness.”
+
+“Then I will lose myself in the _greater_ wilderness of the city.”
+
+“Lionne, give me the child.”
+
+“NEVER, I say!—let me pass!” exclaimed the possessed girl, clutching the
+infant to her bosom with one arm and waving the dwarf away with the
+other. “Let me pass!”
+
+“I dare not, mistress!”
+
+“Then there is another way!” she exclaimed; and turning before he could
+prevent her, with the sudden bound of a tigress she fled down the way
+whence she came, until she reached the beach.
+
+“Here they shall lose sight of me. Once more they shall believe me dead;
+but I shall live. Ha! ha! I shall live!” she cried.
+
+Then stripping the outer garment from the infant and her own shawl from
+her bosom, she dragged them through the water and wound them among the
+long reefs of seaweed, as if they had been cast up by the waves. Then
+gathering the wailing babe to her bosom, she recommenced her flight,
+following the course of the river, and taking care to wade along the
+shallow water of the beach, so that no blood-hound could scent her
+track.
+
+Meanwhile, at River-view, the search was kept up with zeal and anguish.
+The whole constabulary force of the county was put in requisition.
+
+As a last resort, a pack of sleuth-hounds were put upon the scent.
+Commencing from the crib of the lost child, they tracked the abductor
+through every foot of her way, through house, lawn, orchard, vineyard,
+field and forest up to the very spot where, an hour before, Lionne had
+parted from Vulcan.
+
+There, being at fault, they sniffed about for a while, and then
+returning upon the scent, tracked the fugitive to the water-side. There
+they found the sand beat up with footprints, and the wet
+outside-garments of the woman and the babe swathing the seaweed and cast
+up on the beach.
+
+“The wretch has destroyed herself and the babe. Heaven help the poor
+bereaved mother!” was the exclamation of the foremost officer who
+reached the spot.
+
+When this news was taken to Orville Deville, in his library—after the
+first force of the shock was spent, and even beside his affliction for
+the loss of his child, he experienced a certain satisfaction in the
+thought that his ruthless enemy was now no more.
+
+For weeks the secret of the child’s supposed death was kept from Lady
+Adelaide. But at length, when it was seen that heart-sickening suspense
+as to the babe’s fate, daily anxiety for news, and constant
+disappointments were more dreadful to bear than the knowledge of the
+truth could be—then that truth was gently communicated. The intelligence
+was received with less of apparent anguish than could have been hoped.
+After the horrible uncertainty, in which imagination had painted in her
+darkest colors the doom of the living, lost infant, the certainty that
+it was at rest came as a relief to the bereaved mother.
+
+The gentle, patient, young heart, schooled in suffering, humbly accepted
+this sorrow as the will of Heaven.
+
+“Better so,” she said, “oh! much better so, than that the babe should
+have lived exposed to all the evils that dreadful woman would have
+brought upon her!” And so the meek head was bowed in resignation.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XXX.
+                      A HOUSELESS NIGHT WANDERER.
+
+                  ——“Where the haters meet
+          in the crowded city’s horrible street.”—_Browning._
+
+
+It was the fourteenth of January, and two weeks after the events related
+in the last chapter; it was late at night, and the snow was falling
+thickly; when through one of the poorest thoroughfares of New York, a
+slight, dark girl, thinly clad and pressing an infant to her bosom,
+wandered. Her gait was reeling, like that of a person under the
+influence of alcohol; but when she came within the glare of a street
+lamp, it might be seen that only cold, hunger, and fatigue had done
+their worst upon her. Her long, black hair hung in wild elf locks down
+her thin, dark, sharpened face; the fires of insanity smouldered in her
+gloomy eyes; like a lunatic, also, she talked to herself, muttering—
+
+“Walk! Yes, I will walk, until I drop down, and then, perhaps, I may
+die!” And she toiled on, the snow-storm whirling around her, the
+stinging sleet cutting her face and neck, and penetrating every crevice
+of her clothing.
+
+The few well wrapped-up passengers whom necessity had exposed to the
+storm, looked back as they passed her, or muttered, as she jostled them—
+
+“Poor creature—tipsy!” or, “the wretch! she ought to be taken to the
+watch-house!”
+
+The night grew darker, the storm fiercer, the streets lonelier; the
+steps of the solitary wanderer grew more feeble, tottering and
+uncertain, and her course more erratic. At length, when the strength of
+the wretched girl gave away beneath the accumulated burdens of famine,
+cold, and toil, she sank, prostrate and insensible, upon the ground.
+
+By her fall, the miserable babe was dropped into the snow, and its
+feeble wail broke piteously on the stillness of that awful night.
+
+Two wretched women in a cellar near heard this pitiable cry, and one of
+them came out into the blinding snow, muttering—
+
+“What the deuce is that? sounded like a child’s cry! But, sartainly, no
+one would go for to drop a fo’ndlin’ at my door at this time o’ night,
+in this ere storm!”
+
+Another feeble wail from the infant.
+
+“’Tis a baby, sartain! I’ll go and get a blind lantern!” exclaimed the
+woman. And after darting into the darkness of the cellar, she reappeared
+with the lantern, and, guided by the wail of the infant, she soon found
+it where it had rolled away, at some distance, in the snow.
+
+“Now, the watch will be here in two minutes,” she said; and seizing up
+the child as though she really considered it a priceless treasure, she
+hurried into the cellar. She had not seen the girl at all.
+
+Now, if any one makes the mistake of supposing that this woman was
+actuated by zealous benevolence, they may be undeceived by hearing what
+were her next words.
+
+Taking the end of the candle out of the lantern, she stuck it upon a
+loose brick in the old wall, and then sitting down upon an inverted tub,
+she proceeded to examine the child, muttering—
+
+“As likely a baby to soften the hearts of the flats as could be wished!
+Looks famished, looks frozen, looks sick, and with all the rest lily
+white, with violet-blue eyes, and golden hair! just the thing to take
+the hearts of the ladies! This babe’ll be worth me a dollar a day!
+There’s Sall there, as ain’t done nigh so well at the trade since her
+baby died. And more by token I mustn’t let _this_ one die. Sall shall
+wake up and nurse it.”
+
+And going to the spot where her worthless companion lay in a stupid
+sleep upon the floor, she shook her, saying—
+
+“Sall! Sall! wake up! here’s luck!”
+
+“What luck?” said the other, sleepily.
+
+“We’re rich—that’s what we are!”
+
+“Some of our rich ‘lations has left us a fortin’, I would’nt wonder,”
+said Sall, contemptuously.
+
+“Purty nigh as good now, I can tell you!”
+
+“What is it, then?” cried the drowsy one, impatiently sitting up.
+
+“Why, I’ve found a fo’ndlin’, dropt right at my door; a pretty little
+famished, frozen thing, to melt the hearts of the ladies!” said the
+first woman, exhibiting the child, that had now fallen into the sleep of
+total exhaustion.
+
+“Where did you find it?” said the other.
+
+“Dropt at our door. But here—we mustn’t let it die! Put it to your bosom
+and nuss it, quick!”
+
+“If I’m to nuss this ere child, I’m to have half the profits!”
+
+“We’ll see about that.”
+
+“Then nuss it yourself!”
+
+While these wretches were quarrelling over the poor infant, the watch,
+coming his last round, stumbled and fell over some object hidden in the
+snow.
+
+“Some rowdy, drunk, who I shall have to take to the lock-up!” said the
+man, impatiently, as he picked himself up, and then, recovering his
+lantern, stooped to examine the obstacle.
+
+“A woman, by the powers! Dead, or dead-drunk, I wonder,” said the watch,
+raising the form and knocking off the snow.
+
+“Poor wretch, I think she is frozen,” continued honest Cerberus,
+pursuing his investigations.
+
+“Half frozen, but not quite dead. Her heart is still beating,” he
+concluded, as he eased her down a moment, and took up and sprang his
+rattle.
+
+In an instant several of his comrades ran from various directions to the
+scene of action, exclaiming:
+
+“What’s the row? Little old Midget got more on his hands than he knows
+what to do with?”
+
+“No row at all,” answered the little old man, who seemed to have been
+made a guardian of the night, not for cunning in detecting thieves, or
+strength in overcoming bullies, but simply because he was too old and
+weak to be in request for any other service.
+
+“What is it, then?——Oh, a woman, tipsy! Well, take her along to the
+lock-up. Sure, you can manage _her_, as weak as you are,” said watchman
+number two.
+
+“But she ain’t intoxicated, poor thing; she’s perished along of cold and
+hunger; an’ ef I takes her to the lock-up, where there ain’t no fire
+half the time, she’ll perish outright, _she_ will.”
+
+“Nonsense! Old fellow, if you’d been as long in the service as we have,
+you’d find you’d have to get rid of your tender feelin’s. Give her a
+lift, an’ let’s take her along to the watch’us. She’d perish here in two
+minutes longer anyway,” said number two.
+
+“Stop! no! I can’t take her to the watch’us, long as she ain’t
+intoxicated—I can’t, friends. I’ve a darter of my own, Lord help her!”
+
+“Well, what’ll you do, old Stick-in-the-mud? Bother! we can’t stay here
+all night, hearing you preach. Here, fellows, one of you give a lift,
+and we’ll take her round,” said number two, impatiently.
+
+“No, stop, do!” said old Midget, pleading for the outcast as he would
+have done for his own child; “she ain’t a bad un! indeed she ain’t. I
+don’t know much, it’s true; but I know _that_ by the very looks of her.
+Jes’ look a-there, now; look for yourself,” he added, holding the
+lantern close over her face; “look at her skin—clear and clean, though
+ever so pale; and look at her decent black coat. I mayn’t be a scholard,
+nor likewise a man of the world; but I know as how the bad uns don’t
+look like _that_. No, she’s some poor orphan gal come from the country
+to seek sarvice—_that’s_ what she is, and she hain’t found it; and here
+she’s been a-wanderin’ about until night came on and the storm overtook
+her, and she dropped right down for dead—poor thing.”
+
+“Jehosophat, king of Jerusalem! this here philanthrophyer ’ill stop here
+pitying the ’oman until she perishes in the snow. Here, you John, help
+me to rise her up. I’ll take her right off to the lock-up.”
+
+“No, now don’t! Jes’ stop a bit, won’t you?”
+
+“Stop, and let the gal die?—that’s your sort o’ pity!”
+
+“No, jes’ gimme a lift, and help me to tote her round to my house; it’s
+just round the corner, a heap nigher than the watch-house.”
+
+“Oh, that’s the game, is it? Well, I’ve no objection. So here goes! No,
+you needn’t take hold, old fellow, it’ll break your wind. I and Jack’ll
+carry her along. You lead the way.”
+
+The old man lifted himself up, adjusted his lantern, and turned down the
+street, followed by the two young watchmen carrying the insensible form
+of the girl, until they reached a narrow, dark and silent alley, about
+midway down which they stopped before a dilapidated wooden house, of one
+story, with a window on each side the front door. The old man opened the
+door, and saying:
+
+“This is the place, boys,” entered and struck a light.
+
+They followed him into a poor room, with bare floor and uncurtained
+windows. Opposite the door by which they entered was an old stove upon
+the hearth. On the chimney-piece above was arranged a little stock of
+crockery-ware. On the right hand of the hearth, a narrow staircase led
+up into the loft above. On the left hand stood a spare, flat-looking
+bed.
+
+“There; lay her down there, boys; my darter’ll be home presently,” said
+the old man.
+
+They laid the insensible form upon the poor bed, and then one of the men
+said:
+
+“We’ve got to go, you know, and so can’t be of any more help; but here’s
+a flask o’ brandy—I know you don’t keep such stuff about. You’d better
+warm some and give it to her—then rub it well into the palms of her
+hands and make up a big fire;” and laying the flask on the table, the
+man, with his companion, departed.
+
+They had scarcely left the alley before the sound of a girlish voice was
+heard, and presently the door opened, and a delicate young creature,
+wrapped in a great warm shawl, accompanied by a little boy, and followed
+by a great, shaggy dog, entered the room.
+
+“My poor little lamb, have you got wet?” asked the old man, going to the
+young girl to relieve her of her shawl.
+
+“No, father; it’s not snowing so fast now; but it’s colder; the wind is
+rising. Eddy, light the fire, dear. Oh, father, the manager was so
+pleased with me to-night that he has promised to let me try a
+speaking-piece, and if I do well he’ll raise my salary, and——But who’s
+that you’ve got there, father?” she said, seeing for the first time the
+insensible form on the bed.
+
+“It’s a poor young creetur as is most perished in the storm, if she
+ain’t quite dead. I found her and fetched her in.”
+
+“Oh, father, then don’t let her lay there without help! Not a moment is
+to be lost! Eddy, hasten with that fire; pile in the wood. Father, dear,
+please fill the kettle and put it on to boil. There, Eddy, now run up
+into the loft and bring the blankets down off my bed,” said the young
+girl, who was all this time busy in removing the frozen upper garments
+of the patient. Her under-clothing, fortunately, was not wet.
+
+These vigorous means were at length successful, and Lionne was restored
+to consciousness.
+
+“Where am I?” was the question that first arose to her lips.
+
+“With friends and well-wishers, poor girl,” said the old man, as he
+placed a cup of hot spiced brandy to her lips. She mechanically quaffed
+the cordial, and—in her weak state—overcome by its effects, she fell
+into a deep sleep.
+
+“Father, dear, I’ll lay down beside the poor thing, so as to wake easy
+if she should need any thing in the night. You and Eddy had better go
+up-stairs and sleep in my bed,” said the young girl.
+
+“Yes, Alice, darling, we will. Come, Eddy.”
+
+And the old man and the boy went up into the loft. And Alice took off
+her dress and threw herself down beside the strange sleeper to rest.
+
+When Lionne opened her eyes the next morning, their glances fell upon a
+poor, but clean room, with bare floor and bare windows, but with a
+bright dresser and a warm cooking-stove, over which a fair girl stood,
+making coffee.
+
+Before full memory returned to Lionne, this girl riveted her attention.
+She was small and delicate, with fair skin, large, soft gray eyes,
+fringed with long, close, black lashes, and arched by slender, black
+brows; and rich masses of silky black hair waving about a forehead
+almost too broad and prominent for such a mere child. She wore a brown
+stuff gown tucked up around her waist, and revealing a gray petticoat
+beneath. Her sleeves were rolled up above the elbows, showing arms that
+would have been beautiful, but they were too thin and white—too
+suggestive of a slow starvation. While Lionne, in a half dreaming state,
+and through half vailed eyes, watched this girl, little steps were heard
+on the staircase, and a boy of about ten years of age came down into the
+kitchen. He closely resembled his sister—having the same intellectual
+head and face; the same broad forehead, shaded with black hair; the same
+black eyebrows, and long, black eyelashes, shading his large, dark eyes.
+He wore an old suit of coarse, gray cloth.
+
+“You left father asleep?” inquired the girl.
+
+“Yes, Alice,—shall I go wake him?”
+
+“No, he was out on his beat until twelve o’clock, you know, and he must
+rest this morning.”
+
+“But _you_ were out at the theatre until half-past, sister—and here
+you’ve been and got up and made the fire.”
+
+“But I am younger, Eddy.”
+
+“Yes, but you look weak as any thing, Lord bless you.”
+
+“Take your book, Eddy, and sit down in the corner; sister will hear your
+lesson before she goes to rehearsal.”
+
+“Ah, but do just let me help you a little first, Alice, you do look so
+pale,” pleaded the boy.
+
+“Mind what sister says to you; that is the best thing you can do for
+her,” said Alice.
+
+With a sigh, the boy obeyed, and was soon deeply engrossed in his study.
+
+The young girl hushed the pleasant humming of her own voice and softened
+her own light footfall, lest she should disturb the young student in the
+chimney corner, or the poor stranger on the bed, as she went about doing
+her morning work.
+
+She drew out the little pine-table, laid a coarse cloth upon it, took
+the little black waiter and the cups and saucers, and plates from the
+chimney piece, and arranged them upon the board, and finally cleared her
+coffee and covered up her bread to keep warm until her father should
+come down to breakfast.
+
+And meanwhile, to fill up the time, because it seemed she could not
+afford to be idle, she went to some obscure corner of the little room,
+and brought thence a gay dress, whose braids of blue, red and yellow
+shone brilliantly upon a dark gray ground. Sitting down upon a low
+chair, she began busily to rip off the bright, variegated braid, and to
+rip out the tucks to let it down.
+
+But before she had completed her task, footsteps were heard above, and
+soon the little, mild, old man came hobbling down the stairs. He came to
+his daughter’s side and laying his hand upon her soft hair, said: “Up so
+soon, Ally? and the room all tidied up, and breakfast ready, and you
+sitting down after all, sewing! always at work! so much work! all sorts
+of work! cooking, and washing, and ironing, and sewing, and sweeping,
+and cleaning, and rehearsing all day! and singing, and dancing, and
+acting all night! Oh, Ally! Ally! Ally!”
+
+“Now, dear little papa, don’t be discontented! Remember how much worse
+off we were before we had any work at all! Better have too much than too
+little! I am sure I had rather be worked to death than starved to
+death!” replied Ally, smiling.
+
+“And what is it you are doing now?” inquired the old man, taking a
+childish interest in her work and examining curiously the brilliant
+braids that lay in a heap by her side. “I thought I saw you sewing on
+all them bright things only yesterday?”
+
+“And to-day I am ripping them off; yes, father; because yesterday they
+played a gay French piece, and to-night they play ‘The Quaker,’
+therefore I must alter the Swiss peasant’s dress that I wore yesterday,
+into a Quaker dress to wear to-night, and I can do it by simply ripping
+off the bright braid and letting down the tucks.”
+
+“Hum, and—maybe to-morrow you may have to sew it all on again.”
+
+“Yes, father, these gray skirts are very convenient; they can be made
+very grave, or very gay by mere difference of trimming,” said Alice,
+cheerfully.
+
+“But what trouble, my poor little Ally, when to think that a dollar or
+two more would buy you another dress, and save you all this everlasting
+ripping and sewing.”
+
+“Yes, but, dear little papa, the dollar or two isn’t at hand, and
+therefore we must be content. And now stop grumbling and come to
+breakfast.”
+
+“That poor creetur, is she awake?” whispered the old man pointing over
+his shoulder to the stranger on the bed.
+
+“I think not, father,” replied Alice, as she arose, put aside her work
+and prepared to set breakfast on the table.
+
+“_Yes, I am awake_; I should have let you know it before hearing all
+your talk,” spoke the voice, from the bed.
+
+“Oh, that don’t matter! not the least bit in the world! we haint no
+secrets, thank heaven! how be you, child?” said the little old man,
+going to the side of the bed.
+
+“Where am I?”
+
+“You are in the city mansion of Timberlegs Midget, Esquire, watchman in
+ordinary, in the sarvice of their worships the mayor and corporation of
+New York,” replied the little old man, who was not without his dry vein
+of humor.
+
+“How came I here?”
+
+“In going of my last rounds last night, I fell upon you, my child! yes,
+actually _did_ in more’n _one_ sense for I tumbled over you, where you
+lay kivered over with snow! Frien’s of mine helped to bring you here.”
+
+“_Oh! my heart! I begin to remember!_” murmured the stranger to herself.
+
+“Poor thing! you be come from down the country mayhaps?” inquired the
+little old fellow, compassionately.
+
+“Yes,” replied the stranger, in an almost inaudible voice.
+
+“I just thought so! seeking sarvice, maybe?”
+
+“Yes,” again responded the wayfarer, as if unable to get out one other
+word.
+
+“Poor child! poor child! a hard thing to find even for a city born, as
+_I_ know to my sorrow: but for a stranger, a young gal seeking it—oh my!
+You’re an orphan, maybe?”
+
+“Yes,” murmured the stranger, covering her face with her hands.
+
+“Poor child! poor child! well don’t cry! you shall stay here until you
+can do better! I’ve a young darter of my own to larn me mercy, thank
+God! So now you just be easy! or if you want to get up to breakfast,
+I’ll jest go ’way till you dress. My Ally’s dried your clothes long
+ago.”
+
+“Papa, dear, no, it is better for her to lie still,” said the young
+girl, in a whisper.
+
+“My Ally says how it’s better for you to lie still, and my Ally’s always
+right; she’ll bring you coffee to the bedside; so you be easy; you’re
+quite altogether safe under the ruff of Timberlegs Midget, Esquire,—for
+short called Midge,” said the old man, smiling.
+
+“Little papa! if ‘Timberlegs Midget, Esquire,’ commonly called Midge,
+don’t come right away to the table, his worship’s coffee will be cold!”
+said Alice, with mock gravity.
+
+“He’s coming, child! he’s coming,” answered the little old man, trotting
+back to the table and seating himself in apparent trepidation.
+
+Alice presided at the humble repast. She waited upon her father and her
+little brother, and then brought coffee to their guest.
+
+When breakfast was over, the old man took his old over-coat and hat from
+their peg, and put himself into them.
+
+“Now, little papa, you must not go out in the cold this morning,” said
+Alice, as soon as she noticed his preparations.
+
+“My dear, I shall miss a great day’s work if I don’t! The snow is two
+feet deep on the sidewalks; I shall clear a goodly sum this day in
+shovelling it away from afore doors!”
+
+“And get a pleurisy that will lay you up for two months!”
+
+“You needn’t talk, Ally! Timberlegs Midget must—stop, what’s the
+soundorous words?—‘embark in this enterprise.’ Yes! Timberlegs Midget
+must embark in this enterprise!”
+
+And so saying, the little old man went and brought a shovel from the
+back-yard, and passing through the room went out at the front door and
+departed.
+
+Alice hurried with her work, cleared the table and set it away,
+replenished the stove, swept the room, heard Eddy his lesson, made her
+guest as comfortable as circumstances would permit, and then put on her
+coarse shawl and hood to go to rehearsal.
+
+“I am very sorry to have to leave you, but I am employed at the theatre,
+and every day at ten o’clock I am obliged to attend rehearsal, or be
+fined for staying away. I shall be back by one o’clock; Eddy will stay
+with you to wait on you when you need him. And when you wish to get rid
+of him, you can send him up-stairs.”
+
+“I thank you,” was all that the wayfarer could answer, and Alice
+departed.
+
+“Little boy, come here,” murmured the stranger, as soon as she was left
+alone with the lad.
+
+Eddy approached.
+
+“When I was found in the snow, was there——_a child found_?”
+
+“A child! Lord! no, ma’am,” replied the lad, in astonishment.
+
+“Are you _sure_ that there was not?”
+
+“Lord! yes, of course I am; what made you ask about a child?”
+
+“I—I thought there had been a child found.”
+
+“Law, ma’am, you _only_ thought so, you know, because you were so out of
+your mind like. Why, long ago, when we were _poor_, you know, and father
+was in so much trouble, he took a brain fever, and what do you think
+_he_ thought?”
+
+“I don’t know.”
+
+“Why, bless you, he thought the house was full of golden guineas! all
+heaped up in the corners, and packed up in the chests, and locked up in
+the cupboard! and everywhere, everywhere, piles of gold, when we hadn’t
+so much as a penny in the house! Sick people always think queer
+thoughts.”
+
+The stranger made no comment, but covered her face with her hands, and
+sighed.
+
+The lad, thinking she wished to sleep, went back to his stool and his
+book, where he sat perhaps an hour.
+
+Then he arose and put away his book and replenished the fire, put on the
+pot, and began making such simple preparations for the midday meal as a
+lad of his age could manage.
+
+At noon the old man came home, and sat down by the stove, where he
+remained too cold and tired even to talk, until Alice opened the door
+and entered the house.
+
+Then he held out his hand to her; and when she approached, he poured six
+shillings into her hand, saying—
+
+“There, my little housekeeper, take them. I have shovelled off six
+door-steps and sidewalks at a shilling apiece.”
+
+“Little papa will make a fortune at this rate! but he must not go out
+this afternoon!”
+
+“Indeed he doesn’t intend to, jest because he is entirely used up and
+done for.”
+
+“And I am sure Ally looks the very same!” said Eddy.
+
+The old man turned his eyes anxiously upon his daughter.
+
+“Oh, little papa, I am only tired with standing about the scenes—that’s
+all! If one could sit down a little during rehearsal; but they can’t.
+Now just see this good boy. He has the table set and the soup all ready.
+I will dish it up.”
+
+The simple meal was soon prepared and soon consumed. The stranger had
+been vainly urged to partake of it.
+
+“You will fail for want of food,” said Alice, sympathetically bending
+over her.
+
+“No, I am strong enough to get up and go farther, and should have done
+so had I known where to find my clothes,” said the wayfarer.
+
+“Indeed, you shall not go farther until you can fare better,” said
+Alice; “but as soon as father goes out, I will move you up-stairs to my
+room, which is more private, and where we can both sleep together, This
+bed belongs to father and Eddy, and you were laid upon it only because
+they thought you too weak to be carried farther. Oh, now I tell you, you
+shall be very comfortable, if you will only be cheerful.”
+
+And with these consoling words the kind girl left the bedside of her
+guest and sat down to complete the arrangement of her Quaker costume for
+the evening’s performance. This occupied her several hours.
+
+And then, after an early and very frugal tea, the old man walked out to
+report himself to the watch-station; the boy went into the back-yard to
+prepare wood for the next day; and Alice finding the room clear,
+proposed attending her charge to the chamber above.
+
+The stranger wearily agreed, arose from the bed and followed her young
+hostess up the narrow flight of stairs to a small room in the garret,
+lighted by one front and one back dormer window.
+
+Here was a poor but neat bed, covered with a blue, checked, woollen
+counterpane; a little pine table, with a blue wash-basin and pitcher;
+above which hung a small looking-glass; a single chair sat beside the
+bed; and from wooden racks each side the little fireplace hung several
+fancy dresses.
+
+“This is my room; I make you very welcome to it; and hope you will be
+able to sleep quietly for several hours. I am sorry to say that you will
+be quite alone this evening, for my father has gone on duty, and my
+brother will have to attend me to the theatre. I shall leave the light
+burning on the chimney-piece. Good-night.” And so saying, the kind girl
+kissed the pallid brow of the wayfarer and withdrew.
+
+In two minutes after, the stranger heard Alice and her little brother
+leave the house for the theatre, locking the door on the outside.
+
+And then the wayfarer threw herself upon the bed, where for hours she
+lay, so deeply absorbed in painful thought, that ere she knew it,
+midnight came and brought back her humble hosts.
+
+She heard them softly enter the house, and stealthily move about,
+cautioning each other in whispers not to make a noise to disturb _her_.
+
+And soon she felt her kind young hostess creep to bed beside her in
+silence and in darkness, lest she should awaken the guest whom she
+supposed to be sleeping.
+
+And thus ended the wanderer’s first day.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXI.
+                          THE STRANGER’S FATE.
+
+                “Who falls from all they know of bliss,
+                Recks little into what abyss.”—_Byron._
+
+
+The next day was a day of rest for Alice. It happened that she was not
+wanted at the theatre. She enjoyed the rare treat of being at liberty to
+stay home all day and all night.
+
+After breakfast, when her father and brother had both gone out, Alice
+and the stranger were seated together near the stove. Alice was engaged
+in patching her father’s coat. The stranger sat with her thin dark hands
+clasped upon her knees, and her great wild eyes fixed in deep thought
+upon the floor.
+
+“You came to town to seek service, my father tells me. What sort of
+service?—Maybe I could help you to get it.”
+
+“I do not know,” said the wanderer, vacantly.
+
+“_I_ should think that of a _seamstress_ might do. Can you make
+dresses?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Coats, vests, or pantaloons, then?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Children’s clothing, then?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Well, perhaps you can do plain sewing.”
+
+“Not well.”
+
+“Dear me, then you would not be a seamstress?”
+
+“I could not compete with the humblest member of that craft.”
+
+“Oh my! then the next lightest thing to do is chamber-work.”
+
+“I know nothing about it,” said the stranger, with her hands still
+clasped upon her knees, and her eyes still fixed upon the floor.
+
+“Gracious! perhaps—oh yes! I _know_ you could take care of children?
+Would you take a nurse’s place?”
+
+“Not to save myself from starving,” exclaimed the wild woman, with
+startling energy.
+
+“Oh, my goodness! do you dislike innocent little ones so much!”
+
+“Yes, I do!”
+
+Alice looked at her guest in amazement and pity, and then, after a few
+minutes, said:
+
+“I do not think you could _cook_?”
+
+“No.”
+
+“Well, then, what sort of service did you come to town to seek?”
+
+“I did not come to seek service at all.”
+
+“But you told my father so.”
+
+“It was some mistake; he misunderstood me, or else _I_ did not know what
+I was talking about.”
+
+“But if you didn’t come for that, what did you come for?”
+
+“_To lose myself_,” answered the wayfarer.
+
+“I declare you came very near succeeding! Oh, poor dear, you are
+heart-broken and brain-crazed about something, that’s clear enough; but
+you ought not to think of _losing_ yourself. We’ll see what can be done
+for you,” said Alice, gently.
+
+“You are kind, and I will tell you _thus much_: I came from far down the
+country. My father and my mother are both dead. I have no friends, no
+means! Despair drove me to the city!”
+
+“Poor girl! you left the wilderness of _trees_ for the wilderness of
+_human beings_, thinking that the last, being of your kind, would have
+more sympathy for you! Well, many do the like!”
+
+“But _I_ have found sympathy, in one case at least. Oh, I thank you! Now
+let us speak no more of this. In an hour I set forth again.”
+
+“To go—whither?”
+
+“I do not know.”
+
+“Then you shall not leave us. Oh, I have known what it is to be _very
+poor_! You smile; you think we are poor enough _now_! Well, so we _are_.
+But we have been yet _poorer_. I have known what it is to suffer cold,
+hunger, and illness, at the same time; but I never was _homeless_; and I
+think that to be _homeless_ is worse than all. And so I should expect
+the Lord to cast me forth of his care the day that I sent a desolate
+girl homeless from my door. So you are to stay here, until you can do
+better.”
+
+“But I cannot; I must not be a burden. This little tenement is a
+beehive: every one is busy. I must not be a drone.”
+
+“And you need not. I have just thought of what you can do,” said Alice.
+“Mr. West, our stage-director, told me, last night, that if I knew of
+any good-looking, respectable young girl, with a good figure and a good
+voice, he would thank me to bring her to the theatre, if she would
+come.”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“I think you answer the description. If you would come, I would gladly
+take you.”
+
+“What is wanted of me?”
+
+“Why, that you should fill just such a place as I do; a very humble one;
+but which would keep you from want.”
+
+“But I know no more of that business than of any other.”
+
+“It is not expected that you should; you are to learn it. Hence your
+humble post, and small pay. But if, with your fine figure, and face, and
+voice, you have also tact and talent, you will be sure to rise in your
+profession.”
+
+“Is it a laborious one?”
+
+“Yes, I am sorry to say.”
+
+“Is it exciting?”
+
+“Very.”
+
+“Is it absorbing? Will it employ all my time, and thoughts, and
+faculties?”
+
+“Very much so, indeed, if you attend to the business. I wish it were
+otherwise,” said Alice, with regret, for she now feared that her unhappy
+guest would cast away this last poor chance of a living; “very exacting
+and absorbing indeed!”
+
+“Then I will enter it,” exclaimed the stranger.
+
+That night, the old watchman was told that his strange guest, who was
+unfit for service, would, in future, accompany his daughter to the
+theatre.
+
+“Well, the Lord guard all poor young women,” was all that the old man
+said.
+
+Accordingly, the next morning, Alice conducted the stranger to the only
+theatre that the city could then boast. They entered the old and dingy
+building by a basement side-door that led through a long, dark and
+narrow passage to the door of the manager’s office.
+
+Alice put her hand upon the knob, and then suddenly paused, saying—
+
+“There! now, do you know I never even thought of asking your name; and
+if I had gone into the manager’s office, I shouldn’t even have known how
+to introduce you!”
+
+“You are like the Arabs, so delicate in hospitality that they do not
+even ask the name of the traveller they entertain. Well, my name
+is—is—’Nora Norl.”
+
+“’Nora Norl? a queer name! well! come in, Miss Norl.”
+
+“Not _Miss_, but _Mistress_; I have been married.”
+
+“Married! you!” exclaimed Alice, looking in amazement and pity at her
+companion—“married and widowed so young!”
+
+“Yes, married and widowed so young—_yes, widowed, too, though not by
+death_!” mentally added the stranger, whom we shall now call Mrs. Norl.
+
+“And that is what you are breaking your heart about, the Lord help you!
+Well, this hurrying business will keep you from thinking of your
+troubles, if it does nothing else. Come, now, the manager is alone,”
+said Alice, peeping through the glass door, and then turning the knob
+and entering the room.
+
+The manager was alone, but apparently very busy and very impatient.
+
+He arose and offered seats. Alice named her companion—
+
+“Mrs. Norl, Mr. West.”
+
+“_Mrs._ Norl?” questioned the manager, after a hasty bow.
+
+“Yes, sir, _Mrs._ Norl, a young widow, who lives at our house, and will
+engage with you if she suits!” said Alice, meekly.
+
+“Will do very well; will do _quite_ well,” said the stage-director, with
+a cursory glance at the noble figure and fine, though care-worn face of
+the young wanderer, in whom his practical eye discerned a person above
+the grade of a ballet-girl. “Salary small at first; but duties
+unimportant, if laborious. Sing well, ma’am?”
+
+“You will hear me upon occasion, sir, and form your own judgment,” said
+the stranger.
+
+“Ah! intelligent and proud. Seen better days! Just as I thought,”
+muttered the manager. And then saying that he was happy to engage so
+promising a novice; that he had no doubt she would do well, etc.; he
+bowed the two young women out, with a parting request that they would
+come in the morning.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXII.
+                               THE WIFE.
+
+      The lot is on thee—silent tears to weep,
+        And patient smiles to wear thro’ suffering’s hour.
+      And sumless riches from affection’s deep.
+        To pour on broken reeds—a wasted shower!
+      And to make idols and to find them clay,
+      And to bewail that worship—therefore pray!—_Felecia Hemans._
+
+
+How many hearts break, yet “brokenly live on” from youth to age, only
+the Omniscient knows.
+
+The loss of both her children, and the discovery of her husband’s
+unworthiness, had broken the heart of Adelaide Deville, past all earthly
+possibility of cure. Religion might do much; even religion could not
+restore the joyous elasticity of other days. Only the grace of God,
+given “without measure” as it is given to few, could have done that.
+Love could do nothing—alas! for _her_ it was a poisoned fountain.
+
+It was a part of Orville Deville’s retribution that year by year he was
+destined to dote upon his beautiful wife with an ever-increasing
+passion, and to feel that his devotion was all powerless to bring back
+to her—lost faith and hope and joy in him. Ah! it is hard to crush a
+human heart, but _once_ crushed, no power on earth can cure it. It is
+almost impossible to estrange a _woman’s_ heart; but _once_ estranged,
+it is _forever_ impossible to recover it. Think of this all you who
+value, yet madly trifle with affection.
+
+Adelaide’s heart was not indeed estranged from her husband; but it was
+_changed_. Once she loved in pride and joy. She still loved, but in
+humiliation and sorrow. His demonstrations of affection, once greeted in
+confidence and delight, were now received in doubt and compunction.
+Another, she feared, had a holier claim to that very love!
+
+_Lionne, the wronged, was not dead!_
+
+LIONNE, THE DESTROYER, HAD BURST THE STRONG BONDS OF THE GRAVE AND
+LIVED!
+
+How she had escaped the tomb, or where she lived, was unknown. In what
+impenetrable regions of darkness, solitude and silence she made her
+fearful lair, was still a mystery. When she might again sally forth with
+her pestilential breath, breathing malediction and destruction upon
+their fairest hopes, could not be foreseen. But—she lived—the dark
+shadow, the impending peril, the inevitable fate of their lives. A
+living grief, and gloom, and terror never for a day to be forgotten.
+
+One member of the household only seemed happy—the little Perdita. She
+grew in health and strength and beauty every year—the overflowing
+joyousness of her nature making “sunshine in that shady place.”
+
+But, oh, as every successive year exhibited more plainly her growing
+likeness to that beautiful, fearless woman who was the bane and terror
+of their lives, Lady Adelaide gazed with awe and dread, mingled with her
+love for that enchanting child, who ever repaid the lady’s affection
+with a perfect passion of devotion. But if Perdita loved her adopted
+mother with the utmost intensity of human love, even that was as nothing
+compared to the wild worship she lavished upon her father. It was more
+like the extravagant idolatry offered by the pythoness to the god of her
+inspiration, than the affection of mortal child for mortal parent. Lady
+Adelaide watched the development of this torrid temperament, and dreaded
+her future and prayed for her good. Alas! in these fiery, fierce,
+volcanic passions and affections the child also too closely resembled
+her fearful prototype. All that a Christian mother’s watchful care could
+do, all that prayer, counsel and example could do, was constantly
+essayed to train this dangerous temperament. It was when Perdita was
+about eight years of age that Mr. Deville received a communication from
+a legal firm of high standing in London, announcing the fact that he had
+been appointed sole guardian of the person and property of his near
+relative, young Donald Lorne, the orphan heir of the junior branch of
+the Lornes of Glen Lennark.
+
+In consideration of the importance of this trust, Mr. Deville lost no
+time in hastening to London, and thence to Edinburg, where he found
+young Lorne, a fine, tall, dark-haired and dark-eyed youth of fifteen,
+living with an old retired clergyman, under whose instruction he was
+making rapid progress in his classical and mathematical studies. Much to
+the regret of the master, who hated to part with his pupil, the
+newly-appointed guardian determined to take his ward home to America.
+And the youth himself, though somewhat sorrowful at the thought of
+parting with the old man, desired nothing more than travel and change of
+scene.
+
+Finally, as the old clergyman was a widower, without children or other
+family ties, Mr. Deville, after some hesitation, satisfied all parties
+by proposing to the old man to accompany them to America as the private
+tutor of his ward. This proposal was gladly accepted. The doctor went
+with them to America, and thenceforward made a part of the family, in
+the capacity of private tutor to Master Donald and Miss Perdita.
+
+No other children blest the wedded lives of Mr and Lady Adelaide
+Deville. Lady Adelaide devoted herself to her Christian duties—to her
+husband, her household, her friends and neighbors, and found her comfort
+in prayer, reading, meditation, work, and in active deeds of usefulness
+and benevolence. And if less brightly beautiful, and less admired than
+formerly, she was more lovely and more beloved than ever.
+
+Mr. Deville divided his time between agricultural pursuits, the politics
+of the day, the social pleasures of the neighborhood, etc. Yet all these
+things were powerless to banish the thoughts that troubled his
+soul—remorse for the sin of his youth; grief for the loss of his
+children; mortification for the forfeited esteem of his wife; a
+tantalizing temptation to grasp the title and the estates which he
+_might_, yet dared not claim; a vague dread of continued
+retribution—these were the sorrows that stole all zest from enjoyment.
+If any friend or neighbor chanced to express in his hearing any wonder
+that Mr. Deville should not possess the title and estates of his
+deceased uncle, he merely answered that there was a nearer claimant, and
+there let the matter rest.
+
+And thus, without marked incident, the years flowed on, until, by time
+and circumstances, all these feelings became modified, his heart grew
+hardened, his late remorse for the sin of his youth had not, alas,
+melted to that “repentance which is not to be repented of;” grief for
+the loss of his children fell back into a dim and distant regret; the
+forfeiture of his wife’s respect, so long as she showed him outward
+observance, no longer troubled him; and regret for his lost inheritance
+had given place to the desire of achieving a personal “greatness.”
+
+Politics was the chosen path of his ambition. And to a man of his high
+rank, ample fortune, splendid talents, and not too scrupulous honor,
+that path was sure to lead to preferment. He was elected to the House of
+Assembly. His maiden speech was said to be perfect. His judicious
+efforts were said to have carried a measure that had, for several
+successive sessions, been lying like an incubus upon the House.
+
+To be made President of the Assembly was now his great object. That seat
+obtained might serve as a stepping-stone to a still higher dignity—he
+might be appointed governor of the province of Maryland.
+
+While Mr. Deville was forming his political schemes in Annapolis, Lady
+Adelaide, who loved retirement, had remained at her country-home at
+River-view, governing her household, entertaining her rustic neighbors,
+and dispensing her charities. But at the next meeting of the Assembly,
+when the question of electing their president was expected to arise, Mr.
+Deville sent for his wife. For he well knew how great would be the
+silent, unrecognized, unconscious influence of this beautiful and gifted
+woman, even in political circles, and upon his own political success.
+
+Ever obedient to his slightest wish, she left her loved retirement and
+came up to the city, though “innocent of the cause” of her summons.
+
+Mr. Deville hired the most elegantly furnished house that could be had
+at any price, and, with the assistance of Lady Adelaide, commenced a
+series of entertainments that had never been equalled in that provincial
+metropolis. The result answered his expectations. Lady Adelaide, meek,
+refined and retiring, but also indubitably talented, accomplished and
+beautiful, became the reigning queen of that circumscribed court. Her
+house was the resort of all the most distinguished men and most lovely
+women assembled at Annapolis—herself ever the most lovely. Her _petit
+soupers_ were faultless; her _soirées_ perfect. Her beauty, her grace,
+her amiability, won her universal favor. And her charms became an
+element in her husband’s popularity and power.
+
+The day upon which the votes of the House were to be polled for the
+election of their president arrived.
+
+The members of the Assembly were all in their seats, and the galleries
+were filled. Prayer opened the session. Some formal, tedious
+preliminaries were passed through; and then the candidates for the
+president’s chair were nominated. The poll was taken. Mr. Orville
+Deville was elected by a majority of two-thirds. The result was
+announced and received with acclamation. Then a member arose and moved
+that the new president be inducted into his office, which motion was
+carried unanimously.
+
+Orville Deville, attended by his chief friends, advanced to the upper
+end of the hall, and, amidst the breathless interest of the spectators,
+ascended the stairs and seated himself in the president’s chair, where
+the oath of office was administered to him. He spoke the required words,
+kissed the sacred book, and returned it to its place. And then, in the
+midst of the eager attention of all present, he arose to deliver his
+opening address. But among all the company of distinguished men and
+beautiful women present, there was one person of whom he thought
+pre-eminently—his lovely wife! There she sat, the most beautiful where
+all were beautiful, the most gifted where all were gifted, the most
+interested where all were intent. She sympathized in his elevation—would
+she approve the principles by which he intended to secure his
+position?—He could not hope it! He had bowed to his audience, and laid
+his hand upon the notes for his address, and was just about to open his
+mouth to commence, when——
+
+A young man, closely wrapped in a long Spanish cloak, and having his cap
+drawn down over his eyes, hurried towards the president’s seat. The
+sergeant-at-arms essayed to stop him! but with the single phrase—“_A
+matter of life and death!_” the young man pushed on and ascended the
+stairs, thrust a sealed paper in the hands of the president, and with
+the single word—LIONNE—that tolled like a death-bell through the room,
+he turned, retreated, and was lost in the crowd.
+
+The president tore open the paper, and cast his eyes over the contents,
+grew deadly pale, and with a few incoherent words of apology descended
+from the platform and abruptly left the assembly.
+
+Lady Adelaide, ignorant of the contents of that note, but in equal
+agitation, arose from her seat, and hurried out into the lobby and down
+the stairs to the outer door, when, true to her anticipations, she found
+her husband just about to enter their carriage.
+
+“Come, then,” he said. And taking her arm with almost rude haste, he
+hurried her into the back seat, threw himself beside her, and gave the
+driver the single order—
+
+“Home.”
+
+“What is it, Mr. Deville? Oh, what is it?” she anxiously inquired.
+
+“Do not ask me yet. Soon you shall know all,” he said, hurriedly.
+
+They drove on in silence until they reached their house.
+
+Then he alighted, and whispering:
+
+“Come with me into my study, Adelaide,” ascended the stairs.
+
+“Sit down,” he said, breathing hard, and wiping great drops of icy sweat
+from his pallid brow—“sit down, and I will tell you—all—all!”
+
+She took the indicated seat beside him on the sofa, and bending towards
+him, gave her whole heart to the hearing.
+
+“Listen!” he said, fixing his eyes in almost wild horror upon her face;
+“listen! to-day, in the moment of my triumph, I stood again, face to
+face, with—Lionne!”
+
+“No, great heaven, no!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, growing paler than
+before.
+
+“I did! When the cup of success was at my lips, again she raised her
+ruthless hand and dashed it to the dust!”
+
+“No! no! oh, dear sir, let us trust you were mistaken!”
+
+“Mistaken! Could _I_ mistake those resolute, ruthless lips, those fierce
+and cruel eyes, whose glances still burn—burn into my very brain?”
+
+“Dear Mr. Deville, it was a _youth_ who spoke to you!”
+
+“A youth?—ha—ha—ha!” he exclaimed, laughing in a frenzied manner—“a
+youth! Could the cavalier’s cloak and cap, the short, curled hair and
+black moustache disguise _her_ from _me_?—No, I tell you that to-day
+again, at the culmination of my fortunes, I have stood face to face with
+my FATE! To-day, as before, she has said to me, ‘Come down from your
+seat! Nor honor, nor dignity, nor success in this world shall be yours!
+Your only safety shall be in seclusion.’”
+
+“And you?” inquired the lady, with tears.
+
+“And I must obey her! Look, look at this paper which she thrust into my
+hand! Look at the sword which she holds suspended by a single hair above
+my head! Yes, look!” he exclaimed, withdrawing the mysterious packet
+from his bosom, and giving it to Lady Adelaide.
+
+She opened it, and as she read it he saw that every vestige of color
+fled from her face. And well it might. That document was headed:
+
+“‘Look on this picture and on this,’ and judge if a _law-breaker_ shall
+sit in the seat of a _law-maker_; or a felon preside over the councils
+of legislators?” And under this caption was written and contrasted in
+parallel columns, first, on the right hand, copies of the two marriage
+certificates that constituted Deville a bigamist; and next against them
+on the left, a copy of the statute-law that constituted the crime of
+bigamy a felony, punishable with imprisonment or slavery.
+
+“There!” he exclaimed, regardless of the white lips and fading eyes that
+betrayed the lady’s dangerous agitation, and should have warned him to
+desist. “There! with the instruments of which these are only copies, she
+can hurl me from my seat of power whereon my friends may place me; or,
+if I refuse to be thus thrown down, she can do more. She can cast me
+into a state’s prison, or else into slavery.”
+
+“Alas, my God, for the bondage of sin!” murmured Lady Adelaide, in a
+fainting voice as she clasped her hands and bowed her head.
+
+“You—_you_ reproach me!” cried Deville, in bitterness.
+
+“Oh, no! no, no! It is not for me to do that.”
+
+“But yet you will perhaps desert me?”
+
+“No, Mr. Deville, no.”
+
+“Then, in this extremity, what is your counsel?”
+
+Lady Adelaide did not at once reply. Her eyes were cast down until the
+golden lashes lay pencillings upon the white cheeks, her lips were
+mutely closed, and her fair hands folded as in prayer or self-communion.
+
+“You know,” continued Deville, “that I must at that demon’s order resign
+my place on the president’s platform, nay, I must even resign my seat in
+the Assembly; or else, with that instrument of her power, that fiend
+will expose and ruin me! Come—in this strait, what is your counsel?”
+
+Seldom, if ever before, had Orville Deville condescended to take counsel
+with his meek consort; but this was an affair concerning which he could
+admit no other into his confidence. Therefore again, for the third time,
+and more impatiently, he spoke—
+
+“Can you not reply to me, Adelaide? I ask you what shall we do?”
+
+“I have been thinking deeply,” she answered, in a submissive voice. “The
+subject requires thought.”
+
+“Well—and what is your conclusion?”
+
+“Mr. Deville, I am unaccustomed to advising you.”
+
+“Then, madam, you will not help me! Neither counsel nor sympathy am I to
+expect from you!”
+
+“Mr. Deville, I only doubt my own capacity. If I really could venture——”
+
+“Well?”
+
+“I should say—let us retire from the world and repent.”
+
+“Let ‘us’ retire from the world and repent! As far as that speech
+concerns yourself, it is hypocrisy; _you_ know that you have nothing to
+repent of! And as far as it concerns _me_ it is insolence! Am I a sinner
+above all sinners, madam?” he exclaimed, breaking into the fury with
+which a hardened sinner hears the word repent.
+
+“Alas,” thought Lady Adelaide, “I feared that this would be the result.”
+Then, speaking very gently, she said—
+
+“I am sorry—very sorry—if my words gave offence. Let us go back to our
+country home for the present, and there, with quiet, will come
+opportunity for calm reflection.”
+
+“No! I shall not go to the country! I shall go far away from the pursuit
+of this malignant demon! I shall go to the Northern Provinces—probably
+to New York,” said Mr. Deville.
+
+“As you please,” replied his wife.
+
+The next day Mr. Deville, to the astonishment and consternation of his
+friends, and without the least explanation of his reason, sent in his
+resignation to the Assembly.
+
+And the next week he left Annapolis for the North.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXIII
+                           STRANGE MEETINGS.
+
+               I charm thee from the agony
+                 Which others feel or feign;
+               From anger, and from jealousy,
+                 From doubt, and from disdain;
+               I bid thee wear the scorn of years
+                 Upon the brow of youth,
+               And curl the lip at passion’s tears,
+                 And shake the head at truth;
+               While there is bliss in revelry,
+                 Forgetfulness in wine,
+               Be thou from every love as free
+                 As every one from thine!—_Mrs. Hemans._
+
+
+It was mid-winter when Orville Deville and his family reached New York
+and established themselves in the best apartments of the most
+fashionable hotel. He arrived at the time when public interest was
+divided between two subjects. The first, and ultimately the most
+important, was the first murmurings of discontent with the mother
+country, that preceded the outbreaking of the Revolutionary War.
+
+The other, infinitely less important, but for the moment more exciting
+topic, was the advent of a great theatrical star—a wonderfully-endowed
+young tragedienne, whose almost fabulous beauty, grace and genius,
+conjoined with a reputation of exalted virtue and nearly supernatural
+powers of fascination, had been the admiration and delight of London, as
+it was now the attraction and wonder of New York.
+
+“And who _is_ this most marvellous—this all-worshipped Melpomene?”
+inquired Orville Deville of his friend, Colonel Bingham, as the two
+smoked their Havanas together in the reading-room of the hotel, where,
+as usual, the latest enchantments of the Circe were being discussed.
+
+“Who is MELPOMENE?” repeated the Colonel, with a look of astonishment.
+“Is it possible that you are in earnest in that question?”
+
+“Certainly. I am a provincial—a rustic, you see, who should not be
+supposed to know all your city celebrities,” said Deville, laughing.
+
+“‘But not to know Melpomene argues yourself unknown’ with a
+vengeance—or, rather, not to know _of_ her! for few, I imagine, really
+know who she is, whence she came, or what her name! She is called
+Melpomene; and if ever a tragedienne had a right to assume that awful
+name of the tragic muse, this woman is the one!”
+
+“All that I have heard before; but who _is_ she?”
+
+“I repeat that I do not really know. No one does. Her origin and history
+are involved in obscurity, that only gets a little clearer as it nears
+the present time. Those who know _of_ her, scarcely deem her of human
+kind! Her admirers think her angel-born—her enviers would have us
+believe her a child of Satan! Her spells of fascination are certainly
+supernatural!”
+
+“And _that_, also, I have heard before. But is there nothing at all—no
+clue, no gossip—nothing whatever to point out her possible origin?”
+persisted Orville Deville, who felt a strange and unaccountable interest
+in tracing the antecedents of this wonderful woman.
+
+“Gossip? Oh, there is gossip enough! How could it be otherwise? A woman
+endowed with the most wonderful beauty, genius, and power of
+fascination—and, in addition to all these, possessing fame, wealth, and
+favor of all men—must excite envy and provoke detraction. Yes, there is
+plenty of gossip, if you will accept _that_ for authentic history.”
+
+“Well, that gossip—in a great deal of chaff there may be a grain of
+truth.”
+
+“Not worth the trouble of seeking. But if you _will_ have it, you may.
+But mind—so far from _indorsing_, I speak it under protest,” said
+Colonel Bingham.
+
+“Right,” admitted Mr. Deville.
+
+“Well, then, thus saith Madam Rumor—that some ten or twelve years ago, a
+young creature, scarce sixteen years old, and yet at that tender age,
+not only orphaned, but widowed, and perfectly destitute, wandered in
+search of service, to New York, where she arrived on foot, late at
+night, in the midst of a snow-storm. Exhausted with fatigue, hunger and
+cold, she sank, fainting, in the street. She was picked up by a
+weak-minded old watchman, who instead of carrying her off to the
+watch-house, pitied her condition and took her home to his own
+dwelling.”
+
+“But this houseless wanderer could not have been the great Melpomene!”
+interrupted Mr. Deville.
+
+“Wait a bit!—Rumor further saith, that this feeble-brained old watchman,
+who carried forlorn women to his own house, ‘had a daughter,’ who was
+employed as a ballet-girl at the City Theatre, and that eventually, the
+young stranger being found unfit for every thing else under the sun,
+went with her host’s daughter to the theatre, where her personal beauty
+and grace, and her melodious voice, and ready intelligence, procured her
+an humble engagement.”
+
+“Ah!”
+
+“Yes, you begin to see how this might have been. Well, as years passed,
+and to her original gifts were added experience and knowledge of the
+business, our young artist rose in her profession through the successive
+stages of ballet dancer, singing grisette, walking lady, leader, etc.,
+to her present position.”
+
+“Then, as every step of this tragedienne, from obscurity to fame, seems
+to have passed before the eyes of this public, I do not see how you can
+call this story mere gossip, and assert that her true history is
+unknown,” said Mr. Deville.
+
+“And yet I _do_ assert it. Every step is _not_ accounted for. There is a
+long gap. It is said that about the time this young actress had reached
+the rank of ‘walking lady’ at this theatre, that a part of the company
+returned to England to play in the provinces, and that Nora Norl
+accompanied them. While there, this beautiful young creature attracted
+the attention of the celebrated Mrs. Bracegirdle, who, then at the
+zenith of her fame, was making a tour of the northern counties. The
+great actress, never dreaming of future rivalry, became the patroness of
+the friendless young aspirant, gave her instructions and brought her
+forward. From that auspicious time, the star of the young artist arose.
+And she, who nine years ago left the shores of her native country as the
+humble, obscure Nora Norl, returned as the great Melpomene.”
+
+“A probable story. I do not see why it should be questioned.”
+
+“Yet it _is_. Nine years changes the character of a community as well as
+the appearance of a young female. And there are those who can trace no
+resemblance between the thin, undeveloped girl of seventeen, and the
+magnificent woman of twenty-six; and others who totally deny the
+identity between the obscure Nora Norl and the illustrious Melpomene.”
+
+“I must see this world’s wonder. She plays to-night?”
+
+“Yes, and not again for a week. This queen of tragedy, like other
+queens, is jealous of her royal presence, and no inducement can bring
+her to appear more than once a week.”
+
+“And—let us see—what is her _role_ to-night?”
+
+“Roxalana, in the ‘Rival Queens.’ I have seen Mesdames Bracegirdle and
+Oldfield in that part, but I have never seen this Melpomene, who is
+said, in that particular impersonation of the outraged wife and queen,
+to surpass, not only all others, but even her own self.”
+
+“Then, shall we go together to test her merits this evening?”
+
+“With pleasure, especially if the beauteous Lady Adelaide is to be of
+the party,” said the gallant Colonel.
+
+“Lady Adelaide never goes to the theatre,” replied Mr. Deville.
+
+“Ah, conscientiously opposed to it?”
+
+“Sincerely so—yes.”
+
+“By the way, Melpomene has apartments in this very house.”
+
+“Impossible!”
+
+“True, however! though she might as well be in Kamtschatka for any thing
+we see of her here.”
+
+“Why, how is that?”
+
+“She has not only her private _suite_ of apartments, but also a private
+street-entrance to them, and private attendance. So that there is no
+possibility of seeing her without intrusion; and—she receives no
+visitors.”
+
+“Except professionally—at the theatre.”
+
+“Except at the theatre, whither we will go this evening.”
+
+“Agreed.”
+
+And thus the friends parted. Colonel Bingham to go to the table d’hote,
+Mr. Deville to ascend to Lady Adelaide’s private parlor, where their
+meals were served. Here he found no one except young Donald Lorne, who
+sat within the window seat, reading.
+
+“Ho, Donald, my boy, always at your studies. Come, what say you to an
+evening at the theatre?” said Mr. Deville, with an affectation of gayety
+that was far from his heart.
+
+The youth arose, and with a respectful bow to his guardian, answered
+gravely:
+
+“Lady Adelaide disapproves of the theatre, sir, and I would not like to
+displease her.”
+
+“Tut, boy! women are making a perfect Miss Molly of you!”
+
+Instead of replying, the youth drew himself up with that air of
+self-respect, not to say haughtiness, that sometimes procured for him
+the name of “the young Don.”
+
+Deville laughed. And before another word could be said, the door flew
+open and a lightsome figure of a dark-eyed girl danced into the room.
+Scarcely could any human creature be more beautiful than Perdita was,
+now, in the twelfth year of her age. She was tall for her age, and with
+a form of perfect symmetry and a head of classic elegance, covered with
+luxuriant hair that fell in many long, rich, jet black ringlets down
+each side her crimson cheeks, and upon her ivory bosom and shoulders.
+Her large, black eyes, dark as night, and brilliant as stars, could melt
+or blaze, as love or anger inspired them. They were vailed by long,
+black lashes, and over-arched by slender black brows. Full crimson lips,
+a thought too plump, gave the finishing character to a style of beauty
+at once too fierce, voluptuous and impassioned to promise much of good
+or happiness to the possessor. Well might the Lady Adelaide fear and
+pray and study for this child!
+
+She came now dancing into the room and humming a gay tune, that was
+instantly arrested on her lips as she saw Mr. Deville, and exclaimed—
+
+“Papa! you here? I thought you were in the reading room.”
+
+“Well, my dear, and that in an instant the song should be arrested on
+your lips? Am I a kill-joy?”
+
+“Oh, no, sir!”
+
+“Then doubtless it was the presence of this sanctimonious young
+gentleman that sobered you!” said Mr. Deville, pointing to Donald.
+
+“Who, _Donald_! why he is my constant provocative to laughter! No, sir!
+neither your nor your ward have that honor! My song was finished!”
+exclaimed Perdita, with a merry glance from one to the other.
+
+“Well, my dear! I have a treat in store for you! You never saw a play I
+believe?”
+
+“Oh, no, papa! and I do so _long_ to see one!—Donald, don’t you turn and
+look at me with your great solemn dark eyes! I tell you I _do_ want to
+see a play! Yes, papa! I _do_.”
+
+“Then you shall be gratified, my dear! You shall go with me this evening
+to see Melpomene!”
+
+“Oh, papa! Oh, papa! that will be delightful!” exclaimed Perdita,
+clapping her hands in ecstasy. Then, with one of her sudden transitions
+from gayety to gloom, she murmured—“But _mamma_.”
+
+“Lady Adelaide will not object, when she finds my wishes co-incide with
+yours.”
+
+“Oh! my dear, handsome papa! persuade mamma to consent! You can persuade
+her to any thing!” exclaimed the young girl, springing to his bosom,
+throwing her arms around his neck and kissing him.
+
+“Little flatterer! well, we will try our powers in your favor,” said Mr.
+Deville, returning with interest the caresses of the beautiful girl.
+
+At this moment the Lady Adelaide softly entered the parlor. Gentle and
+sweet, loving and lovely as an angel looked Lady Adelaide at
+twenty-five. She wore a pale-blue cashmere morning-dress, open over a
+white swiss muslin skirt. Her pale gold hair fell in shining ringlets
+down each side her delicate, roseate cheeks, and was twisted up behind
+under a little lace cap of cobweb texture. She came floating into the
+room as softly as a cloud through the summer sky, as sweetly as a strain
+of sacred music. Her presence diffused over the scene a holy spell.
+Truly, sorrow had sanctified this pure spirit.
+
+Donald arose and drew forward her easy chair. With a smile she thanked
+him and seated herself.
+
+“Lady Adelaide, I wish to take this young lady to see Melpomene
+to-night. You will oblige me by seeing that she is properly dressed.”
+
+Lady Adelaide raised her mild, beseeching blue eyes, and fixed them on
+his face. That was her only appeal! Not for worlds would she have put
+her objection in words before the young people, to depreciate _his_
+judgment in their opinion. But he chose to disregard the silent
+supplication of those imploring eyes, and continued—
+
+“The doors open at half-past seven; the performance commences at eight.
+I should be pleased if you would have Perdita ready by a quarter to
+eight.”
+
+Slowly and gravely Lady Adelaide bowed. Then turning to her adopted
+child, she said—
+
+“Perdita, love, it is time to take your daily ride. Go and get ready.
+Donald will order the horses and escort you.”
+
+Both the young people left the room at her bidding. And, when they were
+gone, she turned a deprecating gaze at her husband’s face, and said—
+
+“Mr. Deville, please grant me a favor.”
+
+“I anticipate your request. You wish me to yield my purpose of taking
+Perdita to see Melpomene this evening.”
+
+“Yes, I do, Mr. Deville.”
+
+“And why, pray?”
+
+“Mr. Deville, the theatre, injurious to all young persons, is especially
+so for Perdita. She is already too ardent, too impassioned, too
+excitable! Her heart, and fancy, and imagination are too impressible,
+too impetuous, too enthusiastic! They need repressing, not stimulating!
+Oh, Mr. Deville, if you love the girl, do not take her to the
+theatre,—especially to see this woman who has turned the heads of half
+mankind!”
+
+“Lady Adelaide, you are a—an angel! and, being an angel, you are too
+much exalted for this sublunary sphere! But, nevertheless, my sweet
+Adelaide, you will be pleased to adorn Perdita for the occasion!”
+
+The lady said no more. The habit of obedience was strong upon her, and
+she bowed her head in silent acquiescence. It was not the first or the
+last time that a good, wise woman has been forced from her better
+judgment by a foolish, bad and tyrannical man.
+
+Indeed, before there was much opportunity for further discussion, the
+young people came into the room equipped for their ride, to say good-by,
+for an hour or two.
+
+They looked so bright, and handsome and happy, that Lady Adelaide could
+but smile upon them even while praying secretly for their preservation
+from the evils of the world.
+
+They took their leave, hurried down-stairs, and two minutes afterwards
+Lady Adelaide, from her front windows, saw them ride gaily forth in the
+direction of the Battery.
+
+“They would make a handsome pair,” was the secret thought of the lady,
+as she retired from the window.
+
+They returned, as they had promised, in good time to rest and dress
+before dinner. And the afternoon was spent in thinking and talking and
+preparing for the evening’s amusement.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXIV.
+                               MELPOMENE.
+
+                Hers was the spell o’er hearts
+                  That only Acting lends—
+                The youngest of the sister Arts,
+                  Where all their beauty blends:
+                For ill can Poetry express
+                  Full many a tone of thought sublime,
+                And Painting, mute and motionless,
+                  Asks but a glance from time;
+                But by the mighty Actor brought,
+                  Illusion’s perfect triumphs come,—
+                Verse ceases to be airy thought,
+                  And Sculpture to be dumb.—_Campbell._
+
+
+It was just a quarter to eight o’clock when our party, consisting of
+Colonel Bingham, Mr. Deville and Perdita, took their seats in the
+private box to the right of the stage in the City Theatre. The house was
+brilliantly lighted and well filled by a fashionable and appreciating
+audience. Mr. Deville’s eyes wandered over the crowd, turning from the
+many beautiful women that gemmed the dress-circle, to rest with pride
+upon the more brilliant beauty of the young girl at his side. He saw
+that this new, splendid beauty was attracting general attention, that
+many lorgnettes were levelled at their box, and whispering faces were
+leaned together in eager inquiry.
+
+Never yet, in her short young life, had Perdita looked so brilliantly
+beautiful as upon this evening. She had thrown back her ermine mantle,
+and now appeared in a tight-fitting spencer of bright crimson satin,
+with neck and sleeve trimmings of fine point-lace, and a little
+opera-hat of the same shade of crimson, turned up at the left side with
+a white plume. Her long, jet black ringlets hung down each side her
+white forehead and blooming cheeks. Her large dark eyes were sparkling,
+her ruby lips smiling, her whole face glowing with the delight of
+youthful anticipation.
+
+Orville Deville gazed at his young charge in pride and joy. He had seen
+a more lovely woman—Adelaide; he had known a more fascinating one,
+Lionne; but never, no, never, had he beheld a creature so perfectly
+beautiful as Perdita now appeared to him. And he saw that his own
+judgment was indorsed by the whole audience, who could scarcely keep
+their eyes from rudely resting upon the brilliant young girl.
+
+But—stop! oh, heaven, what is this? a wonder, a revelation, a
+resemblance never, in his whole knowledge of her young life, seen
+before! but which now, the mere accidents of costume and of emotion and
+of light and shade, betrayed to him!
+
+Yes, the tight-fitting boddice revealing every undulation of the slight,
+graceful form, the piquant hat and plume surmounting the little, elegant
+head, the long, black ringlets shading the crimson cheeks, the burning,
+black eyes, the glowing, ruby lips, the dark, bright face, instinct with
+enthusiasm—the form partly in the shade of the curtained box, partly in
+the glare of the lamp light—yes! it was the re-produced and living image
+of Lionne, as fourteen years before he had seen her first, in the
+darkness of the thunder cloud and the glare of the lightning, on the
+brink of the mountain precipice!
+
+While he gazed in something like amazement, doubting his own senses and
+sanity, Perdita turned to answer some observation made by Colonel
+Bingham, who was seated upon her left, and by this change of position
+the accident of light and shade was reversed, and the identity of
+resemblance dispelled. And before Colonel Bingham could point out to
+Perdita the various persons present, distinguished for talent, wealth,
+position, beauty or fashion, etc., the curtain rose and the attention of
+all was riveted upon the stage.
+
+At first, Perdita’s faculties were a little bewildered by the novelty of
+the whole scene. Her eyes were dazzled by the glowing of gaudy colors,
+the glittering of jewels, the gleaming of steel and the flashing of
+lights, before she could well understand what was going on. It was an
+uninteresting preliminary scene—a sword fight between two young
+Grecians, rival suitors for the hand of a princess. Perdita watched
+attentively, all her anxiety being to behold the expected wonder of the
+evening—the illustrious MELPOMENE.
+
+The scene was short, the combatants were parted by the intervention of
+an aged courtier. And then—
+
+“Oh! she comes!” exclaimed our young Perdita, as a lady “in gleam of
+satin and glimmer of pearls,” with her bright hair encircled by the
+“golden round” of royalty, entered upon the scene. “See! is that
+Melpomene?”
+
+Colonel Bingham smiled and whispered:
+
+“No, my dear, that is not the star! That is only a rushlight! Not
+Roxana, but the little Princess Parisitas.”
+
+“But she is very beautiful and stately.”
+
+“A pretty and intelligent little girl, well got up. The footlights do
+the rest.”
+
+Perdita watched the progress of the drama with the interest of a novice.
+The scenes changed.
+
+Presently again Perdita grasped the arm of her old friend, exclaiming,
+breathlessly:
+
+“Oh, there she certainly is!” as a lady, handsome as all the houries,
+robed in scarlet and gold, with the royal diadem upon her brow, preceded
+by music and attended by courtiers, entered upon the scene.
+
+Colonel Bingham laughed, saying:
+
+“Mistaken again. This is only the daughter of Darius the Princess
+Statira, for whom Alexander the Great has forsaken Roxana.”
+
+“But she is royally beautiful, and walks and speaks and looks like a
+queen!”
+
+“Um-m—yes! Mrs. West, who plays the part, is a fine-looking woman, of
+considerable talent—scarlet and gold, rouge and ringlets do the rest.”
+
+Perdita looked at him reproachfully.
+
+“Why will you dampen all my delight?” she asked.
+
+“I do not wish you to waste enthusiasm on these frumpery people. High,
+unapproachable genius is the only thing worthy of such warmth. Wait, my
+little rustic, until you see Melpomene—as Roxana.”
+
+“It seems we are _never_ to see her! The first act is almost over!” said
+Perdita, impatiently.
+
+“And the second act will be quite over before you see her. These royal
+personages are chary of their presence, especially this royal
+Melpomene,” replied Colonel Bingham, smiling.
+
+The remainder of the first act and the whole of the second was filled
+with the triumphal festivals attending the arrival of Alexander, the
+conspiracies of the disaffected courtiers, and the jealousy of Queen
+Statira. At the falling of the curtain at the close of the second act,
+Perdita sat back pleased, but impatient.
+
+The rising of the curtain upon the third act restored her good humor.
+
+“Oh, there she is now! That is Melpomene! that is Roxana! that is THE
+QUEEN!” exclaimed Perdita, in the low, hushed tone of intense feeling,
+as she bent forward to gaze upon the scene. There sat a woman who never
+met the gaze of the public except beyond the burning barrier of the
+footlights—yet a woman who, in bower or hall, church or mart, must have
+drawn all eyes upon herself as the magnet draws steel—a woman of
+surpassing, of superhuman, of goddess-like beauty, grace and majesty! “a
+queen by virtue of her brow and breast, not needing to be crowned!” an
+awful goddess, such as Homer and the antique poets dreamed of. No crown,
+indeed, sat upon that brow, royal of itself; no useless jewel lent its
+meretricious light to her imposing costume. The cincture of diamonds
+that flamed like a serpent of fire around her head, was only there to
+confine the heavy masses of her midnight hair. The cestus of diamonds
+around her waist was only meant to bind the folds of her flowing purple
+velvet robe. Her eyes were cast down until the long black lashes lay
+distinctly marked upon the cheek, white as marble.
+
+A courtier, a messenger, it seemed, of heavy news, stood at a respectful
+distance, waiting for her words.
+
+The spectacle represented that scene of the drama in which Cassander
+brings to the queen intelligence that she is forsaken by Alexander for
+the fresher charms of the daughter of Darius, the young Princess
+Statira. She—the forsaken queen—had not yet spoken. She had heard the
+news, and her still, white face was that of a goddess stunned into
+marble by astonishment which is, as yet, too incredulous to be mixed
+with anger or pain. Her words and her tone, when she first spoke, were
+low, slow, measured, and calm and incredulous as her look.
+
+             “‘Deserted?—saidst thou?—for a girl abandoned?
+             A puny girl made up of watery elements’
+             Shall _she_ embrace the god of my desire,
+             And triumph in the heart ROXANA claims.”
+
+Yet, somehow, those words and that look thrilled to the hearts of all
+who heard and saw them.
+
+“Ay,” said Colonel Bingham, “_she_ at least is not made up of watery
+elements. All fire and air is that consuming nature. I really should
+_not_ like to make her angry. I dread for the daughter of Darius—do not
+you, my dear?”
+
+“Oh, hush! I want to hear!” replied Perdita, in a deep, breathless tone,
+and without removing her fascinated gaze from the stage.
+
+“Oh, I forgot, my charming little rustic! you are not a hackneyed
+play-goer. You come here not to be admired, but to admire. You are
+really interested in what is going on. Come! there, then, I’m silent,”
+added the Colonel, noticing the growing impatience of his beautiful
+young friend.
+
+Perdita’s gaze remained riveted upon the scene as it progressed. She
+watched with the most intense interest the growing passion of the
+queen’s soul, as her incredulity was merged in doubt, and her doubt was
+lost in certainty. And then the stony stillness of the deserted wife and
+outraged queen was broken as startlingly as a rock is blasted by an
+explosion of gunpowder—and when, throwing up her arms, she thundered
+forth,
+
+               “‘Away! away! and give a whirlwind room!’”
+
+the effect was absolutely terrific.
+
+With a half smothered gasp, Perdita sank back and covered her face with
+her hands.
+
+Colonel Bingham, a “hackneyed play-goer,” smiled, and stooping forward,
+whispered to Mr. Deville:
+
+“Our young rustic will expose us to ridicule if she betrays such acute
+feeling!”
+
+There was no answer. Colonel Bingham, astonished, fixed his eyes upon
+his silent friend, and started.
+
+Well he might.
+
+Orville Deville sat motionless, colorless as a statue, gazing in a sort
+of horror of amazement upon the fury on the stage!
+
+“Deville! why, in the name of all the fates, what ails you? Has this
+sorceress bewitched you?” inquired the Colonel.
+
+“I—I have just recollected a most pressing engagement! You—you will
+oblige me by taking charge of Perdita and bringing her home at the close
+of the performance,” said Mr. Deville, in an agitated manner, as he
+hurriedly arose from his seat.
+
+“Are you going, father?” asked Perdita, turning around at the sound of
+his voice.
+
+“Yes, my dear, an engagement I have just remembered calls me away! _You_
+need not leave! Colonel Bingham will take you home.”
+
+“Certainly, with pleasure,” replied Colonel Bingham, still in amazement.
+And before he had recovered his presence of mind, Mr. Deville had left
+the box.
+
+Perdita’s attention was once more drawn to the stage by the entrance of
+Statira, when ensued the celebrated stormy encounter between the “Rival
+Queens.”
+
+The intense interest and excitement of the young girl increased in
+proportion to the rising action and passion of the drama—until at last,
+at the catastrophe where Roxana, overwhelmed with wrongs and insults,
+and frenzied with jealousy and despair, destroys her rival. Then the
+young Perdita, pale with profound emotion, sank back and once more
+covered her face with her hands.
+
+The curtain fell amid thunders of applause.
+
+“Shall we wait for the afterpiece?” inquired Colonel Bingham.
+
+“Oh! no, let us go,” murmured Perdita.
+
+“Well—at least, perhaps, you would like to see the ballet between the
+pieces?”
+
+“No, no, nothing after this! Take me home!”
+
+“Enthusiast! Well, come, then,” said Colonel Bingham, rising and placing
+the ermine mantle upon the shoulders of his charge.
+
+The applause continued—augmented—and cries of “Roxana! Roxana! Roxana!”
+filled the house.
+
+“They are calling her out! Will you stop a moment to see her?” asked the
+Colonel.
+
+“Yes! yes!” murmured Perdita, eagerly.
+
+Here a gentleman from the next box bending forward, said—
+
+“It is no use, Colonel! _She will not come!_ She never has done so yet,
+and it is not likely she will now!”
+
+“We’ll see,” said Colonel Bingham.
+
+“Roxana! Roxana! Roxana!” called the crowd.
+
+“They may call—they have called her every evening, but she has never
+come.”
+
+“Roxana! Roxana! Roxana!” cried the assembly.
+
+To the surprise of all—even of those who most persistently called her,
+the majestic form once more glided before them and stood—grand,
+beautiful, self-possessed, silent as a goddess awaiting worship!
+
+“Glorious!” muttered Colonel Bingham under his breath.
+
+Her appearance was greeted by a round of ecstatic applause.
+
+When this was over and silence restored, she slowly bowed her head, as
+Juno throned in Olympus might do, and so passed from their view.
+
+“Come, I think it quite time that I had taken you home. These mental and
+passional stimulants will not do for you, my dear,” said Colonel
+Bingham, as he wrapped Perdita in her ermine mantle, drew her arm within
+his own and took her from the theatre.
+
+As they stepped out upon the street, they saw, above the turmoil of the
+crowded city, the full moon shining, a globe of liquid, silvery light,
+amid the dark-blue heavens.
+
+“Oh, grand, beautiful, glorious!” muttered Perdita to herself.
+
+“What, the moon?”
+
+“Oh, no, the lady, the tragedienne, the enchantress!”
+
+“Look up, my child; the moon is really worth looking at!”
+
+Perdita raised her eyes to the queen of night, and then turned them
+inquiringly upon her mentor.
+
+“The moon is beautiful, serene and heavenly, is she not?”
+
+“Oh, yes.”
+
+“The very emblem of peace, joy and repose?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“So she _seems_, at this distance, to our admiring eyes! Yet, Perdita,
+my child, that serene queen of night, that benignant lighter of the
+traveller’s darkened path, that perfect emblem of cheerful love and
+benign repose, that lovely moon is really and truly a most horrible
+Hades, an awful Gehenna, a scathed, darkened and blasted desert, such as
+no part of our own earth’s surface could possibly show—a black Tartarus
+without inhabitants, without vegetation, without water and without air!
+Its surface, that seems so fair and serene, and shines so soft and
+bright, is rent and gashed with awful chasms fifty miles in depth and
+seamed by ghastly rocks; and is on one side burned, and on the other
+frozen, by such extremes of heat and cold as even fire and ice give us
+no real idea of! Perdita, this woman that we have seen to-night reminds
+me of that satellite!—_fair, queenly, glorious without! but—a blasted
+ruin within!_”
+
+Perdita shuddered.
+
+“I like to see her; but I should not like to know her,” continued the
+Colonel, speaking more to himself than to his companion.
+
+“And yet there is nothing against her; no, not a word, not a breath;
+every one speaks as highly of the woman as of the artiste,” said
+Perdita, instinctively taking up the defence of the tragedienne.
+
+“And, yet, such is the impression she has made upon me.”
+
+“She seems—she _is_—very unhappy,” mused Perdita, as her old friend led
+her to and placed her in the carriage.
+
+The drive home was performed almost in total silence. Perdita was musing
+upon the subject of the fascinating woman who had so strangely won her
+heart; and Colonel Bingham was meditating deeply upon the character of
+the young enthusiast by his side.
+
+When they reached the hotel, the Colonel conducted the young girl to the
+private parlor of her party, and there took leave.
+
+On one side of this parlor was Lady Adelaide’s chamber. On the other
+side was Perdita’s. The doors of both were closed.
+
+Too much excited by all she had seen and heard to retire to bed, Perdita
+walked restlessly about the room, until she was interrupted by the
+opening of Lady Adelaide’s door and the entrance of the old maid Keziah,
+who said to her—
+
+“Lady Adelaide wishes to see you, in her room, Miss Perdita.”
+
+“Indeed! is not my father with her?”
+
+“No, he is not come in yet, Miss Perdita.”
+
+The young girl threw off her mantle and her hat, and hurried into the
+adjoining chamber, where she found Lady Adelaide wrapped in a white
+merino dressing-gown, and sitting in an easy chair awaiting her. The
+lady half rose and held out her arms; and when Perdita approached, she
+folded her as a recovered treasure, to her bosom, murmuring—
+
+“My child! my sprite! I have spent these long hours in prayer for you.”
+
+“You should have gone to rest, sweet mamma,” replied Perdita, returning
+her embrace.
+
+“Had you been exposed to danger by fire or flood, could I have slept,
+think you?”
+
+“No, dear mamma, but then I was not so. I was exposed to neither fire
+nor flood.”
+
+“My child, there are moral and spiritual dangers more to be dreaded than
+either. The former can hurt only the body. The latter can kill the
+soul.”
+
+“Mamma, you make me shudder.”
+
+“I did not mean to do so. But come, tell me, where is Mr. Deville, that
+he did not return with you?”
+
+“He suddenly remembered an engagement that gave him some anxiety, and he
+left at the commencement of the third act, leaving _me_ in the care of
+Colonel Bingham.”
+
+“Ah, and how did you pass the evening, my dear?”
+
+“Oh, mamma, mamma, I do not know whether I were the most pleased or
+pained! Oh, mamma, that wondrous, wondrous woman!” said Perdita, with a
+smile and a shudder.
+
+“The actress, you mean?”
+
+“No, the tragedienne, the artiste, the—sorceress!”
+
+“Well, the actress.”
+
+“Oh, mamma do not call that awful goddess an actress!”
+
+“Well, but my little enthusiast, what is she but an actress, after all?”
+
+“I know not! a witch! a wonder! an enchantress! Oh, mamma, her looks,
+her tones, her gestures were not _acting_, they were _real_!”
+
+“You are too enthusiastic, my dear,” said Lady Adelaide, gravely.
+
+“Oh, mamma, I cannot help it when I think of her! Her tones, her words,
+her looks _draw my heart—draw it from my very bosom as it were to cleave
+to her_!”
+
+“You are very much too excitable,” sorrowfully observed the lady.
+
+“Mamma, you do know _she draws me—draws me as the magnet draws the
+needle_! Mamma I cannot resist it! I must see that lady!”
+
+“See _her_! you _have_ seen her!”
+
+“But, mamma, _I must see her singly—face to face_!”
+
+“Child, you are certainly——deranged!”
+
+“Mamma, _I feel her drawing me—drawing me all the time_!”
+
+“Oh, your head is turned! Alas I why did I let you go! Ah! where is Mr.
+Deville?” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, in distress.
+
+“Dear mamma, go to bed and go to rest. I will not vex you further! Come,
+I promise! Give me your good-night kiss and let me go,” said Perdita,
+throwing her arms around the lady’s neck, and offering her lips for the
+kiss.
+
+“Good-night! good night! oh, my dear one, pray that you be not led into
+temptation!” said Lady Adelaide, pressing her lips to those of her
+adopted child.
+
+“I will! I will! sweet mother, I will! good-night!” said Perdita, as she
+received the parting kiss and retired from the chamber.
+
+“Ah! where is Mr. Deville? Why does he not come! My mind is full of the
+most mournful misgivings!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, when left alone.
+
+And where _was_ Orville Deville?
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXV.
+                              THE MEETING.
+
+               Away, address thy prayers to Heaven,
+                 Before thy star of life is set:
+               Learn if thou there can’st be forgiven;
+                 If mercy may absolve thee yet!
+               But here, upon this earth beneath,
+                 There’s not a spot where thou and I
+               Together for an hour could breathe.
+                 Away! I would not see thee die!—_Byron._
+
+
+When Mr. Deville left the stage-box, he hurried from the theatre, out
+into the open street, and walked up and down the pavement, that the
+fresh night air might cool the fever of his blood and calm the agitation
+of his nerves. For an hour or more, he walked thus, and then having
+regained some degree of composure, and judging that the long tragedy of
+five acts must be near its close, he returned to the theatre and entered
+by the side door used by the actors and actresses, and leading behind
+the scenes. He entered without hesitation the passage leading to the
+door of the green-room, and meeting there an officer of the
+establishment, he said, in a peremptory voice:
+
+“Conduct me at once to the private dressing-room of Mrs. Norl.”
+
+“It is not my business, sir; I must not leave the door,” replied the
+man.
+
+“Then call some one whose business it may be,” said Mr. Deville, in the
+same peremptory tone.
+
+The man raised his head, looked up and down the passage, and spying a
+boy crossing the way, called him, and bade him summon Mrs. Norl’s page.
+
+The boy nodded and disappeared, and in a few moments a fair-haired,
+blue-eyed, delicate lad approached, bowed, and stood awaiting orders.
+
+“You are Mrs. Norl’s page?”
+
+“Yes, sir,” answered a sweet voice.
+
+“Then show me at once to her room,” said Mr. Deville, in a tone of
+command.
+
+“But my mistress is still upon the stage.”
+
+“No matter, I can wait for her.”
+
+For a moment the lad hesitated, and then with the instinct of obedience,
+bowed his head, and preceded the visitor down the passage to a
+side-door, leading to other passages, until they got to a narrow
+staircase, which they descended to find themselves in a sort of stone
+ante-chamber, small and gloomy as a vault.
+
+“Mrs. Norl’s room is immediately under the stage,” said the fair-haired
+lad, opening a door leading into a little chamber, hung with crimson
+cloth, and lighted by a single hanging-lamp, beneath which stood a
+marble-topped table, near which sat an easy chair. A lounge stood
+against the wall on the right, and a dressing-table, with looking-glass
+and toilet apparatus on the left.
+
+“Does your mistress usually admit visitors to this room?” inquired Mr.
+Deville, as he threw himself into the easy chair beside the table.
+
+“No, sir—never.”
+
+“Why, then, have you admitted me?”
+
+“I thought—by the way you spoke—that you had a right—or was
+expected—or——,” said the boy, hesitating, and beginning to look doubtful
+and troubled.
+
+“You were correct, perfectly correct in your thought,” said Mr. Deville,
+smiling strangely, and then adding: “You may go; and you need not
+announce to your mistress that any one awaits her here.”
+
+The boy bowed and withdrew.
+
+Scarce ten minutes passed when a commanding step was heard approaching,
+a haughty tone was heard giving some order without, and the next instant
+the door was opened and the great tragedienne, still in her imperial
+robes, entered the room. Unconscious of the presence of another, she
+advanced proudly, and threw herself into the chair. Leaning her elbow
+upon the table, and her regal head upon her hand, she fell into bitter
+and sarcastic musing.
+
+For a few minutes, with the strangest feelings, Orville Deville, from
+his unseen and unsuspected position on the lounge, watched her. There
+was something of the old admiration, the old fascination of the snake
+that had beguiled him; something of fear and wonder at the virulence of
+passion, visible even in the repose of those fine features; something of
+desire that all this might cease, and that the sight of this beautiful
+Lamia might not act as a galvanic battery upon his nerves, putting his
+very manhood to shame.
+
+She sat there in her wondrous beauty, strength and power, the very ideal
+of a physically perfect woman. Her splendid purplish black hair, partly
+confined in the classic roll at the back of her regal head, partly
+escaping the diamond-studded fillet, and falling upon the rounded ivory
+bosom and shoulder; her faultless features in repose; her dark eyes cast
+down until their long lashes swept a shadow upon her flushed cheek; her
+crimson lips compressed; her rounded chin supported upon the graceful
+hand; the purple velvet drapery falling away from the beautiful arm and
+bosom, and sweeping in massive folds around her perfect form.
+
+He watched her only for a moment, and then, rising silently, stood
+before her.
+
+She started and looked up, hissing—
+
+“Deville!”
+
+“Yes, madam—Deville, as you are undoubtedly Lionne!” he answered,
+folding his arms and fixing his eyes upon her, while he added: “At last
+I see you—bodily, visibly, tangibly—before me! No optical delusion! no
+apparition, called up from the dead by a troubled mind! no spectre,
+created by excited nerves!—but Lionne, as I am Deville!”
+
+“What do you want?” she inquired, in the slow and solemn tones of one
+questioning a ghost, and returning his fixed gaze until his own eyes
+fell as scathed by her look.
+
+“What do I want, you ask?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Woman! tigress! fiend! how long is this pursuit of me and mine to
+last?” he asked, in an excited voice, once more raising his eyes to meet
+her burning gaze.
+
+She arose, put back her chair, struck one hand upon her chest, and in
+the low, deep, stern tones of intense passion and ruthless
+determination, she answered—
+
+“So long as this fierce sense of wrong burns in my bosom, firing every
+thought to vengeance!—until the hunted is driven to self-destruction, or
+the huntress expires in the pursuit!”
+
+“Cruel and vindictive woman! what good will all that bring you?”
+exclaimed Deville, bitterly.
+
+“_What good?_” she repeated, with a horrible laugh. “That is a question
+for a sage, not for a man of the world! What good does _any_ object of
+pursuit bring to the pursuer? What good does _gold_ bring to the
+avaricious: _power_ to the ambitious, _possession_ to the covetous,
+glory to the aspiring? Such good will vengeance bring me!”
+
+“Demon!” ejaculated Orville Deville.
+
+“‘Angel!’ _I used to be!_” sneered Lionne. Then, leaving her scornful
+tone, she bitterly exclaimed—
+
+“Ay, angel and demon scarcely exaggerate, scarcely express, what I _was_
+and what I _am_! All human creatures live for an object—the avaricious
+for gold, the ambitious for power, the aspiring for glory! _I_ once
+lived to love and serve and bless. I now live to hate, blast, and curse!
+Can any two purposes more strongly illustrate the angel and the demon
+life? And who has made the change?—let him who made it take the
+consequences! A simple, pure-hearted, loving girl of fifteen, I fell
+into your manly hands. You might have made an angel or a demon of me.
+You chose to make the demon! receive the work of your own hands!”
+
+For a few seconds he quailed, as the guilty must always quail, before
+the terrible truth of this accusation; then, gathering an evil courage,
+he answered, sternly—
+
+“Woman! you forget that the very fact of your standing before me in
+bodily form places you in my power!”
+
+“Ha!” she said, in atone of caustic irony; “in what manner, I _pray_
+you, sir?”
+
+“As a felon!”
+
+“FELON?” she repeated, in a low, deep, hissing tone, gathering her dark
+brows until the eyes beneath them flashed like lightning from a
+thunder-cloud—“FELON?”
+
+“Ay, felon! kidnapper! abductor!”
+
+She laughed again her awful laugh.
+
+“_Where is my child?_” asked Deville, in a stern tone.
+
+“_Where is_ MINE?” she repeated, in a terrible voice.
+
+“I will have no prevarication!—Woman, thief, child-stealer, where is my
+daughter?”
+
+“_Which of them?_” asked Lionne, with horrible irony.
+
+“I tell you I will not bear prevarication! I speak of the only one I
+recognize! and I ask you again—Where is my child?”
+
+“The only child of _yours_ of which _I_ can testify competently, found a
+grave—in the stomach of a wild beast, years ago!” she said, with the
+same awful irony.
+
+“I know nothing about what you are talking of,” said Orville Deville,
+growing deadly pale; “but I ask you—Where is my child?”
+
+“Search and see if you can find her!”
+
+“Imp of Hades, you shall not escape me thus! I will denounce and
+prosecute you as the murderer of my child! You shall exchange the
+theatre for a court-room, the boudoir for a prison-cell, the stage for
+the scaf——”
+
+“Stay! your proof?” said Lionne, in a low, sneering tone.
+
+That somehow calmed his excitement.
+
+“Proof? proof? I have grounds enough to justify your arrest. The proof
+will afterwards be sought,” replied Mr. Deville.
+
+“Go on, then. The charge can but inconvenience me for an hour or two!
+Meanwhile _I shall lay before the burghers the original papers of which
+you have the copies_!”
+
+“Perdition!” exclaimed Deville, in a low voice. “This woman has me
+irretrievably in her toils!”
+
+“_She has!_” muttered Lionne, in a deep, stern tone.
+
+“I will bear this no longer!” exclaimed Deville, starting up and rushing
+from the room—“I will bear this no longer! Time—a very little time shall
+show which of us two shall triumph!”
+
+“Come back—I have somewhat more to say to you!” pealed the deep,
+bell-like tones of Lionne, as Deville left the room.
+
+He strode back, and with folded arms stood before her.
+
+“What is your will, madam?”
+
+“I would ask you a question.”
+
+“Go on!”
+
+“Who was that young girl whom I saw at your side?”
+
+“Suppose I refuse to answer?”
+
+“It can make but little difference in my settled purpose.”
+
+“What have _you_ to do with my adopted daughter?”
+
+“Oh! your _adopted daughter_, is she? It is well; my question is
+answered,” said Lionne, with cool contempt.
+
+“Since you have led me to betray myself, witch, I repeat my
+question—What have _you_ to do with Perdita Deville?”
+
+“Perdita Deville is her name, then! That will do. I want nothing more.”
+
+“I ask you, fiend, what would you have with Miss Deville?”
+
+“I would have nothing more with you or her. _Good-night_,” said Lionne,
+coolly.
+
+“Demon! what hellish scheme are you meditating now?” exclaimed Deville.
+
+“I do not take _you_ into my counsel, whatever my purpose may be.
+_Good-night._”
+
+“Devil! listen, then, to _this_—whatever your schemes may be—_dare_ to
+harm a hair of Perdita’s head, and——”
+
+“Do you not understand, sir, that you are dismissed? _Good-night._”
+
+With a fierce stamp of impatience, Deville turned and rushed from the
+room. Hurrying along the same passage through which he had entered, he
+soon reached the outer door and the street. His carriage had been taken
+away by Colonel Bingham at the time the latter carried Perdita home, and
+so he had no other course to pursue than to walk rapidly home.
+
+On reaching his hotel, he hurried up into his private apartment, where
+he found Lady Adelaide still up and awaiting him. She was wrapped in her
+graceful blue cashmere dressing-gown, and her lovely hair was partly
+shaded by a delicate white lace cap. Her sweet, fair face wore such a
+heavenly expression of resignation and trust, modifying its keen
+anxiety, that Deville could not but think that compared with the
+illustrious, but most wretched woman he had just left, this quiet
+Christian wife and mother looked a very angel of light.
+
+“Two o’clock, and you still up?” said Deville, glancing at the
+time-piece on the mantel-shelf. “I’m sorry that you waited for me,
+Adelaide. You should not have allowed my absence to have kept you from
+rest.”
+
+“_Anxiety_ kept me from rest, Mr. Deville.”
+
+“Anxiety, love? Surely not on my unworthy account?”
+
+“It was upon Perdita’s. I dreaded the effect this evening’s amusement
+would have upon her excitable temperament.”
+
+“But my lovely Puritan, Perdita must have been at home for two hours!”
+
+“Yes, and her appearance only served to indorse and augment my anxiety.”
+
+“Why, fairest saint, what _can_ you mean?”
+
+“Why, that the evil effect I dreaded has been _more_ than realized!—The
+girl has been attracted—fascinated—fairly enchanted by Mrs. Norl!”
+
+“Why, so has every one else been!”
+
+“But not to the same extent! Perdita declares that she must know this
+woman, and cannot live without her! _Is_ she not conquered? _Is_ she not
+crazed?”
+
+Instead of answering immediately, Mr. Deville fell into deep thought.
+
+“But—what make you of all this?” inquired Lady Adelaide, anxiously.
+
+“Before answering your question I would ask you—do you know who this
+Mrs. Norl _is_?” inquired Mr. Deville.
+
+“Not only that she is——said to be a dangerous syren—
+
+                   ‘One of those women _women_ dread,
+                       _Men_ fatally adore!’”
+
+“You are right!” said Orville Deville, in a deep, stern, sorrowful
+voice—“You are right! She is all and more than all you have said!—In one
+word, she is——
+
+“LIONNE!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide, interrupting him with a dreadful
+start.
+
+“Yes!—but how, love, could you have guessed this?” inquired Deville,
+with surprise.
+
+“Oh, the prophetic boding of my heart!” cried Lady Adelaide, clasping
+her hands.
+
+“Dear love! do not let the fact of this wretched woman being near us,
+trouble you so much!”
+
+“Oh, Mr. Deville! Mr. Deville! her proximity always troubles me! even
+before she makes her appearance I feel her influence in the very air! So
+I have felt her all this evening, scarce knowing what spiritual evil it
+was that agitated me!”
+
+“You are very sensitive!” said Mr. Deville.
+
+Lady Adelaide arose and walked several times up and down the floor, then
+returning, sat down, and forcing herself to speak calmly, said:
+
+“Mr. Deville, tell me all!”
+
+“Can you bear the subject?”
+
+“Yes.”
+
+“Question me then, dear; I prefer that you should.”
+
+“She recognized you?”
+
+“In an instant! I am sure she knew me the moment she came upon the stage
+and chanced to raise her eyes to our box—though by no look or sign did
+she betray her recognition?”
+
+“She ever possessed the greatest self-command?”
+
+“Yes! and upon this occasion so complete was her impassibility as to
+raise a doubt in my breast as to whether I were not a dupe of my own
+imagination! The shock, and then the doubt, so troubled me, that _I_
+could not entirely control my agitation, and therefore pleaded a
+business engagement, and left the theatre. At the close of the
+performance, I returned and sought ‘Mrs. Norl’s’ withdrawing room, where
+I waited until she came in.”
+
+“Oh, no! no! do not say you came again in conflict with that terrible
+woman!” exclaimed Lady Adelaide.
+
+“Yes! I wished to ascertain for my own satisfaction whether the fancied
+identity were _real_—in a word, whether Lionne, reported dead, and
+buried long ago, and seeming to return to earth always to blast, destroy
+and curse—really lived, and moved and had her being in the form of this
+mysterious Mrs. Norl——”
+
+“And you met _her_—Lionne—face to face!”
+
+“I met her face to face! We had a stormy interview of which the purport
+better be left to your imagination. One thing should be told you! At the
+conclusion of our wrathful conference, when I was about to retire, she
+called me back, and, in the most peremptory manner, demanded information
+concerning ‘the young girl’ who was with me in the box.”
+
+“Perdita?” asked Lady Adelaide, in a faint voice.
+
+“Of course, Perdita.”
+
+“Oh, merciful Lord! I understand it all! all now!” faltered the gentle
+lady, growing very pale.
+
+“Understand—_what_ do you understand, Adelaide?”
+
+“Oh, Orville, Orville! suspicions that have haunted my breast for years
+are confirmed now!” she exclaimed, clasping her slender white fingers
+convulsively together.
+
+“Adelaide, I do not comprehend you!” he answered in perplexity.
+
+“Oh, Orville! Orville! the voice of nature is as strong as it is
+profound! the ties of consanguinity are as keenly perceptible as they
+are eternal!”
+
+“My love, you speak in enigmas!”
+
+“Oh, Mr. Deville! do you not love Perdita with—a _father’s_ love?”
+
+“Why, of course,—how can you doubt it?”
+
+“I do _not_ doubt it! And does not Perdita love you with a _daughter’s_
+fervent affection?”
+
+“Unquestionably!”
+
+“And yet she does not love _me_ so!”
+
+“Little ingrate! I know she does not!”
+
+“No! she is _natural_, and not ungrateful; she bestows on _me_ only
+friendship and respect, while she lavishes upon you a most fervent
+love!”
+
+“Ah! you are too saintly to be jealous, my Adelaide. But to what does
+all your talk tend? Your manner is full of mystery.”
+
+“I did not mean it should be so! I meant to elucidate a mystery!”
+
+“Go on, love!”
+
+“You acknowledge that while Perdita is only moderately attached to _me_,
+her heart is powerfully drawn to _you_.”
+
+“Strange perversity! yes.”
+
+“It is natural! I have also to remind you that at the first sight of
+Lionne, the heart of the girl was irresistibly drawn toward——_her
+mother_!”
+
+“WHAT!” almost shrieked Orville Deville.
+
+“Oh! Orville! do you not feel that this _must_ be so!” she said, in a
+faint voice.
+
+“Adelaide, you are mad! simply mad! your singular trials have made you
+so!” he faltered.
+
+“Oh, no, not mad! you know it! all my reasons are too well founded—Oh,
+my husband! have not the circumstances, the coincidences and
+correspondence between all we knew of Perdita’s history, and all we have
+heard of Lionne’s lost child—struck you before?” she asked, earnestly.
+
+Without directly replying to her question, he exclaimed in a voice
+rendered hoarse by excessive agitation—
+
+“Oh, Adelaide! this is terrible! terrible! terrible! What words for you
+to speak and me to hear!”
+
+“Dear Orville, compose yourself! Think that at least, even while
+ignorant of her great claims upon us, we have done our duty to this
+child,” she said, soothingly.
+
+“_Our_ duty! claims upon _us_! What claims, for instance, could my—could
+Lionne’s——”
+
+“Hush—dear—hush—do not finish the sentence! Upon _you_ she had every
+claim that a child could have upon a father! Upon _me_ every one that a
+helpless, forlorn babe could have upon the handmaid of Him who saith,
+‘Whoso’ receiveth one such little one in My name, receiveth me.’”
+
+“My angel! Oh, my angel! Yet I will not call you so! that word is too
+often debased and misapplied to suit you! but, my saint! Oh, my sweet
+saint! you can forgive and you can speak so!” said Orville Deville, in a
+voice trembling with agitation, as the tears started to his eyes.
+
+“_I_ have nothing to forgive! Oh, Orville, if this affecting
+compunction, offered _me_,—your faulty wife, your fellow-sinner,—were
+only offered up to Him against whom only you have sinned!” she fervently
+exclaimed, taking his hand.
+
+“Sweet saint, I only feel how I have wronged _you_. But, Adelaide, about
+Perdita! it seems we are coming to conclusions too quickly! You may
+be—you _must_ be—mistaken!”
+
+“Ah, Orville! does not your heart tell you that I am not?”
+
+“Our hearts are not sure guides,” he said, evasively—then inquired:
+
+“Adelaide, how long have you entertained these suspicions concerning
+Perdita?”
+
+“Ever since she was first cast upon my protection they have been
+growing—fed by continued circumstantial evidence.”
+
+“And this evidence—these coincidences, correspondences,
+resemblances—what are they?”
+
+“Lionne, poor girl, believed that her child was devoured by wild beasts
+in the cavern where she had left it for a short season alone, on the
+fifteenth of August, seventeen hundred and sixty. On the same day of the
+same year, Nimrod Kyte found in a cavern in the wilderness a deserted
+infant, which he brought away and gave into my charge, and whom I
+christened Perdita. I did not know until long afterwards of this
+coincidence.”
+
+“Good heaven! that is very striking! yet I was never told of it! What
+more?”
+
+“At Glen Lennark Castle I saw a portrait of the Lady Leonora Lorne at
+four years of age. It was the perfect image of our Perdita, who was just
+three years old! _That_ increased my suspicions! Lately, as the child
+has grown towards womanhood, I have fancied a growing resemblance to
+that beautiful, unfortunate woman, whom I have only seen a few times in
+my life.”
+
+“Enough! enough! oh heaven, Adelaide! why were not these suspicions
+confided to me!”
+
+“Because, until to-night, they were _only_ suspicions. To-night, they
+were all confirmed by the strong corroboration of Perdita’s own heart!
+ay, and of Lionne’s also, as you reveal it to me! and therefore I do not
+delay to tell you.”
+
+“Adelaide! Good heavens! what—if this be true—what is our course?”
+
+“First investigate the facts for your own satisfaction—then—whatever be
+the cost of suffering to ourselves of others, we must do—what is right!”
+
+“Adelaide! should this child of your love, and care, and prayers for so
+many years, prove to be the daughter of Lionne—would you give her up?”—
+
+“—To share her mother’s fatal career—oh, that would be terrible!”
+exclaimed the lady.
+
+“And yet, in the case put, her mother would have the only legal right to
+her!”
+
+“I know it! therefore was I made so anxious by Perdita’s strong
+attraction to Lionne! oh! none but the Lord can help us in this dark
+strait! I must pray!”
+
+“You must sleep now, dearest! You are tired,” said Mr. Deville, looking
+kindly into her pale and anxious face.
+
+“Nay, Orville, I shall spend the remainder of the night in prayer, that
+the demon band of evil passions that at this very hour besieges that
+wretched woman’s heart, may not be able to prevail! that God’s angels
+may be near her and God’s grace may appear to her,” said Lady Adelaide.
+Then offering her lips for her good-night kiss, she glided from the
+bedchamber into the small, adjoining room, where she usually retired, to
+offer up her prayers to Heaven.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXVI.
+                                 STORMS
+
+                    I cannot name his name!
+                  Vengeance to God alone belongs,
+                  But when I think of all my wrongs
+                    My blood is liquid flame!—_Scott._
+
+
+“Mother! sweet mother, mine! a boon! a boon!” said Perdita, playfully
+and coaxingly, hanging around Lady Adelaide’s neck, as they sat together
+next morning in their private parlor.
+
+“Well, my dear, what is it?” inquired the latter, anxiously.
+
+“Mrs. Norl plays again to-night, and I want you to let me go and see
+her.”
+
+“Again, to the theatre, to-night, my dear! That is too often. No, I
+cannot consent.”
+
+“But, oh, mamma, you do not know how I long—how greatly I long to see
+her again!” pleaded Perdita, clasping her hands and fixing her eyes
+prayerfully on the lady’s face.
+
+“Perdita, my dear, just consider that this is unreasonable!”
+
+“Is it, mamma? I cannot help it! for if I am not permitted to go and see
+her, I do think my heart will go right out of my bosom after her! for I
+feel her drawing it all the while! and what should I do without my
+heart?”
+
+“Perdita, you talk like a silly lover.”
+
+“Well, mamma, I do believe that I am in love with that beautiful
+goddess.”
+
+“Perdita, I cannot permit you to go again to-night! so let us hear no
+more of it.”
+
+The brow of that young girl, usually so bright and frank, now grew dark
+and sullen. She took up her embroidery frame, sat down, turned her back
+towards Lady Adelaide and worked on in silence, until she saw Mr.
+Deville come up the stairs and enter the little room at the end of the
+hall, occupied by him as a study. Then she arose, followed him into the
+room, shut the door, and with the privileged familiarity of a dear
+child, sat down upon his knees, threw her arms around his neck, drew
+down his whiskered face to hers and kissed him.
+
+“What does my little daughter want, now?” asked Orville Deville, gazing
+down into her beautiful, dark, bright face, and wondering with concealed
+but painful interest whether this beloved and most bewitching creature
+were indeed, as Lady Adelaide supposed, _his_ child, the child of
+Lionne.
+
+“What does my little daughter want, now, that she coaxes me so
+sweetly,—a new necklace?”
+
+“No, father.”
+
+“A new gown? a hat? a spencer? Come, name your wish!”
+
+“It is none of these things, father.”
+
+“What is it, then? Come! speak! you will not find me hard!”
+
+“It is to go this evening again and see Mrs. Norl!”
+
+“My dear, no! your mother does not approve of your doing so!”
+
+“Neither did she yesterday, but you took me, nevertheless,” said
+Perdita, changing countenance.
+
+“My dear, yes, I took you, somewhat against her approbation, a
+circumstance which I see cause, now, to regret!”
+
+“Father! father! do not say so! Yesterday, by speaking to mamma, you
+gained her consent, and you can do the same to-day.”
+
+“No! I only silenced her opposition; and I _could_ not do the same
+to-day! Perdita! your persistence is, under the circumstances, improper,
+indelicate, even ungrateful!”
+
+“Why, dear father?”
+
+“Because of Lady Adelaide’s known disapprobation!”
+
+“But, father, I do so long with all my heart and soul to see that
+wondrous woman again!” exclaimed the young girl, clasping her hands and
+straining her eyes in the earnestness of her appeal.
+
+“The greater reason for your not being permitted to do so! This woman
+has turned your head! Enough, Perdita! say no more! I regret that I ever
+took you thither! I shall take you no more!” said Mr. Deville, in that
+tone of firm determination from which his daughter knew there was no
+appeal.
+
+With an angry flush upon her dark and sullen brow, she arose and
+silently withdrew.
+
+All the remainder of that day, Perdita remained in her own room,
+appearing only at meal times.
+
+“That girl is certainly bewitched,” said Donald Lorne to himself; “she,
+usually so bright and frank, now grown go dark and reserved! I cannot
+understand it at all!”
+
+But Lady Adelaide and Mr. Deville understood it well, and deeply
+regretted having thrown their very impressible charge in the way of that
+fateful woman.
+
+The next day Mr. Deville found still more cause to regret that
+unfortunate step.
+
+As he sat in his little study engaged in penning a letter to his
+overseer at River-view, a servant entered and handed him a note and
+retired. He opened it in haste and read:
+
+“Mrs. Norl wishes to see Mr. Deville at her apartment, in the theatre
+building, this forenoon.”
+
+“Shall I go—or not?” was his thought, as he held the note suspended in
+his hand. “I will go,” was his conclusion, as he arose, threw on his
+cloak, took down his hat, and sallied forth into the street. A rapid
+walk of ten minutes brought him to the theatre. He entered by the
+private or stage door, and asked of the young man in attendance, to be
+shown to Mrs. Norl’s room. With a bow, that official walked before him,
+and opening the door of an apartment beneath the stage, announced:
+
+“Mr. Deville,” and retired.
+
+Orville Deville entered the room.
+
+Lionne was seated in the easy chair beside the centre-table. She was
+dressed in a crimson cashmere walking-habit, a mantle of sables, and
+wore upon her head a crimson velvet hat, with black ostrich plumes. Her
+dark, bright face was flushed with excitement, as, without rising, she
+motioned to her visitor to take a seat.
+
+“You have honored me with a summons to your presence, madam, and I am
+here,” said Mr. Deville.
+
+Lionne bowed, and vouchsafed no further answer.
+
+“Will you condescend to inform me to what circumstance I am indebted for
+this distinction, and also in what manner I can serve you?” inquired Mr.
+Deville, coolly.
+
+“You shall know anon,” deliberately replied the lady.
+
+“Will you permit me to inquire why, since this interview was imperative,
+why I was not summoned to your apartments, which nearly join my own, at
+the City Hotel?” demanded Deville.
+
+“I never receive gentlemen in my private apartments,” replied Lionne.
+
+“Let me at least know the business upon which you have summoned me.”
+
+“Assuredly!——The young girl who was with you at the theatre on Monday
+night, why was she not brought on last night?”
+
+“Because I did not think proper to indulge her.”
+
+“And _not_ because she did not desire to come! I am answered.”
+
+“Yes; though I do not recognize your right to ask.”
+
+“No matter. I have the means of compelling you to recognize any right
+which I may claim. And to-day I intend to put that means in force.”
+
+“Explain yourself, madam!”
+
+“I will. To-night I play Queen Katharine in Henry VIII. I wish to have
+that young girl present at the performance.”
+
+“Arrogant woman! your ‘_wish_’ shall not be gratified. She shall _not_
+be again exposed to your syren arts!” exclaimed Deville, firmly.
+
+“Remember that I have the means of enforcing my will!” sneered Lionne.
+
+“Remorseless fiend, you have not! I tell you now, do your very worst!
+You have come to the end of your power over me. No more ‘black mail’ in
+any shape or form can be raised from me upon the sins of my youth,”
+exclaimed Deville, indignantly.
+
+“Ha? is it so? Do you, then, no longer recognize, or no longer regard
+this document?” sneered Lionne, laying before him a copy of that fatal
+marriage-certificate.
+
+“Yes, madam; I recognize and I regard it. But I no longer fear—I defy it
+and you!”
+
+“Madman! to-morrow this document, exposed, must consign you to a
+prison!” exclaimed Lionne.
+
+“Let it do so. The fate cannot be more dishonoring than the slavery to
+which its existence has condemned me for the last ten years! Lionne! I
+tell you, once for all, I am resolved to break the spell that binds me,
+and to dare the worst! Go! proclaim to the world my sins and your
+wrongs!”
+
+“Orville Deville! a disposition to relent and to forgive—a disposition a
+stranger to my heart for years—comes over me!” said Lionne, in a changed
+and melting tone. “Orville Deville, my heart yearns for that child whom
+I saw seated at your side in the box on Monday night! Orville Deville,
+give her to me! My soul cries for her. She is only your adopted
+daughter—not dear to you, not necessary to you. Give her to me, and we
+are quits for life!”
+
+“Lionne, your demand is madness, and cannot be gratified,” said Deville,
+firmly.
+
+“Orville, give me that girl that my soul craves as its salvation, and I
+will give back into your hands these fatal documents, by the possession
+of which I hold your position, honor, and liberty at my disposal!”
+
+“No, Lionne, no! I were baser than the basest could I sell for such a
+price a child so dear to Lady Adelaide!” said Deville, sadly, but
+firmly.
+
+“Yet she is not the child of Lady Adelaide! And _my_ heart yearns
+towards her with a passion potent enough to overcome all other feelings
+in my bosom! Orville Deville, I adjure you to tell me—_who and what is
+that child_?” exclaimed Lionne, rising and clasping her hands, and
+straining her eyes upon him in the earnestness of her entreaty.
+
+“Madam, you must permit me, for the present, to decline answering your
+question!”
+
+“Orville Deville! if I free you from all the earthly consequences of
+your crime—if I give into your hands the only existing proof of that
+crime—will you give me that child?” prayed Lionne, with clasped hands.
+
+“No, madam, I will not!” replied Deville, folding his arms.
+
+“If, in addition to that, I consent to go far away from your sphere, and
+molest you no more forever, will you then give me the desired of my eyes
+and heart?”
+
+“No, madam; I will not!”
+
+“If, in addition to all the rest, I sign a paper, ceding to you the
+lands and lordships of Glen Lennark, then will you give me this child?”
+
+“No, Lionne, no!” said he determinedly.
+
+“In truth, it seems to me like madness, the desire I have to possess
+that girl. Deville! hitherto I have rather chosen to _hold_ than to
+_use_ the power I possess over you! By it I have chosen rather to
+_control_ than to destroy you.”
+
+“To _torment_ me, rather. But, Lionne, your power of threatening and
+tormenting is at an end this day, when I resolve to dare the worst!”
+
+“Or shall be at an end to-morrow, when, unless that girl shall be given
+up to me, I shall strike my last blow and—destroy you!”
+
+“Do so, then, madam! Give me the _coup de grace_, it will be a mercy!”
+
+“You are mad to refuse an offer that I am as mad, perhaps, to make you!
+But if between this and to-morrow morning, you should have a lucid
+interval, send me word that you accept my offer; else prepare for prison
+and a disgraceful exposure.”
+
+
+
+
+                            CHAPTER XXXVII.
+                              THE CRISIS.
+
+         Destruction—swift destruction
+         Fall on my recreant head, and be my fate
+         The terror of all hearts when I forgive him!—_Otway._
+
+
+“Adelaide! the time has come when all concealments, from whatever cause,
+between us, must be at an end,” said Orville Deville, as with a pale and
+resolute brow, he stood before his wife in her dressing-room.
+
+With eyes full of sympathy, that Christian wife took his hand, and drew
+him towards a chair near her sofa.
+
+“Where is Donald and Perdita?” inquired Mr. Deville.
+
+“With their language-master in the parlor, at their studies. They are
+safe for some hours.”
+
+“It is well; for I would not be interrupted.” He paused, passed his hand
+across his brow, and seemed perplexed.
+
+“Dear Orville, speak freely to me—you know that there is very little
+which I do not already know.”
+
+“You know nothing! since I have told you nothing! You only conjecture,
+though we have conversed upon that conjecture as though it had been
+mutually recognized truth. That is past. Now all must be open and clear
+between us.”
+
+Adelaide looked up at him with eyes full of anxious inquiry.
+
+“Hear me, then, Adelaide! Lionne, when, years ago, she broke in upon
+your happiness, told you nothing but the truth! truth until now
+unacknowledged by me! Yes, Adelaide, I married her!—forgetful or
+ignorant of the nature of that indissoluble bond that from our childhood
+united me to yourself, and yielding to a violent, though false and
+transient excitement of the senses, I dared to unite my fate with that
+beautiful young lionness of the forest—afterwards discovered to be our
+cousin, the daughter and heiress of the banished Earl of Glen Lennark,
+the Lady Leonora Lorne.”
+
+Adelaide dropped her eyes, compressed her lips, and tightly clasped her
+hands, as if to constrain and repress the emotion that was swelling at
+her heart. Mr. Deville continued—
+
+“I was called from the side of my fatal bride to the sick-bed of my
+mother, where, alas! I soon learned that my mad passion was as
+evanescent as it had been violent, and that my hasty marriage was a
+crime and a felony, exposing my liberty and honor to degradation and
+ruin! I found you, whom, years ago, I had left a child, now grown up
+into a lovely and loving woman, bearing my name, everywhere recognized
+as my wife. I soon came to love you, not with the blind idolatry of
+passion, but with all the holiest devotion of my soul. I sought to
+forget the fatal episode of the forest, and to confirm my true marriage
+with you! As we were preparing for our bridal tour, Lionne came, and you
+know the rest!”
+
+Adelaide dropped her head upon her bosom, and wrung her pale hands
+together, as though silently wrestling with the strong agitation that
+was shaking her whole frame.
+
+Mr. Deville continued—
+
+“The rage, grief and despair of Lionne was at first natural,
+justifiable! but her long-continued, persistent, ruthless malignity
+against me and all connected with me, is madness!”
+
+“Let us be just! she had enough to drive her mad,” sighed Lady Adelaide.
+
+“And now,” continued Mr. Deville, “affairs approach a crisis! The
+certificate of my—yes! I will speak the fatal word—_felonious_ marriage
+with herself is in her possession, a terrible weapon for my destruction!
+_She will use it!_”
+
+Lady Adelaide shuddered as with an ague fit, and covered her face with
+her hands.
+
+“_She will use it_ unless I obey the order she gives me, however
+unreasonable, improper, or even criminal that order may be.”
+
+“Oh, Orville!”
+
+“At her command I gave up, without possible explanation, the earldom of
+Glen Lennark.”
+
+“It was her right and not ours, dear husband.”
+
+“At her command I stepped down from the seat of distinction upon which
+the suffrages of my friends had placed me.”
+
+Lady Adelaide clasped and unclasped her hands in troubled thought.
+
+“And finally, when her commands become impossible to fulfil, or when she
+cares no longer to make them, she will still, with the relentless,
+ruthless malignity of her nature, use her power to crush me.”
+
+Again Lady Adelaide shook as with an ague-fit, while she covered her
+pale face with her hands.
+
+“I own, Adelaide, that in my early youth the dread of the possible
+exposure, disgrace and ruin attending a criminal trial deterred me from
+meeting the crisis that _must_ come sooner or later. _Longer_, it were
+unmanly to shrink. Something must be done.” As he said this he looked
+inquiringly at the pale and quivering face of his wife, as though he
+would have discovered therein whether she had courage to meet that
+terrible ordeal at which he hinted. She understood his unspoken doubts,
+and controlling her awn agitation, she raised her face, pale and still,
+to that of her husband, and answered:
+
+“Let us try to reflect what is right to be done, and do it—braving the
+consequences.”
+
+“My noble wife! It is what I myself judged best. The present demand of
+this most unhappy woman is, that we give up to her our adopted daughter,
+Perdita. Were I mad enough to obey this insane command, how can I be
+sure that her next command would not be that I should give up you? And
+where would her despotism stop? I will dare and meet the trial! The
+essence of all crime is in the intention. I had no intention to commit a
+crime. The jury will understand that. Yes, once for all, I will dare the
+certificate!” said Mr. Deville, rising and pressing a kiss upon the brow
+of his wife, before leaving the room.
+
+“And I,” murmured Lady Adelaide, “I will get the certificate from her;
+for I know how to appeal to that better spirit that, however confined,
+still lives in every human heart.”
+
+“_And I call on earth and hades to crush me with a swift destruction the
+day, the hour that I relent!_” muttered, in low, deep thunder, a
+terrible voice at her side.
+
+Adelaide started and looked up to see Lionne, the relentless, the
+terrible, the ubiquitous, standing before her.
+
+Yes, the rivals were again face to face. What a picture they made! What
+a contrast they formed!
+
+Lady Adelaide, with her fair face softly shaded by her pale, golden
+tresses, and by the fine, semi-transparent lace of a delicate
+breakfast-cap, and her fragile form wrapped in a soft, snow-white,
+cashmere negligé, reclining on her easy chair, and—
+
+Lionne, with her unconfined, long, glittering, black ringlets rolling
+fiercely back from her dark, bright, resplendent countenance,—her tall,
+finely-curved figure arrayed in a close-fitting black habit, and drawn
+up to its proudest height.
+
+They gazed at each other—the soft, blue eyes deprecatingly; the fierce,
+black ones defiantly.
+
+Lionne muttered the repetition of her cruel word:
+
+“And I call on earth and hades to crush me with a swift destruction the
+day, the hour that I relent!”
+
+“An awful adjuration of the evil powers, madam! I meet it with an appeal
+to the better and higher—ay, to the Best and Highest—God! and I call on
+Heaven to turn aside from you the curse you have invoked upon yourself;
+to endow you with the grace of mercy, and to bless you—_forgiving_
+others, _forgiven_ yourself!” said Lady Adelaide, in a soft and
+prayerful tone.
+
+Lionne smiled in bitter scorn.
+
+“Will you sit down, madam?” said Lady Adelaide, putting out her hand,
+and drawing another chair nearer to her own.
+
+Lionne silently threw herself into the offered seat.
+
+“And now will you tell me in what manner I can be of service to you?”
+inquired Lady Adelaide, deprecatingly, for she felt herself, indeed, as
+it were, a lamb in the power of a lioness.
+
+The haughty visitor hesitated, paused in deep thought for a moment,
+while Lady Adelaide added:
+
+“If I can be of use to you, in any way, believe me, I shall be glad.”
+
+An ironical smile flitted over the face of Lionne, and in a sarcastic
+voice, she answered:
+
+“Very well! I _will_ inform you how you can be of use to me, since to
+‘_serve_’ me will make you glad.”
+
+
+
+
+                            CHAPTER XXXVIII.
+                       THE LIONESS AND THE LAMB.
+
+               Ah, he who turns the courses
+                 Of the streamlet in the glen,
+               And the river of great waters,
+                 Can turn the hearts of men.—_Whittier._
+
+
+Again, in that small chamber, in the persons of those two women, the
+powers of good and evil, of love and hate, met!
+
+In Adelaide, all bright wisdom, all warm affection, all good purpose
+shone.
+
+In Lionne, alas! dark, monomaniac, fierce passion, vindictive resolution
+burned.
+
+On the brow of the first beamed the mild radiance of a pitying seraph.
+
+On the front of the second lowered the “glory obscured” of a fallen
+angel.
+
+With her blue eyes fixed appealingly upon the face of her fierce
+antagonist, Adelaide waited a few moments, and then said, gently:
+
+“Pray, tell me, freely and kindly, what you would have of me.”
+
+“Lady” began Lionne, in a tone in which irony struggled with a certain
+irresistible honor she was beginning to feel for the gentle woman into
+whose presence she had intruded—“Lady, you will credit me when I tell
+you that I came not into your presence _unannounced_, however unwelcome!
+The servant who opened the door for me breathed my name, though both you
+and your companion were too much occupied to hear it.”
+
+“And—_you_ overheard our conversation?”
+
+“Certainly not; only _your_ last words. I entered by one door as _he_
+went out by the other.”
+
+“And now you will tell me what I can do for you?”
+
+“Or rather why I came.—Yes. I came hither in fulfilment of a tryst,
+promise, or threat, whichever you may please to call it, made to—Orville
+Deville. There! his name is uttered! it will not choke me again!”
+
+Adelaide shrank from the terrible convulsion that distorted the
+countenance of Lionne in uttering these words. The unhappy woman
+continued:
+
+“He who laid waste my life, leaving it a blasted desert, _he_ brought to
+the theatre three nights ago, a young girl, at the sight of whom my
+heart, so long cold, stony, dead in my bosom, warmed to life again—I
+seemed to live again the sweet, humane life, so long lost!—to breathe
+the pure air, to bask in the bright sunshine, to inhale the fragrance of
+the old forest, to feel my relations with nature, to taste all the
+sweetness of my long-lost innocent life!”
+
+The stern voice of the speaker faltered, the dark splendor of her eyes
+were quenched in tears.
+
+“Most strange!” murmured Adelaide, as sympathetic moisture dimmed her
+mild, blue eyes.
+
+“Ay, strange! inexplicable! Unparalleled, I think. I knew not how it
+should be so. I only know ‘there are more things in heaven and earth
+than are dreamed of in our philosophy.’”
+
+She might well say that; for already the pure sphere of Adelaide, with
+her attendant angels, was influencing her. She continued:
+
+“With the withdrawal of this young girl, life, and light, and warmth
+went out from me. Again I felt myself the disconnected, troubled spirit
+that I had been for years; without human love, or joy, or sympathy. From
+warmth and light, and life, cast out into the ‘outer darkness!’”
+
+“You speak thus! You, the beautiful, the resplendent star of the east
+and the west. You, the idol of all genius-worshippers! _You_ speak of
+coldness, darkness, and deadness, invested, as you are, with the
+dazzling blaze of this world’s most radiant glory!”
+
+“_It does not enter here_,” answered Lionne, mournfully, pressing her
+hand upon her heart. Then pointing through the window to the full moon
+just risen in the east, she said:
+
+“Look! that satellite is my type! the direct rays of the sun surrounds
+her with a glory that reflected, lights up all our night! Yet that glory
+irradiates without penetrating, without blessing her! Under the mild
+splendor of that light all is scathed, blasted, blackened!—a horrible
+hades! Such, under the glory of fame, am I!”
+
+The deep despair of her words, her tones, and her looks, touched the
+sensitive heart of Adelaide, who arose, went to her, dared to lay her
+hand upon the glittering dark ringlets, the lioness’s mane, and whisper:
+
+“Oh, Lionne, my cousin, for you _are_ such, you fill me with the most
+painful sympathy. Would I could help you to banish from your soul the
+sorrowful memory of wrong and the sinful hope of revenge, for with those
+grievous passions would go all the suffering of your life. Peace would
+come; you would take your proper high position in the world; your
+splendid genius, now worse than wasted, would bless mankind instead of
+blighting yourself. Oh, Lionne! oh, my cousin, save yourself!”
+
+“I cannot! I cannot!” exclaimed the wretched woman, wildly throwing off
+the caressing hand of her better angel—“I cannot! I cannot! this bitter
+memory of wrong; this burning hope of revenge; it is a disease, a
+frenzy! I suffer from an inward anguish, a living death, from which
+there is no relief but in the thought and the pursuit of vengeance!”
+
+Lady Adelaide placed her hands soothingly upon her shoulder, and would
+have addressed some words of comfort and counsel.
+
+“Be still! I will not hear you! You would wile me from my purpose!”
+
+“I would save you from yourself,” pleaded the gentle lady.
+
+“You would save your husband! You cannot! The consummation of my life’s
+purpose is at hand! Tell that man from me that I came here seeking
+_him_, to warn him that, as he has disobeyed my injunction, I have
+accomplished my threat!”
+
+Lady Adelaide turned ghastly pale, dropped her hold upon Lionne, and
+sank half fainting into the chair. Too well she knew what that threat
+had been.
+
+“Tell him,” continued Lionne, vehemently, “that had he shown mercy to
+the last human love that bloomed in my blasted bosom, had he given me
+that strayed child, to whom I felt so strangely attracted, it might have
+been otherwise! Now all is over! all is lost! lost! lost!” and throwing
+her arms wildly into the air, the wretched woman, almost a maniac,
+rushed from the room, before the astounded Lady Adelaide could interfere
+to change her purpose.
+
+
+
+
+                             CHAPTER XXXIX.
+                   THE CURSE OF AN ACCOMPLISHED VOW.
+
+           Now the fell curse which yours have nurst
+           Full on her spoiler’s head shall burst,
+           And all her wrong, and shame, and pain
+           Burn fiercely on his heart and brain.—_Whittier._
+
+
+An hour later, as Orville Deville sat at tea, with his wife and their
+two adopted children, in the private parlor of their apartments, there
+was heard a sound of several footsteps, approaching along the passage
+towards their room, accompanied by whisperings, and followed by a rap at
+their door.
+
+“See who is there, John,” said the master to the servant.
+
+The man opened the door. Several persons were seen without, among whom
+was a deputy sheriff, Mr. Murdock, who advanced into the room, but,
+seeing ladies at the table, retreated a step, saying:
+
+“Mr. Deville, I have business with you, which I would like to
+communicate alone.”
+
+Well could Orville Deville surmise the nature of that business. As he
+arose from the table, a cold paleness overspread his face. Men can
+confront instant death with more courage than they can stand face to
+face with disgrace.
+
+“Well?” he asked in a husky tone, as he met the officer of justice.
+
+“It is a warrant, sir! I beg your pardon, a _very_ disagreeable affair!
+Between ourselves, I think the poor lady is mad, though I should not
+express an opinion,” said the officer, deprecatingly.
+
+“When do we go?”
+
+“Immediately, if you please, sir. The magistrate thought that at this
+hour the examination would not be so likely to attract notice as at an
+earlier one, and that it would be therefore less unpleasant to
+yourself.”
+
+“I am indebted to his consideration!” said Mr. Deville haughtily,
+adding: “Do not alarm the children. Let me speak to my wife, and in a
+moment I will be with you.”
+
+The officer bowed and withdrew into the passage. Mr. Deville went back
+to the table, where he saw Lady Adelaide, pale and still, but resolutely
+controlling her emotions. He attempted no deception; indeed, it would
+have been useless. He said:
+
+“It is as I anticipated, Adelaide. But it is a bailable case. I shall
+send for my friend, Colonel Bingham, and however the examination shall
+terminate I shall be with you again to-night.”
+
+“I shall spend the interval in prayer to Heaven,” murmured the lady.
+Again he pressed her hand, and going to the door opened it, and
+addressing the deputy, said:
+
+“Now, sir, I am ready.”
+
+And the party left the house together.
+
+“Where has he gone, mamma?” inquired Perdita.
+
+“He has accompanied those persons out, on very important business, my
+dear,” returned Lady Adelaide, in that tone of reserve that warned her
+hearers that they were to ask no more questions.
+
+And rising from the table, Lady Adelaide retired to her closet, leaving
+the young people to spend their evening together—the girl at her
+embroidery frame—the boy reading aloud for her amusement.
+
+Meanwhile, Orville Deville, in custody of the sheriff, arrived at the
+house of the magistrate, a highly respectable, exceedingly grave old
+citizen, whose staid propriety, accustomed though he was to criminal
+cases, was shocked beyond measure by this shameful charge brought by the
+most celebrated woman of the day, against one of the most distinguished
+men of the time. From a solemn sense of propriety he had chosen the
+shades of evening to cover the shame of this examination.
+
+He was sitting in his office-chair, behind his office-table, attended by
+his assistants.
+
+Lionne, the accuser, was there, dressed in her usual color—black, and
+closely vailed and seated at his right hand.
+
+Mr. Deville stepped forward, raised his hat, and stood before the
+Justice.
+
+The magistrate acknowledged his presence with a nod, saying:
+
+“I am sorry to see a gentleman of your high position before me, to
+answer such a charge, sir.”
+
+Mr. Deville bowed gravely, took the seat that was offered him, and
+begged that the business might proceed.
+
+I will not weary my reader with this examination. It is enough to say
+that the accuser gave her testimony with a stern exactness and precision
+of detail, that completely baffled all attempts to confuse or to
+cross-question her. The evidence was considered sufficiently strong to
+warrant the magistrate in holding the accused to bail for his appearance
+at the next term of the court.
+
+Colonel Bingham, summoned in haste by a messenger from Mr. Deville,
+hastened to the scene of action, where, astounded by the seeming
+monstrous charge brought against his friend, he at once became his
+surety. The two gentlemen then together left the magistrate’s office. On
+their way to the hotel Mr. Deville gave his shocked companion a candid
+history of that youthful folly which had now resulted in such bitter
+misery.
+
+Compassionating while blaming his friend, Colonel Bingham promised to do
+all in his power to bring the wretched business to a successful issue.
+They parted at the hotel door. Mr. Deville hastened up to his
+apartments, where, in the parlor, he found his adopted son and daughter
+innocently amusing themselves. Passing quickly through the room, he
+entered the inner room, where his Christian wife had passed the time of
+his absence in literally watching and praying. He told her the result of
+the trial.
+
+“It is not yet too late! I will go to that woman! I will speak to her
+again! I made some impression upon her while she was here this
+afternoon! I will try and prevail on her to withdraw the prosecution!”
+said Lady Adelaide, hopefully.
+
+“Too late, dear love!—too late! She cannot withdraw; even she cannot
+pause in the vengeful work she has begun!”
+
+“Ah, heaven! how is that?”
+
+“It is easy to set a city on fire, but very hard to extinguish the
+conflagration. The _documents_ are in the hands of justice. She, also,
+is bound to appear against me.”
+
+“Then our only hope is in the forgiving and protecting mercy of God!”
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XL.
+                              THE AVENGER.
+
+          Still lingers something of the spell
+            That bound her to the traitor’s bosom;
+          Still mid the vengeful fires of hell
+            Some flowers of old affection blossom.—_Whittier._
+
+
+Notwithstanding all the discretion of friends, and the proper caution of
+the magistrate, the scandal of this arrest and examination speedily took
+wing and flew through the astonished city.
+
+Lady Adelaide and daughter kept close in their apartments, and refused
+to receive visitors.
+
+Mr. Deville went out as usual; but it was only to hear such observations
+and such questions as:
+
+“_That is the man!_”
+
+“Which of the two ladies is the true wife?”
+
+Lionne, keeping the terms of her engagement to play two nights in each
+week, continued her wonderful impersonations. And people who had once
+gone solely to see the celebrated tragedienne, now went to look at the
+strange woman who had brought such a startling charge against Mr.
+Deville. But her most enthusiastic admirers could not deny that her
+performance was less brilliant than formerly. Her face never changed
+from its deathly pallor; her voice seldom rose from its sepulchral
+hollowness; only in the most tragic portions of her tragic role did she
+do her own genius justice; and then only because she was—not the actor,
+but the real sufferer.
+
+“She is blasting Deville and killing herself,” was the mental
+observation of Colonel Bingham, who, being among the most ardent of her
+admirers, was every night in his box.
+
+Affairs were in this stage of progress when, one day, as the wretched
+Lionne sat alone in her apartment at the hotel, the door was opened by
+her own attendant, and a card placed in her hand. Languidly she raised
+it to her eyes, and read, lightly written in pencil, the name of—
+
+“_Kate Kyte._”
+
+Kate Kyte! that name should have brought back to her memory visions of
+her youth, of the forest, of the wild freedom of her early life, of love
+and grief, of sin and suffering.
+
+The name, indeed, recalled all these, but yet feebly, and without
+visible demonstration.
+
+“Admit the lady,” said Lionne to her maid.
+
+And the next instant Kate Kyte entered the room. So little changed by
+time was she, that Lionne must have recognized her anywhere at sight.
+There was the same slight, elegant figure, the same thin, but dark,
+bright, warm face, lighted up by the same sparkling black eyes,
+over-arched by the slender, flexible brows, and shaded by the same
+clustering black curls. She was habited in a close, dark-green,
+walking-pelisse, and wore a black beaver hat and plume.
+
+Kate Kyte, in the enthusiasm of her nature, held out both her hands and
+made a spring towards Lionne, but paused suddenly, as that lady, pale,
+cold, and still, stood up to receive her.
+
+“Miss Kyte, I am very glad to see you after all these years,” said
+Lionne, holding out one hand.
+
+“Not _Miss_ Kyte, dear madam, but Mrs. Edwards. I am married, Lionne,
+and on my bridal tour,” replied Kate, cordially, sitting down in the
+chair that Lionne silently placed for her.
+
+The latter raised the card and looked at it again.
+
+“Oh, I wrote ‘Kate Kyte,’ because I thought you would not recognize a
+Mrs. Edwards among your acquaintances,” smiled Kate, in answer to that
+act.
+
+“Well, Mrs. Edwards, I wish you a continuance of your present happiness.
+So you are recently married?” inquired Lionne.
+
+“Yes. I will tell you all about it. We were married, as I said, and then
+my husband, instead of taking me home with him—think of it! placed me at
+a boarding-school to finish my education! A few weeks since he took me
+away, and this is our bridal tour. We got here yesterday, heard of the
+celebrated Mrs. Norl, went to see her last night, and I recognized
+_you_. This morning I come to see you.”
+
+“I thank you; but, Kate, there are other old friends of yours at present
+in this house.”
+
+“Indeed! who are they?”
+
+“Mr. and Lady Adelaide Deville!”
+
+“—And my child! for she must be with them!”
+
+“_Your child!_”
+
+“Yes, my child; or at least my adopted child! my little forest
+foundling!—have they not a beautiful little dark-eyed elf with them?”
+
+“Yes! they have! _who is she?_”
+
+“A foundling of the forest, as I tell you! Oh! such an interesting
+case!”
+
+“_Oh, tell me!_” said Lionne, breathing hard.
+
+“Certainly,” said Kate, settling herself more comfortably in her chair:
+“You see, it was on the fifteenth of August, 1758, that my brothers, in
+returning from a western hunting-trip, reached the banks of the Singing
+Stream——”
+
+“—_The Singing Stream! the fifteenth of August! oh, heaven!_” breathed
+Lionne.
+
+“—It was near nightfall, and they were pacing along between the foot of
+the Indian Spear Ridge and the edge of the Singing Stream, when they
+were attracted by the wail of an infant. The dogs at the same time
+pointed the mouth of a cavern——”
+
+“—_Oh, Lord! My Lord!_”
+
+“What’s the matter?”
+
+“_Oh! go on! go on!_”
+
+“They called off the dogs and entered the cave, where they found a
+young, white infant, no doubt stolen from some poor massacred settler’s
+family, by the Indians. Well, they took the poor, perishing babe in
+their own charge and brought it to me! I washed and fed and dry-nursed
+the little waif, for a day or two, and then gave it to Lady Adelaide
+Deville——”
+
+“Oh, woman! woman! woman! that has caused all the sins and sufferings of
+my life.”
+
+“Why, what do you mean?”
+
+“Had that hapless child a strange mark upon its breast?”
+
+“Yes! a crimson hand! why?”
+
+“A blood-red hand! Look here!” and tearing open the body of her dress,
+she displayed upon the snow of her own bosom a small, clenched and
+bloody hand!
+
+A cry of dismay broke from the lips of Kate.
+
+“It is a hereditary mark!”
+
+“—And the child!” exclaimed Kate, in breathless anxiety.
+
+“Is _my_ child so long and bitterly mourned as dead—the child I left, on
+that very day, in that very cavern whence your brothers stole her!”
+
+“Good heaven!”
+
+“And she, you say, is with Lady Adelaide Deville! Oh, I have seen her!
+seen her but once! yet my heart recognized her! She is mine! I will have
+her! Come quickly! attend me to the chambers of Lady Adelaide Deville!”
+
+And rising impetuously, Lionne hurried from the room.
+
+Amazed, terrified and expectant, Kate followed her excited companion.
+
+They traversed several passages, and at length reached a door which
+Lionne pushed open, bidding her companion follow her in.
+
+They entered and found themselves in an elegantly-appointed private
+parlor, in the presence of Lady Adelaide Deville and her small family.
+
+Lady Adelaide and her daughter were engaged in needle-work. And Donald
+Lorne was employed in reading to them aloud.
+
+“Lionne! Kate! Oh! what a surprise! Oh, Kate! I am so glad to see you!
+Sit down both! Donald, hand chairs!” said Lady Adelaide, rising.
+
+Kate flew past and clasped the hands of her old friend.
+
+Lionne walked straight up to Perdita, and placing her hand upon the
+child’s head, looked wistfully in her dark eyes with an expression that
+seemed to ask—
+
+“‘_Lovest thou me?_’”
+
+“_Oh! I do! I do!_” was the answer of those fond eyes.
+
+“Lady Adelaide Deville, I once claimed this child by instinct! I now
+claim her by ascertained right! She is mine!”
+
+“Alas! Lionne! how know _you_ this?” inquired the distressed lady.
+
+“Here is my witness,” said Lionne, placing her hand upon the shoulder of
+Kate. “And now, Lady Adelaide Deville, I have to ask you one question:
+Did you know or suspect the relationship of this child to me, at the
+time that you refused to give her up?”
+
+“Lionne, I did _not_ know; but I strongly suspected it, and I was
+seeking facts either to dissipate or confirm my suspicions before daring
+to give her to you! But I have much to say to you that should be heard
+by you alone. Kate, my dear, will you do me the favor to withdraw with
+Donald and Perdita to the next room while I talk with my cousin?”
+
+With a forced smile and eyes full of anxiety, Kate, in company of the
+young people, passed into the inner chamber, and Adelaide and Lionne
+were left alone.
+
+“Countess of Glen Lennark, listen to me,” said Lady Adelaide. “In the
+first place let me assure you that however cruelly it may wring my heart
+to part with a child so long considered as my own, and however anxious I
+may be as to that child’s future, I can make no delay or difficulty in
+yielding my claim to your superior right to Perdita. I shall give her to
+you and trust in God for her welfare.”
+
+“Since you have no other alternative,” sarcastically observed Lionne.
+
+“Since I have no other alternative,” meekly admitted Lady Adelaide.
+
+“But listen further, Lionne! You are about to strike a mortal blow to my
+happiness—to me who never willingly harmed you! Hear me!”
+
+“Ah!” exclaimed Lionne.
+
+“No! never! Hear me, Lionne! for years before I ever heard your name—ay,
+from the years of childhood, I was taught to consider myself not only
+the destined but the really-wedded wife of Orville Deville, and to love
+and honor him as my husband. I bore his name, I ruled his house. Yet, in
+the very blossom of my happiness, when you appeared and claimed the
+heart and the hand and the name of him whom I had so long looked upon as
+my husband, when you gave me what I supposed to be proofs of your claim,
+I, who knew myself a maiden, though miscalled a wife; I, who dearly
+loved my destined husband, silently gave up to you all my long-held
+rights to my name, my home, my fortune, and my husband, and one stormy
+winter night went out alone in the cold, bleak world to die!”
+
+“Yet suffered yourself to be pursued, overtaken, and brought back to all
+the bliss you had pretended to leave.”
+
+“I was a minor, in the power of my guardian—a wife, at the disposal of
+my husband—a poor invalid, at the mercy of all! I was thus, against my
+will, brought back to my home! But, Lionne, I never in reality became
+the wife of Orville Deville, until months after I had read in the papers
+the false notice of _your_ death. Nor then did I consent until a
+minister of God enjoined it upon me as a Christian duty, and my dying
+friend, his mother, besought me to do so as the only thing that would,
+in her last hours, give her peace. Then it was that I became, in _fact_,
+what I had long been in name—the wife of Orville Deville!”
+
+“Doubtless, fair saint, you sought every rational, moral, and religious
+argument to reconcile you to that destiny!” sneered Lionne, “but tell me
+of my child! my child!”
+
+“It was but a few months before the death of Lady Elizabeth, and the
+consummation of my marriage with Mr. Deville, and while, indeed, he was
+absent in the south, that that child was consigned to my care by Kate
+Kyte, who told me at the same time the history of its discovery. At that
+time I had no suspicion of the real parentage of the babe. It was at
+Glen Lennark, when Perdita was two years old, that I saw a portrait of
+yourself at that age—the portrait might have been that of Perdita
+herself! Then it was I recollected that upon that dreadful evening when
+you first burst in upon me, you had told me that you expected to become
+a mother. I compared the date of your supposed death with the date of
+the child’s discovery, and then for the first time a suspicion of her
+real birth flashed upon my mind. After development came to support that
+suspicion, which was, however, never fully confirmed until this
+evening!”
+
+“Suspecting that child to be mine, and knowing me for your mortal foe,
+you have yet performed a mother’s faithful and affectionate duty towards
+her?”
+
+“So judge me heaven! yes!”
+
+“_At the time that you lost your own babe, did you suspect this?_”
+
+“Assuredly.”
+
+“And believing as you must have believed, that _I_ had abducted _your_
+infant, you continued to be good to mine?”
+
+“Certainly, Lionne.”
+
+“Although your heart was well-nigh breaking.”
+
+“Why not!—was it poor little Perdita’s fault?”
+
+“Did you believe that I had destroyed your child?”
+
+“No! oh no! Nor looking in your face, can I believe it now! If I could,
+do you think that I could sit here talking with you?—no! it is true we
+found portions of her little clothing washed up by the waves! Insanity,
+accident might have caused her death, but, though I grieved most
+bitterly, I never suspected you of so horrible a crime!”
+
+“Nor need you have done so! I made no war upon infancy!”
+
+“Well, well, the babe is in heaven this many a year! Let us talk of
+something else!” said Lady Adelaide, who shrank from coupling the
+thought of her angel-child with this dark woman of the earth, and who
+was, besides, anxious to influence her hearer upon another subject.
+
+“Go on,” said Lionne.
+
+“It is not to praise my poor, erring self that I have sought to recall
+to your mind the fact that I have ever sought to serve you, and never
+attempted to injure you, or even to avenge my own injuries. And I ask
+you now, Lionne, for the sake of one who never harmed you and always
+sought to benefit you—and for the sake of _her_, the daughter that I
+have saved and reared, and now restore to you—for the sake of both, who
+must, if you are obdurate, suffer with Orville Deville, I beseech you
+withdraw your prosecution! Do not seek to cover him and his with
+unmerited infamy! Lionne! you will hear me!”
+
+“I cannot! I am sworn to avenge! Were it to save my own life, reason, or
+honor, I cannot withdraw from this that I have sworn to perform!”
+exclaimed Lionne, with a wild sternness.
+
+“Countess of Glen Lennark, there is more sin in keeping than in breaking
+an evil vow! It was wrong to make it! it would be wicked to keep it! Oh!
+Lionne! be magnanimous! it were more worthy of your power and position.”
+
+“_Too late! too late!_” spoke the deep, bell-like tones of the actress;
+“for even if I would, I could not! I am bound over by heavy sureties to
+appear at court against this man!”
+
+A dread silence fell between them, which was broken at length by Lady
+Adelaide, murmuring in mournful tones—
+
+“The future life is called the life of retribution—yet in that life God
+pardons the repentant sinner! but here, in this world, where man rules,
+sin is sure, sooner or later, to be punished! Alas! alas! woe to the
+sinner! woe also to the self-constituted avenger!”
+
+“I know it! I accept it!” tolled the deep, bell-like tones—“My fate will
+be that of Samson! I shall be crushed with the ruin that I pull down
+upon the heads of my enemies—I came to claim my daughter. Call her to me
+and I will go!”
+
+“Lionne, you shall have the child to-morrow! Take the word of one who
+never spoke an untruth, and who now gives you her promise.”
+
+“But—why not to-day?”
+
+“Because I cannot properly take so important a step without the
+knowledge and consent of my husband.”
+
+“Should he make difficulties?”
+
+“He will not! He will be just. Reassure yourself!”
+
+“Lady Adelaide, I rely upon your word. Do not dare to disappoint me!”
+
+“Madam, refrain from threats. Remember that, in carrying on this
+prosecution you do your worst. There is nothing remaining in your power
+with which you can further wring my heart,” said Lady Adelaide, with
+gentle dignity.
+
+“_Ah! is there not?_ You know nothing! I have yet a screw in reserve,
+which I should be unwilling to turn upon you, lady; for, believe me, the
+cry that it would force from your bosom would be your death-shriek!”
+said Lionne.
+
+“Terrible woman! who shall deliver me from you!” shuddered Adelaide.
+
+“Yourself, lady. Keep your promise with me, and for _yourself_ you have
+nothing more to fear.” And so saying, Lionne left the room.
+
+For a few moments Lady Adelaide remained with her face buried in her
+hands, in silent thought or prayer. Then remembering Kate, whom she had
+sent with the young people into the next room, she went to the door and
+recalled them.
+
+They entered: Kate looking anxious, Perdita and Donald amazed.
+
+“Do not say a word upon what we have discovered to Perdita as yet; the
+change in her prospects must be made known to her by myself and her
+father in private,” whispered Lady Adelaide to her visitor. Kate nodded
+intelligently. And Lady Adelaide, to avoid entering upon the subject of
+Mrs. Norl’s visit, rang for refreshments, and changed the conversation.
+
+After a slight luncheon, Kate took her leave and withdrew to her own
+apartments, fully determined to await the issue of Mr. Deville’s trial.
+
+That evening, in private, so much of Perdita’s history as was inevitable
+for her to know was communicated to the young girl.
+
+The next morning, she was given up to the guardianship of her mother.
+With floods of tears, Perdita took leave of her adopted parents, and the
+next hour threw herself, with impassioned abandonment, into the arms of
+her mother.
+
+
+
+
+                              CHAPTER XLI.
+                              CONCLUSION.
+
+           You shall see, then, how it all ended—
+           What fortune, good, or bad, attended
+           The gentle lady your hopes befriended.—_Browning._
+
+
+The day of the trial came.
+
+The most eminent talent in the city was retained in the case, and about
+equally divided between the prosecution and the defence.
+
+The counsel of the accused had flattered Mr. Deville and his family with
+the fairest prognostics of a triumphant acquittal. The alleged offence
+was at worst but the act of youthful passion and folly; could not be
+called a felony, since _intention_ constitutes the crime; and there had
+been no intention, or even consciousness, on the part of the accused, of
+committing the felony with which he was charged. Such was the
+“flattering unction” laid upon the aching hearts of the anxious family.
+
+But the day of the trial came. The court-room, as might have been
+expected, was crowded.
+
+Orville Deville was seated with his counsel.
+
+Lionne, dressed in black, sat on the witness’ seat.
+
+Lady Adelaide, fully believing in the triumphant vindication of her
+husband, and naturally shrinking from the investigation that would
+involve so many delicate details, readily complied with Mr. Deville’s
+request that she should absent herself from the trial.
+
+I shall not trouble my reader with the full particulars of this trial.
+Suffice it to say, that when the accused was formally arraigned, with
+something of his natural arrogant disdain, he pleaded “not guilty” to
+the indictment.
+
+The prosecution was carried on with great talent and rigor.
+
+The defence was conducted with zeal and ability.
+
+The judge, in finally charging the jury, was supposed to lean somewhat
+to the side of the prosecution.
+
+The most intense anxiety was visible, not only upon the haggard face of
+the prisoner, but also upon the beautiful features of the principal
+witness against him, whenever a glimpse of those features could be
+caught.
+
+Extreme interest was manifested by the audience during the interval in
+which the jury retired to deliberate, and yet few present looked for
+other than a full acquittal for the accused. The jury were absent about
+an hour; at the end of which they returned to the court-room.
+
+Every person rose silently upon his feet, eagerly bending forward to
+catch the verdict.
+
+Some who looked upon the accused saw that even he, though so confident,
+had, at this supreme moment, grown paler.
+
+Lionne, quite throwing aside her vail and rising upon her feet, bent
+eagerly forward. Of all the faces present, hers expressed the most
+agonizing anxiety!
+
+“Only behold that she-devil how impatiently she hungers for a fatal
+verdict,” said one of the bystanders, pointing to her wild, black eyes.
+
+Meanwhile, the little, low-toned formula was going on between the clerk
+of the court and the foreman of the jury. The short colloquy was
+inaudible through the court room, until one tremendous word from the
+foreman of the jury fell like a thunderbolt upon the accused. That word
+of doom was—
+
+“GUILTY.”
+
+A panic of consternation fell upon the audience.
+
+This was speedily broken by a wild shriek that rang through and through
+the court room, followed by the rushing of feet towards one point and
+the voices of many persons nearest the spot, crying:
+
+“The prosecuting witness has fainted!”
+
+Yes! it was true! Her revenge was consummated! She had hurled her
+destroyer down to destruction, and now, under the strong reaction of
+years of hatred, she herself had fallen!
+
+It was some moments before the fainting woman could be conveyed from the
+room and order restored.
+
+When all was still the judge arose and asked the convicted if he had any
+thing to say why the sentence of the court should not be pronounced
+against him.
+
+“Yes! I have something to say! But first, I shall be obliged to one of
+the officers if he will procure me a glass of water.”
+
+It was speedily procured and handed to the unhappy man. He took it in
+both hands, raised it slowly to his lips—paused—dropped the glass, which
+shivered at his feet—reeled for an instant—threw up his arms, and fell
+forward prone upon the floor, at the foot of the judge’s bench.
+
+Several of the officers sprang to his assistance, raised him up, seated
+him in his chair; but—he was already dead!
+
+When this was ascertained beyond a doubt, the court adjourned, the crowd
+hurried home to spread the news throughout the city, and the corpse was
+conveyed to an adjoining room to be examined before the coroner.
+
+The verdict of the coroner’s jury was—“Suicide by taking prussic acid.”
+
+The desired glass of water had merely been the cover to conceal the
+swallowing of the poison.
+
+After the rising of the inquest the body was conveyed home to be
+prepared for burial. But who can justly describe the consternation,
+grief and despair that seized upon the heart of the young widow when the
+fatal intelligence was brought to her! The dreadful news was broken
+gently by the clergyman of the church to which she belonged. All that
+experience, discretion and kindness could do, was done to soften the
+severity of this terrible affliction; yet, for days after the funeral
+had taken place, the poor young widow lay in a darkened room, without
+sleep, without food, without companionship, unable to bear a ray of
+light, or the sound of a footfall.
+
+She was affectionately attended by Kate Kyte, who confined herself to
+the parlor next that darkened chamber, to watch over her bereaved and
+afflicted friend.
+
+Lady Adelaide was at length aroused from this torpor of despair by a
+note from Lionne. It was but a line, almost illegible from the trembling
+of the writer’s hand. It read:
+
+“_I am dying: for the love of heaven, come to me, there is something I
+have to reveal which you should know._”
+
+The gentle sufferer could not withstand this appeal. Giddy, faint, and
+trembling, she arose from her bed, was dressed, and lifted into a
+carriage, and conveyed to the house where, since the fatal issue of the
+trial, Lionne had withdrawn herself. Leaning on the arm of her footman,
+she entered the house, the door of which was opened by our old
+acquaintance, the dwarf Vulcan.
+
+Following this strange guide, she went to the chamber of Lionne.
+
+What a scene met her view! This chamber was not dark. The full beams of
+the afternoon sun streaming through crimson-draped windows, flooded the
+room with ruddy light. Upon a sumptuous bed, in the centre of the room,
+the beautiful and gifted Lionne lay in the agonies of death. On her
+right hand, clothed in deep mourning, and overwhelmed with grief, knelt
+Perdita, burying her face in the bedclothes. On the other side stood a
+boy, dressed as a page, but sobbing bitterly. He and Perdita at once
+quitted the room.
+
+But upon Lionne alone was the regard of the visitor riveted. There lay
+the beautiful wreck! Her long, purplish black hair, unconfined, streamed
+down each side her pallid face, and lay in disordered splendor upon the
+counterpane. Her jet black eyebrows looked more than ever arched above
+the hollowness of her face. Her large, fierce eyes were closed until the
+long eyelashes lay like an inky fringe upon the dead white cheeks.
+
+Seeing Lady Adelaide enter, she extended her hand, saying:
+
+“This is very kind.”
+
+Forgetting the fatal injuries this woman had done her, forgetting her
+own sufferings at the sight of sufferings so much greater, since they
+were augmented by remorse and tended towards death, Lady Adelaide bent
+over the dying woman, dropping tears upon her wasted hands and sobbing
+in a broken voice—
+
+“Oh, my cousin, what can I do for your relief?”
+
+“_Nothing—nothing_,” tolled the deep, death-bell tones of her voice,
+that seemed now to sound from the depths of a vault; “nothing, for you
+see the ruin that I have brought upon others has crushed me also! I
+lived for this end! it is attained and I die!”
+
+Here her voice sank so low that Lady Adelaide looking around and seeing
+a cordial upon the stand, took and placed it to her lips.
+
+She drank and was revived.
+
+“I have a few words to say to you, and a very few minutes to say them
+in,” faltered the fast-failing woman.
+
+“They concern your daughter.—Be easy on that subject. With your consent
+I shall take her again. Except for her orphan grief, it will be as
+though she had never left me. And more—her final destiny shall be as
+brilliant as though——”
+
+Lady Adelaide paused, and her pale face flushed.
+
+“I know what you would say.—As if her birth had been legitimate,” said
+Lionne.
+
+“As if her mother’s marriage had been as legal as she supposed it to
+be,” said Adelaide, gently.
+
+“You are kind.”
+
+“I mean this: had Perdita been the child of an unquestionable marriage,
+she would inherit your title and estate, for I never forget that you are
+in your own right Countess of Glen Lennark—but as the case stands,
+Donald Lorne will be the next Earl of Glen Lennark. He will marry
+Perdita.”
+
+“How do you know that?”
+
+“I, their adopted mother, have watched the development of their mutual
+love. I shall foster that love. They are suited to each other. They will
+marry. Your daughter will receive back in a happy marriage all that she
+has lost in her hapless birth.”
+
+“Dear saint, I thank you as well as a woman so wretched as myself can
+do,” said Lionne, stretching out her hand to Lady Adelaide; “but it was
+not alone of my child that I thought. Lady Adelaide, you, also, had a
+child——”
+
+“Two; they are with God.”
+
+“All innocents are with God, wherever they may be. But, fair saint, you
+did not see your younger child die—you did not bury her; what proof have
+you that she is not now living?”
+
+“Oh, don’t! Oh, the thought, the thought is too torturing! Dead, she
+would be with God—living, where, oh! where would she be?”
+
+“Still with God, though still on earth. Hear me, Lady Adelaide. Be calm.
+I am dying, you are living; you have more strength than I have. If I can
+bear to tell, you can bear to listen.”
+
+“But, my child! oh, my child! where, then, is she?” cried the lady,
+trembling violently.
+
+“Safe! safe, I tell you! and not far away. Do you think I warred with
+children?”
+
+“Oh! but this is agony. Where, then, is she, where?”
+
+“Prepare yourself! Touch that bell, if you please.”
+
+Lady Adelaide complied, and the summons was answered by the entrance of
+the beautiful little blue-eyed page.
+
+Lionne pointed significantly to the child.
+
+“No! not he. My lost child was a girl! and yet—and yet——” cried Lady
+Adelaide, almost upon the verge of swooning while she gazed upon the
+child, “if I could trust the yearning of my heart——”
+
+“Trust your heart. The child is yours! A page’s dress belies her sex; it
+was put on for concealment. Frank, come hither.”
+
+The child timidly approached.
+
+Lionne took the tiny hand, and, placing it in the cold, fainting fingers
+of Lady Adelaide, said:
+
+“Child, this is the gentle lady whom I promised should be your mother
+when I am no more. Madam, you will explain all when I am gone.”
+
+Adelaide closed her fingers upon the little hand of the page, whom she
+drew towards her. For an instant she gazed with indescribable emotion
+upon the sweet, infantile face, and was about to gather her child to her
+heart, when a wild cry from Perdita, who had just entered the room,
+caused her to turn. She saw Perdita dart to the bedside and raise the
+form of Lionne, and support her head upon her bosom. And in a few more
+seconds Lionne, Countess of Glen Lennark, was dead!
+
+Wild wailing shook the house, for this strange, unhappy woman had been
+greatly loved.
+
+Lady Adelaide conveyed the children from the house of mourning to her
+own apartments, and afterwards took charge of the funeral, which was
+solemnized on the third day thereafter.
+
+And when this was over, her nature, roused to superhuman strength for a
+few days, gave way, and a low, nervous fever prostrated the gentle lady
+for many weeks, but brought to her side also many sympathizing friends
+and comforters.
+
+With the spring came renewed health and peace; and Lady Adelaide,
+accompanied by her young family, and by Kate Kyte and her husband, set
+sail for Scotland. At Glen Lennark the young widow was received with
+acclamation by the tenantry, who, with all others, persisted in calling
+her the Countess Dowager Glen Lennark, a title she could not repudiate
+without exposing secret family history. But the beautiful young widow,
+scarcely thirty years of age, was not destined to wear her days out in
+mourning over the past. In due time her hand was sought by the Duke of
+Donaldben, a gentleman in every way worthy to make her forget the
+sorrows of her youth, and with whom she lived a long life of nearly
+perfect married love and happiness.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
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+   Depths                                                          $1 75
+ Self-Raised; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”             1 75
+ The Mother-in-Law,                                                 1 75
+ The Fatal Secret,                                                  1 75
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+ The Widow’s Son,                                                   1 75
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+ The Fatal Marriage,                                                1 75
+ The Deserted Wife,                                                 1 75
+ The Fortune Seeker,                                                1 75
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+ The Lost Heiress,                                                  1 75
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+ Retribution,                                                       1 75
+ The Christmas Guest,                                               1 75
+ Haunted Homestead,                                                 1 75
+ Wife’s Victory,                                                    1 75
+ Allworth Abbey,                                                    1 75
+ India; Pearl of Pearl River,                                       1 75
+ Curse of Clifton,                                                  1 75
+ Discarded Daughter,                                                1 75
+ The Mystery of Dark Hollow,                                        1 75
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+ Love after Marriage,                                               1 75
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+ The Lost Daughter,                                                 1 75
+ The Banished Son,                                                  1 75
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+   Creole,”                                                         1 75
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+ The Reigning Belle,                                                1 75
+ Palaces and Prisons,                                               1 75
+ Married in Haste,                                                  1 75
+ Wives and Widows,                                                  1 75
+ Ruby Gray’s Strategy,                                              1 75
+ The Soldiers’ Orphans,                                             1 75
+ A Noble Woman,                                                     1 75
+ Silent Struggles,                                                  1 75
+ The Rejected Wife,                                                 1 75
+ The Wife’s Secret,                                                 1 75
+ Mary Derwent,                                                      1 75
+ Fashion and Famine,                                                1 75
+ The Curse of Gold,                                                 1 75
+ Mabel’s Mistake,                                                   1 75
+ The Old Homestead,                                                 1 75
+ Doubly False,                                                      1 75
+ The Heiress,                                                       1 75
+ The Gold Brick,                                                    1 75
+
+ Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+MISS ELIZA A. DUPUY’S WORKS.
+
+_Complete in fourteen large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth,
+gilt back, price $1.75 each; or $24.50 a set, each set is put up in a
+neat box._
+
+ A New Way to Win a Fortune,                                       $1 75
+ The Discarded Wife,                                                1 75
+ The Clandestine Marriage,                                          1 75
+ The Hidden Sin,                                                    1 75
+ The Dethroned Heiress,                                             1 75
+ The Gipsy’s Warning,                                               1 75
+ All For Love,                                                      1 75
+ Why Did He Marry Her?                                              1 75
+ Who Shall be Victor?                                               1 75
+ The Mysterious Guest,                                              1 75
+ Was He Guilty?                                                     1 75
+ The Cancelled Will,                                                1 75
+ The Planter’s Daughter,                                            1 75
+ Michael Rudolph,                                                   1 75
+
+ Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+LIST OF THE BEST COOK BOOKS PUBLISHED.
+
+_Every housekeeper should possess at least one of the following Cook
+Books, as they would save the price of it in a week’s cooking._
+
+ Miss Leslie’s Cook Book, a Complete Manual to Domestic
+   Cookery in all its Branches. Paper cover, $1.00, or bound
+   in cloth,                                                       $1 50
+ The Queen of the Kitchen; or, The Southern Cook Book.          Cloth, 1
+   Containing 1007 Old Southern Family Receipts for Cooking,          75
+ Mrs. Hale’s New Cook Book,                                     Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ Petersons’ New Cook Book,                                      Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ Widdifield’s New Cook Book,                                    Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ Mrs. Goodfellow’s Cookery as it Should Be,                     Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ The National Cook Book.  By a Practical Housewife,             Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ The Young Wife’s Cook Book,                                    Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ Miss Leslie’s New Receipts for Cooking,                        Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ Mrs. Hale’s Receipts for the Million,                          Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ The Family Save-All. By author of “National Cook Book,”        Cloth, 1
+                                                                      75
+ Francatelli’s Modern Cook Book. With the most approved
+   methods of French, English, German, and Italian Cookery.
+   With Sixty-two Illustrations. One vol., 600 pages, bound
+   in morocco cloth,                                                5 00
+
+MRS. C. A. WARFIELD’S WORKS.
+
+_Complete in nine large duodecimo volumes, bound in morocco cloth, gilt
+back, price $1.75 each; or $15.75 a set, each set is put up in a neat
+box._
+
+ The Cardinal’s Daughter,                                          $1 75
+ Ferne Fleming,                                                     1 75
+ The Household of Bouverie,                                         1 75
+ A Double Wedding,                                                  1 75
+ Miriam’s Memoirs,                                                  1 75
+ Monfort Hall,                                                      1 75
+ Sea and Shore,                                                     1 75
+ Hester Howard’s Temptation,                                        1 75
+ Lady Ernestine; or, The Absent Lord of Rocheforte,                 1 75
+
+FREDRIKA BREMER’S DOMESTIC NOVELS.
+
+_Complete in six large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back,
+price $1.75 each; or $10.50 a set, each set is put up in a neat box._
+
+ Father and Daughter,                                              $1 75
+ The Four Sisters,                                                  1 75
+ The Neighbors,                                                     1 75
+ The Home,                                                          1 75
+
+Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+ Life in the Old World. In two volumes, cloth, price,               3 50
+
+Q. K. PHILANDER DOESTICKS’ WORKS.
+
+_Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back,
+price $1.75 each; or $7.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box._
+
+ Doesticks’ Letters,                                               $1 75
+ Piu-Ri-Bus-Tab,                                                    1 75
+ The Elephant Club,                                                 1 75
+ Witches of New York,                                               1 75
+
+Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+JAMES A. MAITLAND’S WORKS.
+
+_Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back,
+price $1.75 each; or $12.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box._
+
+ The Watchman,                                                     $1 75
+ The Wanderer,                                                      1 75
+ The Lawyer’s Story,                                                1 75
+ Diary of an Old Doctor,                                            1 75
+ Sartaroe,                                                          1 75
+ The Three Cousins,                                                 1 75
+ The Old Patroon; or the Great Van Broek Property,                  1 75
+
+Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+T. ADOLPHUS TROLLOPE’S NOVELS.
+
+_Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back,
+price $1.75 each; or $12.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box._
+
+ The Sealed Packet,                                                $1 75
+ Garstang Grange,                                                   1 75
+ Dream Numbers,                                                     1 75
+ Beppo, the Conscript,                                              1 75
+ Leonora Casaloni,                                                  1 75
+ Gemma,                                                             1 75
+ Marietta,                                                          1 75
+
+Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+FRANK FORESTER’S SPORTING SCENES.
+
+  Frank Forester’s Sporting Scenes and Characters. By Henry William
+    Herbert. A New, Revised, and Enlarged Edition, with a Life of the
+    Author, a New Introductory Chapter, Frank Forester’s Portrait and
+    Autograph, with a full length picture of him in his shooting
+    costume, and seventeen other illustrations, from original designs by
+    Darley and Frank Forester. Two vols., morocco cloth, bevelled
+    boards, $4.00.
+
+WILKIE COLLINS’ BEST WORKS.
+
+ Basil; or, The Crossed Path                                       $1 50
+ The Dead Secret. 12mo.                                             1 50
+      Above are each in one large duodecimo volume, bound in cloth.
+ The Dead Secret, 8vo.                                                75
+ Basil; or, the Crossed Path,                                         75
+ Hide and Seek,                                                       75
+ After Dark,                                                          75
+ The Queen’s Revenge,                                                 75
+ Miss or Mrs?                                                         50
+ Mad Monkton,                                                         50
+ Sights a-Foot,                                                       50
+ The Stolen Mask,                                                     25
+ The Yellow Mask,                                                     25
+ Sister Rose,                                                         25
+
+The above books are each issued in paper cover, in octavo form.
+
+EMERSON BENNETT’S INDIAN STORIES.
+
+_Complete in seven large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back,
+price $1.75 each; or $12.25 a set, each set is put up in a neat box._
+
+ The Border Rover,                                                 $1 75
+ Clara Moreland,                                                    1 75
+ The Orphan’s Trials,                                               1 75
+ Bride of the Wilderness,                                           1 75
+ Ellen Norbury,                                                     1 75
+ Kate Clarendon,                                                    1 75
+ Viola; or Adventures in the Far South-West,                        1 75
+
+Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+ The Heiress of Bellefonte,                                           75
+ The Pioneer’s Daughter,                                              75
+
+GREEN’S WORKS ON GAMBLING.
+
+_Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back,
+price $1.75 each; or $7.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box._
+
+ Gambling Exposed,                                                 $1 75
+ The Gambler’s Life,                                                1 75
+ The Reformed Gambler,                                              1 75
+ Secret Band of Brothers,                                           1 75
+
+Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.50 each.
+
+DOW’S PATENT SERMONS.
+
+_Complete in four large duodecimo volumes, bound in cloth, gilt back,
+price $1.50 each; or $6.00 a set, each set is put up in a neat box._
+
+ Dow’s Patent Sermons, 1st Series, cloth,                          $1 50
+ Dow’s Patent Sermons, 2d Series, cloth,                            1 50
+ Dow’s Patent Sermons, 3d Series, cloth,                            1 50
+ Dow’s Patent Sermons, 4th Series, cloth,                           1 50
+
+Above are each in cloth, or each one is in paper cover, at $1.00 each.
+
+GEORGE SAND’S GREATEST WORKS.
+
+ Consuelo, 12mo., cloth,                                           $1 50
+ Countess of Rudolstadt,                                            1 50
+ Jealousy, 12mo., cloth,                                            1 50
+ Indiana, 12mo., cloth,                                             1 50
+
+Above are each published in 12mo., cloth, gilt side and back.
+
+ Fanchon, the Cricket, paper cover, 50 cents, or fine
+   edition, in cloth,                                               1 50
+ First and True Love. With 11 Illustrations. Paper, 75 cents;
+   cloth,                                                           1 00
+ Consuelo. Paper cover,                                               75
+ Simon. A Love Story,                                                 50
+ The Corsair,                                                         50
+ The Last Aldini,                                                     50
+ The Countess of Rudolstadt. The Sequel to Consuelo. Paper
+   cover,                                                             75
+
+MISS BRADDON’S WORKS.
+
+ Aurora Floyd,                                                        75
+ Aurora Floyd, cloth,                                               1 00
+ The Lawyer’s Secret,                                                 25
+ For Better, For Worse,                                               75
+
+☞︎ Above Books will be sent, postage, paid, on Receipt of Retail Price,
+by T. B. Peterson & Brothers, Philadelphia, Pa.
+
+
+
+
+                    ANN S. STEPHENS’ COMPLETE WORKS.
+
+
+=23= VOLUMES, AT =$1.75= EACH; OR =$40.25= A SET.
+
+_T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, No. 306 Chestnut Street, Philadelphia, Pa.,
+have just published an entire new, complete, and uniform edition of all
+the works written by Mrs. Ann S. Stephens, the popular American
+Authoress. This edition is in duodecimo form, is printed on the finest
+of white paper, and is complete in twenty-three volumes, and each volume
+is bound in the very best manner, in morocco cloth, with a full gilt
+back, and is sold at the low price of $1.75 each, or $40.25 for a full
+and complete set. Every family and every Library in this country, should
+have in it a complete set of this new and beautiful edition of the works
+of Mrs. Ann S. Stephens. The following are the names of the volumes_:
+
+  NORSTON’S REST.
+  BERTHA’S ENGAGEMENT.
+  BELLEHOOD AND BONDAGE; or, Bought with a Price.
+  LORD HOPE’S CHOICE; or, More Secrets Than One.
+  THE OLD COUNTESS. Sequel to “Lord Hope’s Choice.”
+  THE REIGNING BELLE.
+  PALACES AND PRISONS; or, The Prisoner of the Bastille.
+  A NOBLE WOMAN; or, A Gulf Between Them.
+  THE CURSE OF GOLD; or, The Bound Girl and Wife’s Trials.
+  MABEL’S MISTAKE; or, The Lost Jewels.
+  WIVES AND WIDOWS; or, The Broken Life.
+  THE OLD HOMESTEAD; or, Pet From the Poor House.
+  THE REJECTED WIFE; or, The Ruling Passion.
+  THE WIFE’S SECRET; or, Gillian.
+  THE HEIRESS; or, The Gipsy’s Legacy.
+  THE SOLDIER’S ORPHANS.
+  SILENT STRUGGLES; or, Barbara Stafford.
+  RUBY GRAY’S STRATEGY; or, Married by Mistake.
+  FASHION AND FAMINE.
+  MARRIED IN HASTE.
+  DOUBLY FALSE; or, Alike and Not Alike.
+  THE GOLD BRICK.
+  MARY DERWENT.
+
+☞︎ _Above books are for sale by all Booksellers at $1.75 each, or $40.25
+for a complete set of the twenty-three volumes. Copies of either one or
+more of the above books, or a complete set of them, will be sent at once
+to any one, to any place, postage prepaid, or free of freight, on
+remitting their price in a letter to the Publishers_,
+
+
+
+
+                 MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS
+
+
+_T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, have just published an entire
+new, complete and uniform edition of all of the celebrated works written
+by Mrs. Emma D. E. N. Southworth. This edition is in duodecimo form, is
+printed on the finest white paper, is complete in forty-three volumes,
+and each volume is bound in morocco cloth, with a fall gilt back, and is
+sold at the low price of $1.75 a volume, or $75.25 for a full and
+complete set. Every Family, and every Library in this Country should
+have in it a complete set of this new edition of the works of Mrs.
+Southworth. The following are the names of the volumes_:
+
+  THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, the Fall of the House of Flint.
+  SELF-RAISED; or, From the Depths. Sequel to “Ishmael.”
+  ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being “Self-Made.”)
+  THE “MOTHER-IN-LAW;” or, MARRIED IN HASTE.
+  THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER.
+  VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”
+  A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE.
+  LADY OF THE ISLE; or, THE ISLAND PRINCESS.
+  FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, THE MAN-HATER.
+  HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”
+  THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way.
+  THE BRIDE S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”
+  CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow Eve Mystery.
+  TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”
+  THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse.
+  THE BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN.
+  THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers.
+  A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”
+  THE FAMILY DOOM; or, THE SIN OF A COUNTESS.
+  THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “Family Doom.”
+  THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening.
+  THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea. The Bridal Day.
+  THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, SHANNONDALE.
+  ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, EUDORA.
+  FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE.
+  INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER.
+  VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER.
+  THE BRIDAL EVE; or, ROSE ELMER.
+  THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle.
+  THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, HICKORY HALL.
+  THE TWO SISTERS; or, Virginia and Magdalene.
+  THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, ORVILLE DEVILLE.
+  THE WIDOW’S SON; or, LEFT ALONE.
+  THE MYSTERY OF DARK HOLLOW.
+  THE DESERTED WIFE.
+  THE WIFE’S VICTORY.
+  THE LOST HEIRESS.
+  THE ARTIST’S LOVE.
+  THE HAUNTED HOMESTEAD.
+  LOVE’S LABOR WON.
+  THE SPECTRE LOVER.
+  CURSE OF CLIFTON.
+  THE FATAL SECRET.
+  RETRIBUTION.
+
+☞︎ _Above books are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies will be sent
+to any one, at once, post-paid, on remitting price of ones wanted to_
+
+                          _T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Publishers_,
+                                  306 CHESTNUT STREET, PHILADELPHIA, PA.
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+                 MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS.
+
+          Each Work is complete in one large Duodecimo Volume.
+
+
+  _ISHMAEL; or, IN THE DEPTHS. (Being Self-Made.)_
+  _SELF-RAISED; or, FROM THE DEPTHS. Sequel to Ishmael._
+  _THE MOTHER-IN-LAW; or, MARRIED IN HASTE._
+  _THE PHANTOM WEDDING; or, Fall of House of Flint._
+  _THE MISSING BRIDE; or, MIRIAM, THE AVENGER._
+  _A BEAUTIFUL FIEND; or, THROUGH THE FIRE._
+  _VICTOR’S TRIUMPH. A Sequel to “A Beautiful Fiend.”_
+  _THE FATAL MARRIAGE; or, Orville Deville._
+  _FAIR PLAY; or, BRITOMARTE, the MAN HATER._
+  _HOW HE WON HER. A Sequel to “Fair Play.”_
+  _THE CHANGED BRIDES; or, Winning Her Way._
+  _THE BRIDE’S FATE. Sequel to “The Changed Brides.”_
+  _CRUEL AS THE GRAVE; or, Hallow-Eve Mystery._
+  _TRIED FOR HER LIFE. A Sequel to “Cruel as the Grave.”_
+  _THE CHRISTMAS GUEST; or, The Crime and the Curse._
+  _THE LADY OF THE ISLE; or, The Island Princess._
+  _THE LOST HEIR OF LINLITHGOW; or, The Brothers._
+  _A NOBLE LORD. Sequel to “The Lost Heir of Linlithgow.”_
+  _THE FAMILY DOOM; or, the SIN OF A COUNTESS._
+  _THE MAIDEN WIDOW. Sequel to “The Family Doom.”_
+  _THE GIPSY’S PROPHECY; or, The Bride of an Evening._
+  _THE FORTUNE SEEKER; or, Astrea, the Bridal Day._
+  _THE THREE BEAUTIES; or, Shannondale._
+  _ALLWORTH ABBEY; or, Eudora._
+  _FALLEN PRIDE; or, THE MOUNTAIN GIRL’S LOVE._
+  _INDIA; or, THE PEARL OF PEARL RIVER._
+  _VIVIA; or, THE SECRET OF POWER._
+  _THE WIDOW’S SON; or, Left Alone._
+  _THE DISCARDED DAUGHTER; or, The Children of the Isle._
+  _THE PRINCE OF DARKNESS; or, Hickory Hall._
+  _THE BRIDAL EVE; or, Rose Elmer._
+  _THE DESERTED WIFE._
+  _THE LOST HEIRESS._
+  _THE WIFE’S VICTORY._
+  _THE CURSE OF CLIFTON._
+  _THE ARTIST’S LOVE._
+  _THE FATAL SECRET._
+  _BRIDE OF LLEWELLYN._
+  _HAUNTED HOMESTEAD._
+  _THE SPECTRE LOVER._
+  _RETRIBUTION._
+  _LOVE’S LABOR WON._
+  _THE TWO SISTERS._
+
+       Above Books are Bound in Morocco Cloth. Price $1.75 Each.
+
+                  *       *       *       *       *
+
+☞︎ _Mrs. Southworth’s works are for sale by all Booksellers, or copies of
+any one, or more of them, will be sent to any one, postage prepaid, or
+free of freight, on remitting the price of the ones wanted, to the
+publishers_,
+
+             _T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS, Philadelphia, Pa._
+
+------------------------------------------------------------------------
+
+
+
+
+                          TRANSCRIBER’S NOTES
+
+
+ ● Fixed typos; non-standard spelling and dialect retained.
+ ● Moved MRS. EMMA D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH’S WORKS from after the title
+     verso to the end of the book.
+ ● Enclosed italics font in _underscores_.
+
+*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 79290 ***