THE LOST LADY OF LONE

 By MRS. E. D. E. N. SOUTHWORTH

 Author of "Nearest and Dearest, " "The Hidden Hand, " "Unknown, " "Only a Girl's Heart, " "For Woman's Love, " etc. 

 1876

PUBLISHERS' NOTICE. 

"THE LOST LADY OF LONE" is different from any of Mrs. Southworth's othernovels. The plot, which is unusually provocative of conjecture andinterest, is founded on thrilling and tragic events which occurred in thedomestic history of one of the most distinguished families in theHighlands of Scotland. The materials which these interesting and tragicannals place at the disposal of Mrs. Southworth give full scope to herunrivalled skill in depicting character and developing a plot, and shehas made the most of her opportunity and her subject. 

CONTENTS. 

 I. The bride of Lone

 II. An ideal love

 III. The ruined heir

 IV. Salome's choice

 V. Arondelle's consolation

 VI. A horrible mystery on the wedding-day

 VII. The morning's discovery

 VIII. A horrible discovery

 IX. After the discovery

 X. The letter and its effect

 XI. The vailed passenger

 XII. The house on Westminster Road

 XIII. A surprise for Mrs. Scott

 XIV. The second bridal morn

 XV. The cloud falls

 XVI. Vanished

 XVII. The lost Lady of Lone

 XVIII. The flight of the duchess

 XIX. Salome's refuge

 XX. Salome's protectress

 XXI. The bridegroom

 XXII. At Lone

 XXIII. A startling charge

 XXIV. The vindication

 XXV. Who was found?

 XXVI. Off the track

 XXVII. In the convent

 XXVIII. The soul's struggle

 XXIX. The stranger in the chapel

 XXX. The haunter

 XXXI. The abbess' story

 XXXII. The duke's double

 XXXIII. After the earthquake

 XXXIV. Risen from the grave

 XXXV. Face to face

 XXXVI. A gathering storm

 XXXVII. A sentence of banishment

 XXXVIII. The storm bursts

 XXXIX. The rivals

 XL. After the storm

 XLI. Father and son

 XLII. Her son

 XLIII. The duke's ward

 XLIV. Retribution

 XLV. After the revelation

 XLVI. Retribution

 XLVII. The end of a lost life

 XLVIII. Husband and wife

THE LOST LADY OF LONE. 

CHAPTER I. 

THE BRIDE OF LONE. 

"Eh, Meester McRath? Sae grand doings I hae na seen sin the day o' thequeen's visit to Lone. That wad be in the auld duke's time. And a waefu'day it wa'. "

"Dinna ye gae back to that day, Girzie Ross. It gars my blood boil onlyto think o' it!"

"Na, Sandy, mon, sure the ill that was dune that day is weel compensateon this. Sooth, if only marriages be made in heaven, as they say, surethis is one. The laird will get his ain again, and the bonnyest leddy ina' the land to boot. "

"She _is_ a bonny lass, but na too gude for him, although her fairhand does gie him back his lands. "

"It's only a' just as it sud be. "

"Na, it's no all as it sud be. Look at they fules trying to pitup yon triumphal arch! The loons hae actually gotten the motto'HAPPINESS' set upside down, sae that a' the blooming red rosesare falling out o' it. An ill omen that if onything be an ill omen. Imaun rin and set it right. "

The speakers in this short colloquy were Mrs. Girzie Ross, housekeeper, and Mr. Alexander McRath, house-steward of Castle Lone. 

The locality was in the Highlands of Scotland. The season was earlysummer. The hour was near sunset. The scene was one of great beauty andsublimity. The occasion one of high festivity and rejoicing. 

The preparations were being completed for a grand event. For on themorning of the next day a deep wrong was to be made right by the marriageof the young and beautiful Lady of Lone to the chosen lord of her heart. 

Lone Castle was a home of almost ideal grandeur and loveliness, situatedin one of the wildest and most picturesque regions of the Highlands, yetbrought to the utmost perfection of fertility by skillful cultivation. 

The castle was originally the stronghold of a race of powerful andwarlike Scottish chieftains, ancestors of the illustrious ducal line ofScott-Hereward. It was strongly built, on a rocky island, that arose fromThe midst of a deep clear lake, surrounded by lofty mountains. 

For generations past, the castle had been but a picturesque ruin, and theisland a barren desert, tenanted only by some old retainer of the ancientfamily, who found shelter within its huge walls, and picked up a scantyliving by showing the famous ruins to artists and tourists. 

But some years previous to the commencement of our story, whenArchibald-Alexander-John Scott succeeded his father, as seventh Duke ofHereward, he conceived the magnificent, but most extravagant idea oftransforming that grim, old Highland fortress, perched upon its rockyisland, surrounded by water and walled in by mountains--into a mansion ofParadise and a garden of Eden. 

When he first spoke of his plan, he was called visionary and extravagant;and when he persisted in carrying it into execution, he was called mad. 

The most skillful engineers and architects in Europe were consulted andtheir plans examined, and a selection of designs and contractors madefrom the best among them. And then the restoration, or rather thetransfiguration, of the place was the labor of many years, at the costof much money. 

Fabulous sums were lavished upon Lone. But the Duke's enthusiasm grewas the work grew and the cost increased. All his unentailed estates inEngland were first heavily mortgaged and afterwards sold, and theproceeds swallowed up in the creation of Lone. 

The duchess, inspired by her husband, was as enthusiastic as the duke. When his resources were at an end and Lone unfinished she gave up hermarriage settlements, including her dower house, which was sold that theproceeds might go to the completion of Lone. 

But all this did not suffice to pay the stupendous cost. 

Then the duke did the maddest act of his life. He raised the needed moneyfrom usurers by giving them a mortgage on his own life estate in Loneitself. 

The work drew near to its completion. 

In the meantime the duke's agents were ransacking the chief cities inEurope in search of rare paintings, statues, vases, and other works ofart or articles of virtu to decorate the halls and chambers of Lone; forwhich also the most famous manufacturers in France and Germany wereelaborating suitable designs in upholstery. 

Every man directing every department of the works at Lone, whether asengineer, architect, decorator, or furnisher, every man was an artist inhis own speciality. The work within and without was to be a perfect workat whatever cost of time, money, and labor. 

At length, at the end of ten years from its commencement, the work wascompleted. 

And for the sublimity of its scenery, the beauty of its grounds, thealmost tropical luxuriance of its gardens, the magnificence of itsbuildings, the splendor of its decorations, and the luxury of itsappointments, Lone was unequalled. 

What if the mad duke had nearly ruined himself in raising it?

Lone was henceforth the pride of engineers, the model of architects, thesubject of artists, the theme of poets, the Mecca of pilgrims, the eighthwonder of the world. 

Lone was opened for the first time a few weeks after its completion, onthe occasion of the coming of age of the duke's eldest son and heir, theyoung Marquis of Arondelle, which fell upon the first of June. 

A grand festival was held at Lone, and a great crowd assembled to dohonor to the anniversary. A noble and gentle company filled the halls andchambers of the castle, and nearly all the Clan Scott assembled on thegrounds. 

The festival was a grand triumph. 

Among the thousands present were certain artists and reporters of thepress, and so it followed that the next issue of the _London News_contained full-page pictures of Castle Lone and Inch Lone, with theirterraces, parterres, arches, arbors and groves; Loch Lone, with itselegant piers, bridges and boats; and the surrounding mountains, withtheir caves, grottoes, falls and fountains. 

Yes, the birthday festival was a perfect triumph, and the fame of Lonewent forth to the uttermost ends of the earth. The English Colonists atAustralia, Cape of Good Hope, and New Zealand, read all about it incopies of the _London News_, sent out to them by thoughtful Londonfriends. We remember the day, some years since, when we, sitting by ourcottage fire, read all about it in an illustrated paper, and ponderedover the happy fate of those who could live in paradise while still onearth. Five years later, we would not have changed places with theDuke of Hereward. 

But this is a digression. 

The duke was in his earthly heaven; but was the duke happy, or evencontent?

Ah! no. He was overwhelmed with debt. Even Lone was mortgaged as deeplyas it could be--that is, as to the extent of the duke's own lifeinterests in the estate. Beyond that he could not burden the estate, which was entailed upon his heirs male. Besides his financialembarrassments, the duke was afflicted with another evil--he wasconsumed with a fever too common with prince and with peasant, as wellas with peer--the fever of a land hunger. 

The prince desires to add province to province; the peer to add manor tomanor; the peasant to own a little home of his own, and then to add acreto acre. 

The Lord of Lone glorying in his earthly paradise, wished to see itenlarged, wished to add one estate to another until he should becomethe largest land-owner in Scotland, or have his land-hunger appeased. He bought up all the land adjoining Lone, that could be purchased at anyprice, paying a little cash down, and giving notes for the balance oneach purchase. Thus, in the course of three years, Lone was nearlydoubled in territorial extent. 

But the older creditors became clamorous. Bond, and mortgage holdersthreatened foreclosure, and the financial affairs of the "mad duke, "outwardly and apparently so prosperous, were really very desperate. Thefamily were seriously in danger of expulsion from Lone. 

It was at this crisis that the devoted son came to the help of hisfather--not wisely, as many people thought then--not fortunately, as itturned out. To prevent his father from being compelled to leave Lone, andto protect him from the persecution of creditors, the young Marquis ofArondelle performed an act of self-sacrifice and filial devotion seldomequalled in the world's history. He renounced all his own entailedrights, and sold all his prospective life interest in Lone. His was ayoung, strong life, good for fifty or sixty years longer. His interestbrought a sum large enough to pay off the mortgage on Lone and to settleall others of his father's outstanding debts. 

Thus peaceable possession of Lone might have been secured to the familyduring the natural life of the duke. At the demise of the duke, insteadof descending to his son and heir, it would pass into the possession ofother parties, with whom it would remain as long the heir should live. 

Thus, I say, by the sacrifice of the son the peace of the father mighthave been secured--for a time. And all might have gone well at Lone butfor one unlucky event which finally set the seal on the ruin of the ducalfamily. 

And yet that event was intended as an honor, and considered as an honor. 

In a word the Queen, the Prince Consort, and the royal family, werecoming to the Highlands. And the Duke of Hereward received an intimationthat her majesty would stop on her royal progress and honor Lone with avisit of two days. This was a distinction in no wise to be slighted byany subject under any circumstances, and certainly not by the duke ofHereward. 

The Queen's visit would form the crowning glory of Lone. The chambersoccupied by majesty would henceforth be holy ground, and would be pointedout with reverence to the stranger in all succeeding generations. 

In anticipation of this honor the "mad" Duke of Hereward launched outinto his maddest extravagances. 

He had but ten days in which to prepare for the royal visit, but he madethe best use of his time. 

The guest chambers at Lone, already fitted up in princely magnificence, had new splendors added to them. The castle and the grounds were adornedand decorated with lavish expenditure. The lake was alive withgayly-rigged boats. Triumphal arches were erected at stated intervalsof the drive leading from the public road, across the bridge connectingthe shore with the island, and--maddest extravagance of all--the groundwas laid out and fitted up for a grand tournament after the style of thetime of Richard Coeur de Lion, to be held there during the queen'svisit--that fatal visit spoken of in the early part of this chapter. 

Yes, fatal!--for a hundred thousand pounds sterling, won by the son'sself-sacrifice, which should have gone to satisfy the clamorous creditorsof the duke, was squandered in extravagant preparations to royallyentertain England's expensive royal family. 

A second time Lone was the scene of unparalleled display, festivity, andrejoicing. Once more all the country round about was assembled there;again the artists and reporters of the London press were among the crowd;and again full-page pictures of the ceremonies attending the queen'sreception and entertainment were published in the illustrated papers, andthe fame of that royal visit went out to the uttermost parts of theearth. 

But mark this: Every footman that waited at the grand state-dinner tablewas a bailiff in disguise, in charge of the plate and china, which, together with all the fabulous riches of art, literature, science and_virtu_ collected at Lone had been taken in execution, by theofficers secretly in possession. 

The royal party, with their retinue, left Lone on the afternoon of thethird day. 

And then the crash came? The blow was sudden, overwhelming and utterlydestructive. 

The shock of the fall of Lone was felt from one end of the kingdom to theother. 

For the last time a crowd gathered around Castle Lone. But they came notas festive guests but as a flock of vultures around a carcass, bent onprey. For the last time artists and reporters came not to illustrate thetriumphs, but to record the downfall of the great ducal house ofScott-Hereward; to make sketches, take photographs and write descriptionsof the magnificent and splendid halls and chambers, picture-galleries andmuseums, before they should be dismantled by the rapacious purchasers whoflocked to the vendue of Lone, to profit by the ruin of the proprietor. 

And for the last time illustrations of Lone and its glories went forthover every part of the world where the English language is spoken, or theEnglish mails penetrate. 

Another heavy blow fell upon the doomed duke. Even while the grand venduewas still in progress the duchess died of grief. 

When all was over, and the good duchess was laid in the family vault, theduke and the young marquis disappeared from Lone and none knew whitherthey went. Some said that they had gone to Australia; some that they werein America; some that they were on the Continent. Others declared thatthey had hidden themselves in the wilderness of London, where they wereliving in great poverty and obscurity, and even under assumed names. 

Opinions and rumors differed also concerning the character and conduct ofthe young marquis. Many called him a devoted son, filled with the spiritof heroic self-sacrifice. Many others affirmed that he was a hypocriteand a villain, addicted to drinking, gambling, and other vices and evencited times, places, and occasions of his sinning. 

There never lived a man of whom so much good and so much evil wassaid as of the young Marquis of Arondelle. A stranger coming into theneighborhood of Lone, would hear these opposite reports and never be ableto decide whether the absent and self-exiled young nobleman was a modelof virtue or a monster of vice. 

But there was one whose faith in him was firm as her faith in Heaven. 

Rose Cameron was the daughter of a Highland shepherd, living about tenmiles north of Ben Lone. No court lady in the land was fairer than thisrustic Highland beauty. Her form was tall, fine, and commanding. Her stepwas stately and graceful as the step of an antelope. Her features werelarge, regular, and clear cut, as if chiseled in marble, yet full ofblooming and sparkling life as ruddy health and mountain air could fillthem. Her hair was golden brown, and clustered in innumerable shiningringlets closely around her fair open forehead and rounded throat. Hereyes were large, and clear bright blue. Her expression full of innocentfreedom and joyousness. 

Rumor said that the fast young Marquis of Arondelle, while deer-stalkingfrom his hunting lodge in the neighborhood of Ben Lone, had chanced todraw rein at the gate of Rob. Cameron's sheiling, and had received fromthe shapely hand of the beautiful shepherdess a cup of water, and hadbeen so suddenly and forcibly smitten by her Juno-like beauty, thatthenceforth his visits to his hunting lodge became very frequent, both inseason and out of season, and that he was a very dry soul, whose thirstcould be satisfied by nothing but the spring water that spouted close bythe shepherd's sheiling, dipped up and offered by the hands of thebeautiful shepherdess. 

Much blame was cast by the rustic neighbors upon all partiesconcerned--first of all, upon the young marquis, who they declared "meantnae guid to the lass, " and then to the old shepherd, who they said, "suldtak mair care o' his puir mitherless bairn, " and lastly, to the girl, who, as they affirmed, "suld guide hersel' wi' mair discretion. "

None of these criticisms ever came to the ears of the parties concerned:they never do, you know. 

Besides the lovers seemed to be infatuated with each other, and theshepherd seemed to be blind to what was going on in his sheiling. To besure, he was out all day with his sheep, while his lass was alone in thesheiling. Or, if by sickness _he_ was forced to stay home, then_she_ was out all day with the sheep alone. 

Gossip said that the young marquis visited the handsome shepherdess inher sheiling, and met her by appointment, when she was out with herflock. 

And as the occasion grew, so grew the scandal, and so grew indignationagainst the marquis and scorn of the shepherdess. 

"He'll nae mean to marry the quean! If she were my lass, I'd kick himout, an' he were twenty times a markis!" said the shepherd's nextneighbor, and many approved his sentiment. These were among thedetractors of the young nobleman. 

But he had warm defenders--who affirmed that the Marquis of Arondellewould never seek a peasant girl to win her affections, unless he intendedto make her his marchioness--which was an idea too preposterous to beentertained for an instant--therefore there could be no truth in theserumors. 

And at length, when the great thunderbolt fell that destroyed Lone andbanished the ducal family, there were not wanting "guid neebors" whotaunted Rose Cameron with such words as these:

"The braw young markis hae made a fule o' ye, lass. Thoul't ne'er see himmair. And a guid job, too. Best ye'd ne'er see him at a'!"

But the handsome shepherdess betrayed no sign of mortification or doubt. When such prognostics were uttered, she crested her queenly head with asmile of conscious power, and looked as though--"she could, an if shewould, "--tell more about the Marquis of Arondelle, than any of thesepeople guessed. 

Meanwhile, princely Lone passed into the possession of Sir LemuelLevison, a London banker of enormous wealth. He had not always been SirLemuel Levison. But he had once been Lord Mayor of London, and for somepart that he had taken in a public demonstration or a royal pageant, (Iforget which, ) he had been knighted by her Majesty. 

He was, at this time, a tall, spare, fair-faced, gray-haired and graybearded man of sixty-five. He was a widower, with "one only daughter, "the youngest and sole survivor of a large family of children. 

This daughter, Salome, had never known a mother's love nor a father'scare. She was under three years old when her mother passed away. 

Then her father, hating his desolate home, broke up his establishment onWestbourne Terrace, London, and placed his infant daughter under the careof the nuns in the Convent of the Holy Nativity in France. 

Here Salome Levison passed the days of her dreamy childhood and earlyyouth. Her father seldom found time to visit her at her convent school, and she never went home to spend her holidays. She had no home to go to. 

When Salome was eighteen years of age, the Superior of the convent wroteto Sir Lemuel Levison, enclosing a letter from his daughter thatconsiderably startled the absorbed banker and forgetful father. He hadnot seen his daughter for two years, and now these letters informed himthat she wished to become a Nun of the Holy Nativity, and to enter uponher novitiate immediately! But that being a minor, she could not do sowithout his consent. 

His sole surviving child! The sole heiress of his enormous wealth! Onwhom he depended, to make a home for him in his declining years, when heshould have made a few more millions of millions upon which to retire!

And now this long neglected daughter had found consolation in devotion, and wished to take the vail which was to hide her forever from the world!

Sir Lemuel Levison hastened to France, and brought his daughter back toEngland. He took apartments at a quiet London hotel, and looked about fora suitable country-seat to purchase. 

At this time Lone was advertised. He went thither with the crowd. 

He saw Lone, liked it, wanted it, and determined to "pay for it and takeit. "

He stopped the vandalish dismantling of the premises by outbiddingeverybody else and purchasing all the furniture, decorations, plate, pictures, statues, vases, mosaics, and everything else, and orderingthem to be left in their old positions. 

He then engaged the house-steward, the housekeeper, and as many more ofthe servants of the late proprietor as he could induce to remain at Lone. 

And when the princely castle was cleared of its crowds, and once morerestored to order, beauty and peace, Sir Lemuel Levison went back toLondon to bring his daughter home. 

Salome, submissive to her father's will, yet disappointed in her wish totake the vail, met every event in life with apathy. 

Even when the splendors of Lone broke upon her vision she regarded themwith an air of indifference that amused, while it mortified, her father. 

"I see how it is, my girl, " he said. "You have renounced the world, andare pining for the convent. But you know nothing of the world. Give it afair trial of three years. Then you will be twenty-one years old, oflegal age to act for yourself, with some knowledge of that which youwould ignorantly renounce; and then if you persist in your desire to takethe vail--well! I shall then have neither the power nor the wish toprevent you, " added the wise old banker, who felt perfectly confidentthat at the end of the specified time his daughter would no longer pineto immure herself in a convent. 

Salome, grateful for this concession, and feeling perfectly self-assuredthat she would never be won by the world, kissed her father, and rousedherself to be as much of a comfort and solace to him as she might be inthe three years of probation. And she took her place at the head of herfather's magnificent establishment at Lone with much of gentle quiet anddignity. 

And now it is time to give you some more accurate knowledge of theoutward appearance and the inner life of this motherless, convent-rearedgirl, who, though a young and wealthy heiress, was bent on forsaking theworld and taking the vail. In the first place, she was not beautiful atall in repose. There can be no physical beauty without physical health. And Salome Levison partook of the delicate organization of her mother, who had passed away in early womanhood, and of her brothers and sisters, who had gone in infancy or childhood. 

Salome, when still and silent, was, at first sight plain. She was ratherbelow the medium height, slight and thin in form, pale and dark incomplexion, with irregular features, and quiet, downcast, dark-gray eyes, whose long lashes cast shadows upon pallid cheeks, and which were archedwith dark eyebrows on a massive forehead, shaded with an abundance ofdark brown hair, simply parted in the middle, drawn back and wound intoa rich roll. Her dress was as simple as her station permitted it to be. 

Altogether she seemed a girl unattractive in person and reserved inspeech. 

The very opposite of the handsome shepherdess of Ben Lone. 

And yet when she looked up or smiled, her face was transfigured into awondrous beauty; such intellectual and spiritual beauty as that perfectpiece of flesh and blood never could have expressed. And she was a"sealed book. " Yet the hour was at hand when the "sealed book" was to beopened--when her dreaming soul, like the sleeping princess in the wood, was to be awakened by the touch of holy love to make the beauty of herperson and the glory of her life. 

CHAPTER II. 

AN IDEAL LOVE. 

A few weeks after their settlement at Lone, Sir Lemuel Levison returnedto London on affairs connected with his final retirement from activebusiness. 

Salome was left at the castle, with the numerous servants of theestablishment, but otherwise quite alone. She had neither governess, companion, nor confidential maid. She suffered from this enforcedsolitude. She had seen all the splendors of the interior of Lone, andthere was nothing new to discover--except--yes, there was Malcom's Tower, which tradition said was the most ancient portion of the castle, whosefoundations had been dug from the solid rock, hundreds of feet below thesurface of the lake. 

The tower had been restored with the rest of the castle, but had neverbeen fitted up for occupation. 

Salome determined to spend one morning in exploring the old tower fromfoundation to top. 

She summoned the housekeeper to her presence, and made known her purpose. 

"Macolm's Watch Tower, Miss! Weel, then, it's naething to see within, forbye a few auld family portraits and sic like, left there by the auldduke; but there'll be an unco' foine view frae the top on a braw day likethis, " said Dame Ross, as she detached a bunch of keys from her belt, andsignified her readiness to attend her young mistress. 

I need not detail the explorations of the young lady from the horribledungeon of the foundation--up the narrow, winding steps, cut in thethickness of the outer wall, which was perforated on the inner side bydoorways on each landing, leading into the strong, round stone rooms orcells on each floor, lighted only by long narrow slits in the solidmasonry. All the lower cells were empty. 

But when they reached the top of the winding steps and opened the door ofthe upper cell, the housekeeper said:

"Here are deposited some o' the relics left by the auld duke until suchtime as he shall be ready to tak' them awa'. "

Salome followed her into the room and suddenly drew back in surprise. 

She saw standing out from the gloom, the form of a young man of majesticbeauty and grace. 

A second look showed her that this was only a full-length life-sizedportrait--but of whom?

Her gaze became riveted on the glorious presence. 

The portrait represented a young man of about twenty-five years of age, tall, finely formed, broad-shouldered, deep-chested, with a well-turned, stately head, a Grecian profile, a fair, open brow, dark, deep blue eyes, and very rich auburn hair and beard. He wore the picturesque highlanddress--the tartan of the Clan Scott. 

But it was not the dress, the form, the face that fascinated the gaze ofthe girl. It was the air, the look, the SOUL that shone throughit all!

A sun ray, glancing through the narrow slit in the solid wall, felldirectly upon the fine face, lighting it up as with a halo of glory!

"It is the face of the young St. John! Nay, it is more divine! It isthe face of Gabriel who standeth in the presence of the Lord! But itexpresses more of power! It is the face of Michael rather, when he putthe hosts of hell to flight! Oh! a wondrously glorious face!" said therapt young enthusiast to herself, as she gazed in awe-struck silence onthe portrait. 

"Ye are looking at that picture, young leddy? Ay it weel deserves yourregards! It is a grand one!" said Dame Ross, proudly. 

"_Who is it? One of the young princes?_" inquired Salome, in a lowtone, full of reverential admiration. 

"Ane o' the young princes? Gude guide us! Nae, young leddy; I hae seenthe young princes ance, on an unco' ill day for Lone! And I dinna careif I never see ane mair. But they dinna look like that, " said thehousekeeper, with a deep sigh. 

"Who is it, then?" whispered Salome, still gazing on the portrait withsomewhat of the rapt devotion with which she had been wont to gaze onpictured saint, or angel, on her convent walls. "Who is it, Mrs. Ross?"

"Wha is it? Wha suld it be, but our ain young laird? Our ain bonnyladdie? Our young Markis o' Arondelle? Oh, waes the day he ever leftLone!" exclaimed Dame Girzie, lifting her apron to her eyes. 

"The Marquis of Arondelle!" echoed Salome, catching her breath, andgazing with even more interest upon the glorious picture. 

Even while she gazed, the ray that had lighted it for a moment waswithdrawn by the setting sun, and the picture was swallowed up in suddendarkness. 

"The Marquis of Arondelle, " repeated Salome in a low reverent tone, asif speaking to herself. 

"Ay, the young Markis o' Arondelle; wae worth the day he went awa'!" saidthe housekeeper, wiping her eyes. 

Salome turned suddenly to the weeping woman. 

"I have heard--I have heard--" she began in a low, hesitating voice, andthen she suddenly stopped and looked at the dame. 

"Ay, young leddy, nae doubt ye hae heard unco mony a fule tale anent ouryoung laird; but if ye would care to hear the verra truth, ye suld do sofrae mysel. But come noo, leddy. It is too dark to see onything mair inthis room. We'll gae out on the battlements gin ye like, and tak' a lukeat the landscape while the twilight lasts, " said Dame Girzie. 

Salome assented with a nod, and they climbed the last steep flight ofstairs, cut in the solid wall, and leading from this upper room to thetop of the watch-tower. 

They came out upon a magnificent view. 

The bright, long twilight of these Northern latitudes still hungluminously over island, lake and mountain. 

While Salome gazed upon it Dame Girzie said:

"All this frae the tower to the horizon, far as our eyes can reach, andfar'er, was for eight centuries the land of the Lairds of Lone. And noo!a' hae gane frae them, and they hae gane frae us, and na mon kens wherethey bide or how they fare. Wae's me!"

"It was indeed a household wreck, " said Salome, with sigh of sinceresympathy. 

"Ye may say that, leddy, and mak' na mistake. "

"What is that lofty mountain-top that I see on the edge of the horizonaway to the north, just fading in the twilight?" inquired Salome, partlyto divert the dame from her gloomy thoughts. 

"Yon? Ay. Yon will be, Ben Lone. It will be twenty miles awa', gin it bea furlong. Our young laird had a braw hunting lodge there, where in theseason he was wont to spend weeks thegither wi' his kinsman, JohnnieScott, for the young laird was unco' fond of deer stalking, and sic likesport. I dinna ken wha owns the lodge now, or whether it went wi' thelave of the estate, " said Dame Girzie, with a deep sigh. 

"It is growing quite chilly up here, " said Salome, shivering, and drawingher little red shawl more closely around her slight frame. "I think wewill go down now, Mrs. Ross. And if you will be so good as to come to meafter tea, this evening, I shall like to hear the story of this sorrowfulfamily wreck, " she added, as she turned to leave the place. 

That evening, as the heiress sat in the small drawing room appropriatedto her own use, the housekeeper rapped and was admitted. 

And after seating herself at the bidding of her young mistress, GirzieRoss opened her mouth and told the true story of the fall of Lone, as Ihave already told to my readers. 

"And this devoted son actually sacrificed all the prospects of his wholefuture life, in order to give peace and prosperity to his father'sdeclining days, " murmured Salome, with her eyes full of tears and herusually pale cheeks, flushed with emotion. 

"He did, young leddy, like the noble soul, he was, " said Dame Girzie. 

"I never heard of such an act of renunciation in my life, " murmuredSalome. 

"And the pity of it was, young leddy, that it was a' in vain, " said thehousekeeper. 

"Yes, I know. Where is he now?" inquired the young girl, in a subduedvoice. 

"I dinna ken, leddy. Naebody kens, " answered Girzie Ross, with a deepsigh, which was unconsciously echoed by the listener. 

Then Dame Ross not to trespass on her young mistress's indulgence, aroseand respectfully took her leave. 

Salome fell into a deep reverie. From that hour she had something else tothink about, beside the convent and the vail. 

The portrait haunted her imagination, the story filled her heart andemployed her thoughts. That night she dreamed of the self-exiled heir, a beautiful, vague, delightful dream, that she tried in vain to recallon the next morning. 

In the course of the day she made several attempts to ask Mrs. GirzieRoss a simple question. And she wondered at her own hesitation to do it. At length she asked it:

"Mrs. Ross, is that portrait in the tower very much like Lord Arondelle?"

"Like him, young leddy? Why, it is his verra sel'! And only not sae bonnybecause it canna move, or smile, or speak. Ye should see him _alive_to ken him weel, " said the housekeeper, heartily. 

That afternoon Salome went up alone to the top of the tower, and spent adreamy, delicious hour in sitting at the feet of the portrait and gazingupon the face. 

That evening, while the housekeeper attended her at tea, she took courageto make another inquiry, in a very low voice:

"Is Lord Arondelle engaged, Mrs. Ross?"

She blushed crimson and turned away her head the moment she had asked thequestion. 

"Engaged? What--troth-plighted do you mean, young leddy?"

"Yes, " in a very low tone. 

"Bless the lass! nay, nor no thought of it, " answered the housekeeper. 

"I was thinking that perhaps it would be well if he were not, that isall, " explained Salome, a little confusedly. 

That night, as she undressed to retire to bed, she looked at herself inthe glass critically for the first time in her life. 

It was not a pretty face that was reflected there. It was a pale, thin, dark face, that might have been redeemed by the broad, smooth forehead, shaped round by bands of dark brown hair, and lighted by the large, tender, thoughtful gray eyes, had not that forehead worn a look ofanxious care, and those eyes an expression of eager inquiry. 

"But then I am so plain--so very, very plain, " she said to herself, as ifuttering the negation of some preceding train of thought. 

And with a deep sigh she retired to rest. 

The next day Girzie Ross herself was the first to speak of the youngmarquis. 

"I hae been thinking, young leddy, what garred ye ask me gin the younglaird, were troth plighted. And I mistrust ye must hae heard these fulestories anent his hardship, having a sweetheart at Ben Lone. There'snae truth in sic tales, me leddy. No that I'm denying she's a handsomehizzy, this Rose Cameron; but she's nae one to mak' the young lairdforget his rank. Ye'll no credit sic tales, me young leddy. "

"I have heard no tales of the sort, " said Salome, looking up in surprise. 

"Ay, hae ye no? Aweel, then, its nae matter, " said the dame. 

"But what tales are there, Mrs. Ross?" uneasily inquired the heiress. And then she instantly perceived the indiscretion of her question, andregretted that she had asked it. 

"Ou aye, it's just the fule talk o' thae gossips up by Ben Lone. Theybehoove to say that's its na the game that draws the young laird saeoften to Ben Lone; but just Rab Cameron's handsome lass, Rose, and she_is_ a handsome quean as I said before; but nae 'are to mak' theyoung master lose his head for a' that! Sae ye maun na beleiv' a wordof it, me young leddy, " said Dame Girzie. 

And she hastened to change the subject. 

"Ah! what a power beauty is! It can make a prince forget his royal state, and sue to a peasant girl, " sighed Salome to herself. "I wonder--Iwonder, if there _is_ any truth in that report? Oh, I hope there isnot, for his own sake. I wonder where he is--what he is doing? But thatis no affair of mine. I have nothing at all to do with it! I wonder if Ishall ever meet him. I wonder if he would think me very ugly? Nonsense, what if he should? He is nothing to me. I--I _do_ wonder if a youngman so noble in character, so handsome in person as he is, ever couldlike a girl without any beauty at all, even if she--even if she--Oh, dear! what a fool I am! I had better never have come out of the convent. I will think no more about him, " said Salome, resolutely taking up avolume of the "Lives of the Saints, " and turning to the page that relatedhow--

 "St. Rosalie, Darling of each heart and eye, From all the youth of ItalyRetired to God. "

"That is the noblest love and service, after all, " she said--"thenoblest, surely, because it is Divine!"

And she resolved to emulate the example of the young and beautifulItalian virgin. She, too, would retire to God. That is, she would enterher convent as soon as her three probationary years should be passed. 

But though she so resolved to devote herself to Heaven in this abnormalway, the natural human love that now glowed in her heart, would not beput down by an unnatural resolve. 

Days and nights passed, and she still thought of the banished heir allday, and dreamed of him all night--the more intensely as well as purelyperhaps, because she had never looked upon his living face. 

To her he was an abstract ideal. 

Later in the month her father returned to Lone--on business of moreimportance than that which had hurried him away. 

He had only retired from one phase of public life to enter upon another. 

There was to be a new Parliament. And at the solicitations of manyinterested parties, and perhaps also at the promptings of his own lateambition, Sir Lemuel Levison consented to stand for the borough of Lone. In the absence of the young Marquis of Arondelle there was no one tooppose him, and he was returned by an almost unanimous vote. 

Early in February, Sir Lemuel Levison took his dreaming daughter and wentup to London to take his seat in the House of Commons at the meeting ofParliament. 

He engaged a sumptuously furnished house on Westbourne Terrace, andinvited a distant relative, Lady Belgrave, the childless widow of abaronet, to come and pass the season with him and chaperone his daughteron her entrance into society. 

Lady Belgrade was sixty years old, tall, stout, fair-complexioned, gray-haired, healthy, good-humored, and well-dressed--altogether ascommonplace and harmless a fine lady as could be found in the fashionableworld. 

Salome had never seen her, scarcely ever heard of her before the day ofher arrival at Westbourne Terrace. 

Salome met Lady Belgrade with courtesy and kindness, but with muchindifference. 

Lady Belgrade, on her part, met her young kinswoman with criticalcuriosity. 

"She is not pretty, not at all pretty, and one does not like to have aplain girl to bring out. She is not pretty, and what is worse than all, she seems _to know it_. And she can only grow pretty by believingthat she is so. A girl with such a pair of eyes as hers can always getthe reputation of beauty if she can only be made to believe in herself, "was Lady Belgrade's secret comment; but--

"What beautiful eyes you have, my dear!" she said with effusion, as shekissed Salome on both cheeks. 

The girl smiled and blushed with pleasure, for this was the first timein all her life that she had been credited with any beauty at all. 

Lady Belgrade was partly right and partly wrong. 

A girl with such a physique as Salome could never be pretty, never behandsome, but, with such a soul as hers, might grow beautiful. 

At her Majesty's first drawing-room, Salome Levison was presented atcourt, where she attracted the attention, only as the daughter of SirLemuel Levison, the new Radical member for Lone, and as the sole heiressof the great banker's almost fabulous wealth. 

Then under the experienced guidance of Lady Belgrade, she was launchedinto fashionable society. And society received the young expectant ofenormous wealth, as society always does, with excessive adulation. 

Salome was admired, followed, flattered, feted, as though she had beena beauty as well as an heiress. She was petted at home and worshipedabroad. Her father gave unlimited pocket-money in form of bank-cheques, to be filled up at her own discretion. For she was his only daughter, andhe wished to get her in love with the world and out of conceit of aconvent. And surely the run of his bank, and of all the fine shops ofLondon, would do that, he thought, if anything could. 

But Salome remained a "sealed book" to the wealthy banker, and a greattrial to the fashionable chaperon who had her in training. Salome_would not_ grow pretty, in spite of all that could be done for her. Salome would not make a sensation, for all her father's wealth and herown expectations. She remained quiet, shy, silent, dreamy, even in thegayest society, as in the Highland solitudes, with one worship in hersoul--the worship of that self-devoted son--that self-banished prince, whose "counterfeit presentment" she had seen in the tower at Lone, andwho had become the idol of her religion. 

But all this did not hinder the heiress from receiving some very matterof fact and highly eligible offers of marriage; for though Salome, in theholiness of her dreams, was almost unapproachable, the banker was notinaccessible. And it was through her father that Salome, in the course ofthe season, had successively the coronet of a widowed earl, the title ofa duke's younger son, and the fortune of a baronet who was just of age, laid at her feet. 

She rejected them all--to her father's great disappointment anddisturbance. 

"I fear--I do much fear that her mind still runs on that convent. Shedoes nothing but dream, dream, dream, and absolutely ignore homage thatwould turn another girl's head. I wish she were well married, or--I hadalmost said ill married! anything is better than the convent for my onlysurviving child! If she will not accept an earl or a baronet, why cannother perversity take the form of any other girl's perversity? Why can shenot fall in love with some penniless younger son, or some dissipatedcaptain in a marching regiment? I am sure even under such circumstancesI should not perform the part of the 'cruel parent' in the comedies! Ishould say, 'Bless you my children, ' with all my heart! And I shouldenrich the impecunious young son, or reform the tipsy soldier. Anythingbut the convent for my only child!" concluded the banker, with a sigh. 

But Salome had ceased to think of the convent. She thought now only ofthe missing marquis. 

The offers of marriage that had been made to Salome, rejected though theywere, had this good effect upon her mind. They encouraged her to thinkmore hopefully of herself. Salome was too unworldly, too pure, and holy, to suspect that these offers had been made her from any other motive thanpersonal preference. It was possible, then, that she might be loved. Ifother men preferred her, so also might he on whom she had fixed. And nowit had come to this with the dreaming girl--she resolved to think no moreof retiring to a convent, but to live in the world that contained herhero; to keep herself free from all engagements for his sake, to give_herself_ to him, if possible, if not to give his land back to himsome day, at least. So in her secret soul she consecrated herself in apure devotion to a man she had never seen, and who did not even know ofher existence. 

When Parliament rose at the end of the London season, Sir Lemuel Levisontook his daughter on an extended Continental tour, showing her all thewonders of nature, and all the glories of art in countries and cities. And Salome was interested and instructed, of course. Yet the greatestvalue her travels had for her was in the possibility of their bringingher to a meeting with the missing heir. It had been said that the madduke and his son were somewhere on the Continent. A wide field! Yet, onthe arrival of Sir Lemuel and Miss Levison at any city, Salome's firstthought was this:

"Perhaps they are living here, and I shall see him. "

But she was always disappointed. And at the end of a seven months'sojourn on the Continent, Sir Lemuel Levison brought his daughter backto London, only in time for the meeting of Parliament. 

Only two years of Salome's probation was left--only two more seasonsin London. Her father's anxiety increased. 

He sent for her chaperone again, and opened his house in WestbourneTerrace to all the world of fashion. Again the young heiress wasfollowed, flattered, feted as much as if she had been a beauty as well. Again she received and rejected several eligible offers of marriage. Andso the second season passed. 

Sir Lemuel Levison took his daughter to Scotland, and invited a largecompany to stay with them at Lone, thinking that, after all, more matcheswere made in the close daily intercourse of a country house, than in thecrowded ball-rooms of a London season. 

But though the banker's daughter received two or three more eligibleoffers of marriage, she politely declined them all, and stole away asoften as she could to worship the pictured image in the old tower. 

Her chaperone was in despair. 

"How many good men and brave has she refused, do you know, Lemuel?"inquired Lady Belgrade. 

"Seven, to my certain knowledge, " angrily replied the banker. 

"Perhaps she likes some one you know nothing about, " suggested thedowager. 

"She does not; I would let her marry almost any man rather than have herenter a convent, as she is sure to do when she is of age. I would let hermarry any one; aye, even Johnnie Scott, who is the most worthless scamp Iknow in the world. "

"And pray who is Johnnie Scott!"

"Oh, a handsome rascal; is sort of kinsman and hanger-on of the youngMarquis of Arondelle; he used to be. I don't know anything more abouthim. "

"Perhaps he _is_ the man. "

"Oh, no, he is not. There is no man in the convent. Well, we go up toLondon again in February. It will be her last season. If she does notfall in love or marry before May, when she will be twenty-one years ofage, she will immure herself in a convent, as I am pledged not to preventher. "

The conversation ended unsatisfactorily just here. 

In the beginning of February Sir Lemuel Levison, with his daughter andher chaperone, went up to London for her third season. They establishedthemselves again in the sumptuous house on Westbourne Terrace, and againentered into the whirl of fashionable gayeties. 

It was quite in the beginning of the season that Sir Lemuel and MissLevison received invitations to a dinner party at the Premier's. 

It was to be a semi-political dinner, at which were to be entertainedcertain ministers, members of Parliament, with their wives, and leadingjournalists. 

Sir Lemuel accepted for himself and Miss Levison. On the appointed daythey rendered themselves at the Premier's house, where they werecourteously welcomed by the great minister and his accomplished wife. 

After the usual greetings had been exchanged with the guests that werepresent, and while Sir Lemuel and Miss Levison were conversing with theirhostess, the Premier came up with a stranger on his right arm. 

Salome looked up, her heart gave a great bound and then stood still. 

The original of the portrait in the tower, the self-devoted son, theself-exiled heir, the idol of her pure worship, the young Marquis ofArondelle stood before her. 

And while the scene swam before her eyes, the Premier bowed, andpresenting him, said:

"Sir Lemuel, let me introduce to you, Mr. John Scott of the _NationalLiberator_. Mr. Scott, Sir Lemuel Levison, our new member for Lone. "

Mr. John Scott!

CHAPTER III. 

THE RUINED HEIR. 

Where, meanwhile, was the "mad" duke with his loyal son?

Various reports had been circulated concerning them, so long as they hadbeen remembered. Some had said that they had emigrated to Australia;others that they had gone to Canada; others again that they were livingon the Continent. All agreed that wherever they were, they must be ingreat destitution. 

But now, three years had passed since the fall of Lone and thedisappearance of the ruined ducal family, and they were very nearlyforgotten. 

Meanwhile where were they then?

They were hidden in the great wilderness of London. 

On leaving Lone, the stricken duke, crushed equally under domesticaffliction and financial ruin, and failing both in mind and body, startedfor London, tenderly escorted by his son. 

It was the last extravagance of the young marquis to engage a wholecompartment in a first-class carriage on the Great Northern Railwaytrain, that the fallen and humbled duke might travel comfortably andprivately without being subjected to annoyance by the gaze of thecurious, or comments of the thoughtless. 

On reaching London they went first to an obscure but respectable inn ina borough, where they remained unknown for a few days, while the marquissought for lodgings which should combine privacy, decency and cheapness, in some densely-populated, unfashionable quarter of the city, where theiridentity would be lost in the crowd, and where they would never by anychance meet any one whom they had ever met before. 

They found such a refuge at length, in a lodging-house kept by the widowof a curate in Catharine street, Strand. 

Here the ruined duke and marquis dropped their titles, and lived onlyunder their baptismal name and family names. 

Here Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Duke of Hereward and Marquis ofArondelle in the Peerage of England, and Baron Lone, of Lone, in thePeerage of Scotland, was known only as old Mr. Scott. 

And his son Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, by courtesy Marquis ofArondelle, was known only as young Mr. John Scott. 

Now as there were probably some thousands of "Scotts, " and among them, some hundreds of "John Scotts, " in all ranks of life, from the old landedproprietor with his town-house in Belgravia, to the poor coster-mongerwith his donkey-cart in Covent Garden, in this great city of London, there was little danger that the real rank of these ruined noblemenshould be suspected, and no possibility that they should be recognizedand identified. They were as completely lost to their old world asthough they had been hidden in the Australian bush or New Zealandforests. 

Here as Mr. Scott and Mr. John Scott, they lived three years. 

The old duke, overwhelmed by his family calamity, gradually sank deeperand deeper into mental and bodily imbecility. 

Here the young marquis picked up a scanty living for himself and fatherby contributing short articles to the columns of the _NationalLiberator_, the great organ of the Reform Party. 

He wrote under the name of "Justus. " After a few months his articlesbegan to attract attention for their originality of thought, boldnessof utterance, and brilliancy of style. 

Much speculation was on foot in political and journalistic circles as tothe author of the articles signed "Justus. " But his incognito wasrespected. 

At length on a notable occasion, the gifted young journalist wasrequested by the publisher of the _National Liberator_, to writea leader on a certain Reform Bill then up before the House of Commons. 

This work was so congenial to the principles and sentiments of theauthor, that it became a labor of love, and was performed, as all suchlabors should be, with all the strength of his intellect and affections. 

This leader made the anonymous writer famous in a day. He at once becamethe theme of all the political and newspaper clubs. 

And now a grand honor came to him. 

The Premier--no less a person--sent his private secretary to the officeof the _National Liberator_ to inquire the name and address of theauthor of the articles by "Justus, " with a request to be informed of themif there should be no objection on the part of author or publisher. 

The private secretary was told, with the consent of the author, what thename and address was. 

"Mr. John Scott, office of the _National Liberator_. "

Upon receiving this information, the Premier addressed a note to theyoung journalist, speaking in high terms of his leader on the ReformBill, predicting for him a brilliant career, and requesting the writerto call on the minister at noon the following day. 

The young marquis was quite as much pleased at this distinguishedrecognition of his genius as any other aspiring young journalist mighthave been. 

He wrote and accepted the invitation. 

And at the appointed hour the next day he presented himself at ElmhurstHouse, the Premier's residence at Kensington. 

He sent up his card, bearing the plain name:

"Mr. John Scott. "

He was promptly shown up stairs to a handsome library, where he found thegreat statesman among his books and papers. 

His lordship arose and received his visitor with much cordiality, andinvited him to be seated. 

And during the interview that followed it would have been difficult todecide who was the best pleased--the great minister with this youngdisciple of his school, or the new journalist with this illustrious headof his party. 

This agreeable meeting was succeeded by others. 

At length the young journalist was invited to a sort of semi-politicaldinner at Elmhurst House, to meet certain eminent members of the reformparty. 

This invitation pleased the marquis. It would give him the opportunityof meeting men whom he really wished to know. He thought he might acceptit and go to the dinner as plain Mr. John Scott, of the _NationalLiberator_, without danger of being recognized as the Marquis ofArondelle. 

For in the days of his family's prosperity he had been too young to enterLondon society. 

And in these days of his adversity he was known to but a limited numberof individuals in the city, and only by his common family name. 

On the appointed evening, therefore, he put on his well-brusheddress-suit, spotless linen, and fresh gloves, and presented himself atElmhurst House as well dressed as any West End noble or city nabob there. 

He was shown up to the drawing-room by the attentive footman, who openedthe door, and announced:

"Mr. John Scott. "

And the young Marquis of Arondelle entered the room, where a brilliantlittle company of about half a dozen gentlemen and as many ladies wereassembled. 

The noble host came forward to welcome the new guest. His lordship methim with much cordiality, and immediately presented him to Lady ----, whoreceived him with the graceful and gracious courtesy for which she wasso well known. 

Finally the minister took the young journalist across the room towarda very tall, thin, fair-skinned, gray-haired old gentleman, who stoodwith a pale, dark-eyed, richly-dressed young girl by his side. 

They were standing for the moment, with their backs to the company, andwere critically examining a picture on the wall--a master-piece of oneof the old Italian painters. 

"Sir Lemuel, " said the host, lightly touching the art-critic on theshoulder. 

The old gentleman turned around. 

"Sir Lemuel, permit me to present to you Mr. John Jones--I begpardon--Mr. John Scott, of the _National Liberator_--Mr. Scott, SirLemuel Levison, our member for Lone, " said the minister. 

Sir Lemuel Levison saw before him the young Marquis of Arondelle, whom hehad know as a boy and young man for years in the Highlands, and of whom, indeed, he had purchased his life interest in Lone. But he gave no signof this recognition. 

The young marquis, on his part, had every reason to know the man who hadsucceeded, not to say supplanted, his father at Lone Castle. But by nosign did he betray this knowledge. 

The recognition was mutual, instantaneous and complete. Yet both weregravely self-possessed, and addressed each other as if they had never metbefore. 

Then the banker called the attention of the young lady by his side:

"My daughter. "

She raised her eyes and saw before her the idol of her secret worship, knowing him by his portrait at Lone. She paled and flushed, while herfather, with old-fashioned formality, was saying:

"My daughter, let me introduce to your acquaintance, Mr. John Scott ofthe _National Liberator_. You have read and admired his articlesunder the signature of Justus, you know!--Mr. Scott, my daughter, MissLevison. "

Both bowed gravely, and as they looked up their eyes met in one swiftand swiftly withdrawn glance. 

And before a word could be exchanged between them the doors were thrownopen and the butler announced:

"My lady is served. "

"Sir Lemuel, will you give your arm to Lady ----, and allow me to takeMiss Levison in to dinner?" said the noble host, drawing the young lady'shand within his arm. 

"Mr. John Scott" took in Lady Belgrave. 

At dinner Miss Levison found herself seated nearly opposite to the youngmarquis. She could not watch him, she could not even lift her eyes to hisface, but she could not chose but listen to every syllable that fell fromhis lips. It was the cue of some of the leading politicians present todraw out this young apostle of the reform cause. And of course theyproceeded to do it. 

The young journalist, modest and reserved at first, as became a disciplein the presence of the leaders of the great cause, gradually grew morecommunicative, then animated, then eloquent. 

Among his hearers, none listened with a deeper interest than SalomeLevison. Although he did not address one syllable of his conversationto her, nor cast one glance of his eyes upon her, yet she hung upon hiswords as though they had been the oracles of a prophet. 

If the high ideal honor and reverence in which she held him, could havebeen increased by any circumstance, it must have been from the sentimentsexpressed, the principles declared in his discourse. 

She saw before her, not only the loyal son, who had sacrificed himselfto save his father, but she saw also in him the reformer, enlightener, educator and benefactor of his race and age. 

Of all the men she had met in the great world of society, during thethree years that she had been "out, " she had not found his equal, eitherin manly beauty and dignity, or in moral and intellectual excellence. 

_His_ brow needs no ducal coronet to ennoble it! _His_ nameneeds no title to illustrate it. The "princely Hereward!" "If all the menof his race resembled him, they well deserved this popular soubriquet. And whether this gentleman calls himself Mr. Scott or Lord Arondelle, I shall think of him only as the 'princely Hereward. '" mused Salome, asshe sat and listened to the music of his voice, and the wisdom of hiswords. 

She was sorry when their hostess gave the signal for the ladies to risefrom the table and leave the gentlemen to their wine. 

They went into the drawing-room, where the conversation turned upon thesubject of the brilliant young journalist. No one knew who he was. Scott, though a very good name, was such a common one! But the noble host'sendorsement was certainly enough to pass this gifted young gentlemanin any society. The ladies talked of nothing but Mr. Scott, and hisperfection of person, manner and conversation, until the entrance ofthe gentlemen from the dining-room. 

The host and the member for Lone came in arm in arm, and a little in therear of the other guests, and lingered behind them. 

"This most extraordinary young man, this Mr. Scott--you have known himsome time, my lord?" said Sir Lemuel Levison, in a low tone. 

"Ay, probably as long as you have, Sir Lemuel, " replied the Premier, witha peculiarly intelligent smile. 

"Ah, yes! I see! Your lordship has possibly detected my recognition ofthis young gentleman, " said Sir Lemuel. 

"Of course. And I, on my part, knew him when I first saw him again aftersome years. "

"His name was common enough to escape detection. "

"Yes, but his face was not, my dear sir. The profile of the 'princelyHereward' could never be mistaken. Our first meeting was purelyaccidental. He was pointed out to me one evening at a public meeting, as the 'Justus' of the '_National Liberator_. ' I looked andrecognized the Marquis of Arondelle. Nothing surprises or _should_surprise a middle-aged man. Therefore, I was not in the least degreemoved by what I had discovered. I sent, however, to the office of the_Liberator_ to inquire the address, not of the Marquis of Arondelle, but of the writer, under the signature of 'Justus. ' Received for answerthat it was Mr. John Scott, office of the _Liberator_. I wrote toMr. John Scott, and invited him to call on me. That was the beginning ofmy more recent acquaintance with this gifted young gentleman. Why he haschosen to drop his title I cannot know. He has every right to be calledby his family name, only, if he so pleases. And, Sir Lemuel, we mustregard his pleasure in this matter. Not even to my wife have I betrayedhim, " said the Premier, as they passed into the drawing-room. 

"Umph, umph, umph, " grunted the banker, who, surfeited with wealth thoughhe was, could think of but one cause to every evil in the world, andthat the want of money, and of but one remedy for that evil, and thatwas--plenty of money. "Umph, umph, umph! It is his poverty has made himdrop the title that he cannot support. If he would only marry my girlnow, it would all come right. "

The entrance of the tea-service occupied the guests for the next halfhour, at the end of which the little company broke up and took leave. 

Salome Levison went home more thoughtful and dreamy than everbefore--more out of favor with herself, more in love with her "paladin, "more resolved never to marry any man except he should be John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle. 

She almost loathed the hollow world of fashion in which she lived. Yetshe went more into society than ever, though she enjoyed it so much less. She had a powerful motive for doing so. She attended all the balls, parties, dinners, concerts, plays, and operas to which she was invited, only with the hope of meeting again with him whose image had never lefther heart since it first met her vision. 

But she never was gratified. She never saw him again in society. JohnScott was unknown to the world of fashion. 

The season drew to its close. Constant going out, day after day, andnight after night, would have weakened much stronger health than thatpossessed by Salome Levison. And, when added to this was constant longingexpectation, and constant sickening disappointment, we cannot wonder thatour pale heroine grew paler still. 

Her chaperone declared herself "worn out" and unable to continue herarduous duties much longer. 

Sir Lemuel Levison was puzzled and anxious. 

"I cannot see what has come to my girl! She goes out all the time; sheaccepts every invitation; gives herself no rest; yet never seems to enjoyherself anywhere. She grows paler and thinner every day, and there is ahectic spot on her cheeks and a feverish brightness in her eyes that I donot like at all. I have seen them before, and I have too much reason toknow them! I do believe she is fretting herself into a decline for herconvent. I do believe she only goes out as a sort of penance for herimaginary sins! Poor child! I must really have a talk and come to anunderstanding with her!" said the anxious father to himself, as he musedon the condition of his daughter. 

CHAPTER IV. 

SALOME'S CHOICE. 

Sir Lemuel Levison was taking his breakfast in bed. The London season wasnear its close. Parliament sat late at night, and often all night. SirLemuel, a punctual and diligent member of the House, seldom returned homebefore the early dawn. 

So Sir Lemuel was taking his breakfast in bed, and "small blame to him. "

It was a very simple breakfast of black tea, dry toast, fresh eggs, andcold ham. 

"Take these things away now, Potts. Go and find Miss Levison's maid, andtell her to let her mistress know that I wish to see my daughter here, before she goes out, " said the banker, as he drained and set down histea-cup. 

"Yes, Sir Lemuel, " respectfully answered the servant, as he lifted thebreakfast tray and bore it off. 

"Umph! that is the manner in which I have to manoeuvre for an interviewwith my own daughter, before I can get one, " grumbled the banker, as helay back on his pillow and took up a newspaper from the counter-pane. 

Before he had time to read the morning's report of the night's doings atthe House, Salome entered the room. 

The banker darted a swift keen look at her, that took in her whole aspectat a glance. 

She was dressed for a drive. She wore a simple suit of rich brown silk, with hat, vail and gloves to match, white linen collar and cuffs, andcrimson ribbon bow on her bosom, and a crimson rose in her hat. Her facewas pale and clear, but so thin that her broad, fair forehead looked toobroad beneath its soft waves of dark hair, and her deep gray eyes seemedtoo large and bright under their arched black eyebrows. 

"You wished to see me, dear papa?" she said, gently. 

"Yes, my love. But--you are going out? Of course you are. You are alwaysgoing out, when you are not gone. I hope, however, that I have notinterfered with any very important engagement of yours, my dear?" saidthe banker, half impatiently, half affectionately. 

"Oh, no, papa, love! I was only going with Lady Belgrade to a flower-showat the Crystal Palace. I will give it up very willingly if you wish me todo so, " said Salome, gently, stooping and pressing her lips to his, andthen seating herself on the side of his bed. 

"I do not wish you to do so, my child. I shall be going out myself ina couple of hours. But I want to have a little conversation with you. I suppose a few minutes more or less will make no difference in yourenjoyment of the flower-show. "

"None whatever, papa, dear. "

"Humph! Salome, now that I look at you well, I do not believe you carea penny for the flower-show. Come, tell me the truth, girl. Do you careone penny to go to the flower-show?" he inquired, looking keenly into herpensive face. 

"No, papa, dear, " she answered, in a very low tone. 

"Humph! I thought not. Now do you care for _any_ of the shows, plays, balls, and other tom-fooleries that occupy you day and night?I pause for a reply, my daughter. "

"No, papa, I do not, " she answered, in a still lower tone. 

"Then why the deuce do you go to them?" demanded the banker. 

His daughter's soft, gray eyes sank beneath his scrutinizing gaze, butshe did not answer. How _could_ she confess that she went out intocompany daily and nightly only in the hope of seeing again the one manto whom she had given her unsought heart, and for whose presence her verysoul seemed famishing. 

"What is it that you _do_ care for, then, Salome?" demanded herfather, varying his question. 

Her head sank upon her bosom, but still she did not answer. How could shetell him that she cared only for a man who did not care for her. 

"This is unbearable!" burst forth the banker. "Here you are with everyindulgence that affection can yield you, every luxury that money can giveyou, and yet you are not well nor content. What ails you girl? Are youpining after your convent? Set fire to it. Are you pining after yourconvent, I ask you, Salome?"

"Indeed, _no_, papa!"

"What!" demanded her father, starting up at her reply and gazing withdoubt into her pale, earnest face. 

"I am not thinking of the convent, dear papa. Indeed I had forgotten allabout it. If it will give you any pleasure to hear it, dear papa, let metell you that I have quite given up all ideas of entering a convent, "added Salome, with a pensive smile. 

"What!" exclaimed the banker, starting up in a sitting position andbending toward his daughter as if in doubt whether to gaze her throughand through or to catch her to his heart. 

She met that look and understood her father's love for his only child, and reproached herself for having been so blind to it for these threeyears past. 

"Dearest papa, " she said, with tender earnestness, "I have no longer theslightest wish or intention of ever entering a convent. And I wonder nowhow I ever could have been so insane as to think I could live all my lifecontentedly in a convent, or so selfish as to forget that by doing so Ishould leave my father alone in the world!"

"My darling child! Is this truly so? Are these really your thoughts?"exclaimed the banker, with such a look of delight as Salome had notbelieved possible in so aged a face. 

"Really and truly, my father! And does it give you so much pleasure?"

"Pleasure my daughter! It gives me the greatest joy! Hand me mydressing-gown, my dear. I must get up. I cannot lie here any longer. You have put new life into me!"

Salome handed him his gown, socks, and slippers, and then went to clearoff his big easy-chair, which was burdened with his yesterday's dresssuit, and draw it up for his use. 

And in a few minutes the banker, wrapped in his gown, with his feet inhis slippers, was seated comfortably in his arm-chair. 

"Now, shall I ring for Potts, papa, dear?" inquired Salome. 

"No, my love, I don't want Potts, I want you. Sit down near me, Salome, and listen to me. You have made me very happy this morning, my darling;and now I wish to make you happy; you are not so now; but I am yourfather; you are my only child; all that I have will be yours; but in themeantime, you are not happy. What can I do, my beloved child, to makeyou so?" said the banker, drawing her to his side and kissing hertenderly, and then releasing her. 

"Papa, dear, I should be a most ungrateful daughter if I were not happy, "answered the girl. 

"Then you _are_ a very thankless child, my little Salome, for youare very far from happy, " said her father, gravely shaking his head, yetlooking so tenderly upon her as to take all rebuke from his words. 

Salome dropped her eyes under his searching, loving gaze. 

"My child, I know that I have the power to bless you, if you will onlytell me how. Tell me, my dear, " persisted her father. 

But still she dropped her eyes and hung her head. 

"If your mother were here, you could confide in her. You cannot confidein your father, my poor, motherless girl, and he cannot blame you, " saidSir Lemuel, sadly. 

"Father, dear father, I _do_ love you; and I will confide in you, "said Salome, earnestly. 

For just then a mighty power of faith and love arose in her soul, castingout fear, casting out doubt, subduing pride and reserve. 

"What is it, then, my love? Have you formed any attachment of which youhave hesitated to tell me? Hesitate no longer, my dearest Salome. Tell meall about it. It is nothing to be ashamed of. Love is natural. Love isholy. Oh, it is your mother that should be telling you all this, my poorgirl, not your awkward, blundering old father, " suddenly said the banker, breaking off in his discourse as his daughter hid her crimson face uponhis shoulder. 

"My dear, gentle father, no mother could be tenderer than you, " murmuredSalome. 

"Tell me all, then, my darling. It is the first wish of my heart to seeyou happily married. And no trifling obstacle shall stand in the way ofits accomplishment. _Who is he, Salome?_" he inquired, in a lowwhisper, as he passed his hand around her neck. 

She did not answer, but she kissed and fondled his hand. 

"You cannot bring yourself to tell me yet? Well, take your own time, mylove. You will tell me some time or another, " he continued, returning hersoft caresses. 

"Yes, I will tell you sometime, dear, good, tender father. But now--whendo we leave town papa?"

"In less than three weeks, my dear. "

"And where do we go?"

"To Lone Castle, if you like; if not, anywhere you prefer, my dear. "

"Then we _will_ go to Lone, if you please, papa. "

"Certainly, my dear. "

"Papa?"

"Yes, love. "

"Will you do something for me before we leave town?"

"I will do anything on earth that you wish me to do for you, my dear, "said the banker, looking anxiously toward her. 

She hesitated for a few moments, and then said:

"Papa, I want you to give just such a semi-political dinner party as thatgiven by the Premier in the beginning of the season. "

"What! my little, pale Salome taking an interest in politics!" exclaimedthe banker, in droll surprise. 

"Yes, papa; and turning politician on a small, womanish scale. You willgive this semi-political dinner?"

"Why of course I will! Whom shall we invite?"

"Papa, the very same party to a man, whom we met at the Premier'sdinner. "

"Let me see. Who was there? Oh! there were three members of Parliamentand their wives; two city magnates and their daughters; you and myself, Lady Belgrade, and--and the Marquis of--John--Mr. John Scott, I mean. "

"Yes, papa, that was the company. Send the invitations out to-day, forthis day week please--if no engagement intervenes to prevent you. "

"Very well, my dear. You see to it. I leave it all in your hands. Now youmay ring for Potts, my dear. I have to dress and go down to the House. Iam chairman of a committee there, that meets at two. And you, my love, must be off to your flower-show. You must not keep Lady Belgradewaiting. "

Salome touched the bell, and on the entrance of the valet, she kissed herfather's hand and retired. 

"Now I wonder, " mused the old gentleman, "who it is she wants to meetagain, out of that dinner company? It cannot be either of the old M. P. 'sor their wives; nor the two elderly city magnates, or their talldaughters; that disposes of ten out of the fourteen invited guests. The remainder included Lady Belgrade, myself, Salome herself, and--Lord, bless my soul, alive!" burst forth the banker, with such a start, thathis valet, who was brushing his hair, begged his pardon, and said that hedid not mean it. 

"Lord, bless my soul alive, " mentally continued the banker, withoutpaying the slightest attention to the apologizing servant. "The Marquisof Arondelle! He was the fourteenth guest, and the only young manpresent! And upon my word and honor, the very handsomest and mostattractive young fellow I ever saw in all the days of my life! Come!" headded to himself, as the full revelation of the truth burst upon hismind; "_that_ can be easily enough arranged. If he is the sensible, practical man I take him to be, he will get back his estates and the verybest little wife that ever was wed into the bargain; and my girl will bea marchioness, and in time a duchess. But stay--what is that I heard upat Lone about the young marquis and a handsome shepherdess? Chut! what isthat to us? That is probably a slander. The marquis is a noble youngfellow; and I will bring him home with me this evening. I will not waita week until that dinner comes off. We cannot afford to lose so much timeat the end of the season, " mused the banker, through all the time hisvalet was dressing him. 

And now we must glance back to that evening when John Scott, Marquis ofArondelle, first met Salome Levison. He had met many statuesque, pink andwhite beauties in his young life; and he had admired each and all withall a young man's ardor. But not one of them had touched his heart, asdid the first full gaze of those large, soft gray eyes that were liftedto his and immediately dropped as the old banker had presented him to--

"My daughter, Miss Levison. "

She was not statuesque. She was not pink and white. She was not at allhandsome, or even pretty; yet something in the pale, sweet, earnest face, something in the soft clear gray eyes touched his heart even before hewas presented to her. But when she lifted those eloquent eyes to hisface, there was such a world of sympathy, appreciation and devotion intheir swift and swiftly-withdrawn gaze, that her soul seemed then andthere to reveal itself to his soul. 

He never again met the full gaze of those spirit eyes. He never exchangeda word with her after the first few formal words of greeting. He had onlybowed to her, in taking leave that evening. 

Yet those eyes had haunted him in their meek appealing tenderness eversince. He did not meet her anywhere by accident, and he did not try tomeet her by design. He only thought of her constantly. But what had he todo with the banker's wealthy heiress, the future mistress of Lone? If hewere so unwise as to seek her acquaintance, the world would be quick toascribe the most mercenary motives to his conduct. But like weaker mindedlovers, he comforted himself by writing such transcendental poetry as"The Soul's Recognition, " "The Meeting of the Spirits, " "What Those EyesSaid, " etc. He did not publish these. After having relieved his mind ofthem, he put them away to keep in his portfolio. So you see the handsome, "princely" Hereward was as much in love with our pale, gray-eyed girl asShe could possibly be with him. 

And so with the young marquis also the season passed slowly and heavilyaway, until the day came when into his den at the office of the_Liberator_ walked Sir Lemuel Levison. 

His heart really beat faster, although it was only her father whoentered. 

He arose, and placed a chair for his visitor. 

"Lord Arondelle, you _know_ I knew you when I met you at Lord P. 'sdinner-party, and I saw that you knew me. It was not my business tointerfere with your incognito, and so I met you as you met me--as astranger. But surely here and now we may meet as friends withoutdisguise, " said the banker, as he slowly sank into his seat. 

"We must do so, Sir Lemuel, since we are _tete-a-tete_. It wouldbe idle and useless to do otherwise, " replied the young marquis, courteously. 

"And now, my young friend, you are wondering what has brought me here, "continued the banker. 

"I am at least most grateful to any circumstance that gives me thepleasure of your company, Sir Lemuel, " courteously replied the youngmarquis. 

"Well, my lord, I come to beg you to waive ceremony, and go home with meto dinner this evening. I hope you have no engagement to prevent you fromcoming, " added Sir Lemuel, with more earnestness than the occasion seemedto call for. 

"I have no engagement to prevent me, " answered the young man frankly, butslowly and thoughtfully, for he was wondering not only at the invitationbut at the suddenness and earnestness with which it was given. 

"Then I _hope_ you will come?" said the banker. 

"You are very kind, Sir Lemuel. Yes, thanks, I will come, " said themarquis. 

"So happy! Will you allow me to call for you--at--at your lodgings?"

"Thanks, Sir Lemuel, if you will kindly call _here_ at your ownhour, it will be more directly in your way home, and you will find meready to accompany you. "

"Quite right. I will be here at seven. Good morning. "

And with this the banker went away. 

"He wants me to make an article about something, I suppose, " mused theyoung man when the elder had gone. "I will go. I will see that sweet girlagain, even if I never see her afterwards. "

The temptation was certainly very strong. And so, at the appointed hour, when the banker called at the office of the _National Liberator_ hefound the young gentleman in evening dress ready to accompany him home. 

Salome Levison was dressed for dinner, and seated in the drawing-roomwith her chaperone, Lady Belgrade. 

Salome was certainly not expecting any guest. But she intended to go tothe opera that evening with Lady Belgrade, to hear the last act of Norma. Luckily for Sir Lemuel's plan, it was not a peremptory engagement, andcould easily be set aside. 

On this evening she was beautifully dressed. She wore a delicate tea-rosetinted rich silk skirt, with an over skirt of point lace, looped up withtea-rose buds, a tea-rose in her dark hair, a necklace of opals set indiamonds, and bracelets of the same beautiful jewels. Refined, elegant, and most interesting she certainly looked. 

Meanwhile, the banker came home, and himself conducted the unexpectedguest to the drawing-room. 

"Mr. John Scott, my dear, " said Sir Lemuel, bringing the young gentlemanup to his daughter. 

The young marquis caught the sudden lighting up of those soft, gray eyes, and the sudden flushing of those delicate cheeks. 

It was but for an instant; for even as he bowed before her, her eyes felland her color faded. 

It was but for an instant, yet in that glance those eyes had againrevealed her soul to his. 

The young marquis was not a vain man. He could not at once believe theevidence of his own consciousness. But he found it rather more awkward tosit down and open a conversation with this pale, shy girl, than he everhad in his palmiest days to make himself agreeable to the brightestbeauty that ever honored Castle Lone with a visit. 

For once the presence of a chaperone was not unwelcome to a pair of youngpeople secretly in love with each other. 

Lady Belgrade chattered of the weather, the opera the park, and what not, and relieved the embarrassment of the lovers during the interval in whichSir Lemuel Levison had gone to change his dress. 

The young marquis seldom spoke to Salome, but when he did, his voice sankto a low, tender, reverential tone that thrilled her inmost spirit. Shereplied to him only in soft monosyllables, but her drooping eyelids, andkindling cheeks, told him all he wished to know. He might have wonderedmore at the interest he had seemed to excite in a girl he had met butonce before, had he not had a corresponding experience himself. He knewthat he himself had been deeply impressed by this sweet, shy, pale girl, on the first meeting of her soft gray eyes, with their soul of loveshining through them. 

He did not know that this "soul of love" had first been awakened in her, by hearing his story and seeing his portrait, and that it was which sopowerfully attracted him--for love creates love. 

Sir Lemuel Levison hurried over his toilet, and soon entered thedrawing-room. 

Dinner was immediately announced. 

"Mr. Scott, will you take my daughter to the table?" said the banker, ashe gave his own arm to Lady Belgrade. 

It was an elegant little dinner for four, arranged upon a round table. There was no possibility of estrangement, in so small a party as that. 

Sir Lemuel talked gayly, and without effort, for he was very happy. LadyBelgrade chattered, because she was spiritually a magpie. And as bothconstantly appealed to "Mr. Scott, " or to Salome, it was impossible foreither of the lovers to relapse into awkward silence. The conversationwas general and lively. 

Sir Lemuel Levison and Lady Belgrade would have talked in the mostflattering manner of "Mr. Scott's" leaders, if that young gentleman hadnot laughingly waived off all such direct compliments. 

When dinner was over, Lady Belgrade gave the signal, and arose from thetable. Salome followed her, and left the two gentlemen to their wine. 

"It afflicts me to have to call you Mr. Scott, my lord, " said Sir Lemuel, when he found himself alone with his guest. 

"Then call me John, as you used to do when I rode upon your foot in mychildhood, and when I used to come to you in all my worst scrapes inboyhood--I shall never resume my title, Sir Lemuel, " replied the youngman. 

"Never!" exclaimed the banker. 

"Never, Sir Lemuel. A pauper lord is rather a ridiculous object. I willnever be one. "

"You _could_ not be one. I won't hear you say such things aboutyourself. See here, John. Do you know why I bought Lone when I knew itwas to be sold?"

"I suppose because you wanted it. "

"Now what did I want with Lone? I, an old widower, without family, exceptone little girl at school? I did not want Lone. I wanted you to have it. But I knew that if I did not buy it some one else would. And--I had thisonly daughter, who would have Lone after me. And I thought perhaps--Butthen you disappeared, you know, and no one on earth could tell for threeyears what had become of you, when you suddenly turned up as Mr. JohnScott at the Premier's dinner. "

The banker paused, and ran his hand through his gray hair. 

The young man looked at him with curiosity and interest. 

"Plague take it all! her mother, if she has one, could manage this matterso much better than I can, " muttered the banker, as he poured out a glassof wine and drank it. "Well, Lord Arondelle--I will give myself thepleasure of calling you so while we are _tete-a-tete_ 'over thewalnuts and wine. ' Lord Arondelle, there is my daughter; what do youthink of her?" he demanded, bending down his gray brows and fixing hiskeen blue eyes scrutinizingly upon the young man's face which flushed atthe suddenness of the question. But he quickly recovered himself, andreplied in a low, reverent tone:

"I think Miss Levison the loveliest young creature I have ever had thehappiness to know. "

"You do! So do _I_! I think so too. And the man who gets my girl towife will get a pearl of price. "

"I truly believe that, " said the young man, with an involuntary sigh. 

"That is right! Ahem! Bother it! a woman could do this so much betterthan such a blundering old fellow as I! Well, there! Salome has, in thethree years since her first entrance into society, refused half a scoreof eligible men. She is, and always has been, perfectly free from anysuch engagement. If you are equally free, my dear marquis--(If I couldonly be her mother for three seconds)--Ahem! if you are equally free, and if you admire my girl as you say you do, and if you can win heraffections--she--she shall be yours, and I will settle Lone upon her. There, her mother would have done this better, I know. So much betterthat you would have proposed to my daughter without ever dreaming thatthe suggestion came from our side. But as for me, I have flung my girlat your head, nothing less!" grumbled the banker. 

"My dear Sir Lemuel, " said the young man, with some emotion, as he lefthis seat and came and stood by the banker's chair, leaning affectionatelyover him; "when I first met your lovely daughter, I was so deeplyimpressed by her rare sweetness, gentleness, intelligence--ah! Heavenknows what it was! It was something more than all these. In a word, I wasso deeply impressed by her perfect loveliness, that had I been as reallythe heir of Lone as I was the Marquis of Arondelle, I should at once havecultivated her further acquaintance, and, before this, have laid my heartand hand, titles and estates, at her feet. "

"Well, well, my boy? Well, my dear lad, why didn't you do it?" inquiredthe banker, with tears rising to his kind eyes. 

"I have just told you, because I was a ruined man, " said the marquis withmournful dignity. 

"'A ruined man?'" echoed the banker, with almost angry earnestness. "_I_ know that you are _not_ a ruined man! And you know, evenbetter than I do, because you have more brains than I have; YOUknow that no young man, sound in body and sound in mind, can be ruinedby any financial calamity that can fall upon him. You love my daughter, you say. Well, then, you have my authority to ask her to be your wife. There, what do you say?"

The young marquis sat down and covered his face with his hand for onethoughtful moment, and then replied:

"This is a happiness so unexpected that it seems unreal. Sir Lemuel, doyou really appreciate the fact that I am a man without a shilling thatI do not earn by my labor?"

"I really appreciate the fact, and most highly appreciate the fact thatyou are Marquis of Arondelle, and to be Duke of Hereward--and that youare personally as noble in nature as you are fortunately noble indescent. And although my first motive in favoring this marriage is thepure desire for yours and for my daughter's happiness, still I assureyou, my lord, I am keenly alive to its eligibility in a mere worldlypoint of view. Your ancient historical title is, (to speak as a man ofthe world, ) much more than an equivalent for my daughter's expectations. But it is not, as I said before, as a highly eligible, conventionalmarriage that I most desire it, but as a marriage that I feel sure willsecure the happiness of yourself and my daughter, whom I shall, nevertheless, be very proud to see, some day, Duchess of Hereward. Come, now, I never saw a gallant young man hesitate so long. I shall growangry presently. "

"Sir Lemuel, " said the marquis, with some irrepressible emotion, "wereI now really the Duke of Hereward, and the owner of Lone, and were yourlovely daughter as dowerless as I am penniless at this moment, and didyou give her to me, my deepest gratitude would be due you, and you haveit now. When may I see Miss Levison and put my fate to the test?"

"That's right. Upon my word, my boy, if I were a galvanic foreignerinstead of a staid Englishman, I should jump up and embrace you. Consideryourself embraced. When shall you see her? We will go into the diningroom now and get a cup of tea from the ladies; after which, you shall seeher as soon and as often as you please. And after you win her, as I amsure you will, we will have a blithe wedding and you and your bride willdo the Continent for a wedding-tour, and then come back and spend theAutumn at Lone. We two old papas, the duke and myself, will join youthere, and everything will be quite as it used to be in the old days. "

"Ah! my poor father!" sighed the young man. 

"What of the duke, my dear boy? You told me he was well, " said thebanker, anxiously. 

"Yes, he is well in body, better in body than he has been for years; butI think that is only because his mind is failing. "

"I am very sorry to hear that! In what respect does this failure showitself--in loss of memory?"

"In partial loss of memory; but chiefly in a hallucination that possesseshim. He thinks that he is still the master of Lone as well as the Dukeof Hereward. He thinks that he lives in London, and in the mostObjectionable part of London, only to gratify my 'eccentric whim' ofbeing a journalist. And he daily and hourly urges me to return with himto Lone!"

"In the name of Heaven, then gratify him! Take him to Lone as my guest, until you can keep him there as your own. Let him be happy in theillusion that he is still its master. I will see that the servants there, who are most of them his own old people, do not say or do anything todispel the illusion! Come, my son-in-law, that is to be, will you takeyour father at once to Lone?"

For all answer the young marquis grasped and wrung the hand of his oldfriend. 

"But will you do it?" persisted the banker, who wanted to be satisfied onthat point. 

"I will think of it. I will think most gratefully of your kindinvitation, Sir Lemuel. And now shall we join the ladies?"

"Certainly, " said the banker. 

They went into the drawing-room. 

Lady Belgrade was presiding over the tea urn. 

Salome, who was seated near her, looked up and saw him. Again the marquisnoted the sudden, beautiful lighting up of those soft, gray eyes, as theywere lifted for a moment to his face. Again they fell beneath his glance, as her pale cheeks flushed up. He could not be mistaken. This sweet girlwhom he loved, loved him in return. 

"I was just about to send for you. You lingered long at table, SirLemuel, " said Lady Belgrade, as the two gentlemen bowed and seatedthemselves. 

"Oh, important political and journalistic matters to discuss, " said SirLemuel. ("Only they were _not_ discussed, ") he added, mentally. 

"So I supposed, " said Lady Belgrade, as she handed him a cup of tea, which he immediately passed to his guest. 

After tea, when the service was removed, Sir Lemuel challenged LadyBelgrade for a game of chess, and told his daughter to show Mr. Scottthose chromoes of the Madonnas of Raphael which had arrived in the lastparcel from Paris. 

Salome flushed to the edges of her dark hair as she arose, glancedshyly at her guest for an instant, and walked to the other end of thedrawing-room. 

There, on a gilded stand, under a brilliant gasolier, lay a large andhandsome volume, which Salome indicated as the one referred to by herfather. 

The marquis brought two chairs to the stand, and they sat down to go overthe book. 

Meanwhile, the banker and the dowager commenced their game of chess. Butfrom time to time, each looked furtively in the direction of the youngpeople. _They_ were looking at the Madonnas of Raphael, and, oncein a while, shyly into each other's eyes. All that Sir Lemuel saw therepleased him. All that Lady Belgrade saw there _dis_pleased her. 

At length she put her hand over that of her antagonist, and stopped hismove while she said:

"Sir Lemuel, a conflagration may be arrested by stamping out a spark offire. "

"Whatever do you mean, my lady!" inquired the perplexed banker. 

"An inundation may be prevented by stopping up a small leak. "

"I am more mystified than ever!"

"Look at Salome and Mr. Scott, then, " said her ladyship, solemnly. 

"Well, what of them? They seem to be very happy and very well pleasedwith each other. "

"Ah! that is it, and worse may come of it. "

"What worse can come of it?"

"Sir Lemuel, this Mr. Scott, you must remember, is nothing but anadventurer, who only gains an entrance into respectable circles onaccount of his journalistic reputation. He is probably also a pauper, but being a very handsome and attractive man, he is certainly a verydangerous, and likely to be a very successful fortune-hunter. "

"You mean he may try to marry my heiress?"

"Yes, Sir Lemuel. "

"He has my full consent to do so. "

"Sir Lemuel!"

"Listen, my good lady, I have a secret to tell you. That gentleman whomwe have known as Mr. John Scott only, is really Archibald-Alexander-JohnScott, Marquis of Hereward. "

A woman of the world is hardly ever "taken aback. " Lady Belgrade gave noexclamation. But she caught her breath and stared at the speaker. 

"It is as I have told you. He is the Marquis of Arondelle. He is going tomarry my daughter. He will get back Lone through her. And she will beMarchioness of Arondelle, and in due time Duchess of Hereward. "

"You--don't--say--so!" breathed her ladyship, slowly. 

"And now, you know how to manage it. You must aid the young couple asmuch as you can by giving them as much as possible of each other'ssociety. "

"Yes, I see, " said her ladyship. "And now--don't look toward them again. "

The banker nodded intelligently. And they gave their attention to thegame. 

And the two young people seemed to find inexhaustible interest in thevolume they were bending over. 

It was eleven o'clock before the young marquis arose to take leave. 

"I have asked Miss Levison to ride with me in the Park to-morrow, and shehas kindly consented--with your approbation, Sir Lemuel, " said the youngman. 

"Certainly, Mr. Scott. I consider horseback riding one of the mosthealthful of exercises, " said the banker, heartily. 

The young marquis then bowed and took his leave. 

Lady Belgrade gathered up her embroidery work and bade them good-night. 

"My girl, what do you think of Mr. Scott?" asked the banker, when he wasleft alone with his daughter. 

"Oh, papa, " she breathed in an embarrassed manner. 

"Do you know who he really is, my dear?"

"Yes, papa, I knew him when I first met him at the Premier's dinner. I knew him by his portrait that I saw at Castle Lone!"

"Oh, you did!" said the banker, musing. 

His daughter looked at him for a moment, and then suddenly threw herselfinto his arms, clasped his neck and kissed him fervently, exclaiming, with her face radiant with delight:

"Oh, papa! this is all your doing! I understand it all, dear papa! Blessyou! bless you! bless you, my own, own dear papa! You have made yourchild so happy!"

CHAPTER V. 

ARONDELLE'S CONSOLATION. 

On the next day, at the appointed hour, Salome came down to thedrawing-room dressed for her ride. 

She wore a rich habit of dark blue summer-cloth, fastened with smallgold buttons, fine, tiny white linen cuffs and collar, dark blue gloves, dark blue velvet hat with a short, white ostrich plume secured by a smallgold butterfly, and she carried in her hand a slender ivory-handledriding-whip, set with a sapphire. Her dress was neat, elegant, andappropriate; and her face was for the moment radiant and beautifulfrom inward joy. 

In due time, the young marquis presented himself, and the lovers wentforth for their ride. 

It is not necessary to linger over this courtship, in which "the courseof true love" ran so smooth as to seem monotonous to all but the loversthemselves. 

The ride was followed by the small dinner party. And after that the youngmarquis became a daily visitor at Elmthorpe House, where he was everreceived with fatherly affection by Sir Lemuel, and with subdued delightby Salome. 

The lovers had come to a mutual understanding for days before the marquismade a formal proposal for Miss Levison's hand. 

But it happened one evening that they found themselves alone in thedrawing-room. They were seated at a table, loaded with books ofengravings, photographs, and so forth. 

Salome was turning over the pages of Dore's Milton. 

"Close the volume, now, Miss Levison, " Lord Arondelle said at length, uttering the formal words with a tone and look of such reverentialtenderness as to seem a caress. 

Salome shut the book, and looked up to read the open volume of hiseloquent face; but her eyes instantly sank beneath the gaze of ardentpassion that met them. 

"Listen to me, Salome, my beloved; for I love you, and have loved youever since the first moment when I met the beautiful spirit beamingthrough your sweet eyes--'Sweetest eyes were ever seen!' Dear eyes! lookon me!"

Salome, for all her profound and ardent affections, was still a very shymaiden. She wished to raise her eyes to his; she wished to pour her heartout to him; to let him have the comfort of knowing how perfectly sheloved him, how utterly she was his own. But she could not look at him, she could not speak to him as yet. Her dark eyelashes drooped to hercrimson cheeks. 

"My beloved, do you hear me? I am telling you how I have loved you sinceI first met your heavenly eyes. This is no lover's rhapsody, my own, foryour eyes are heavenly in their spiritual beauty. And they have hauntedme, Salome, like the eyes of a guardian angel ever since they firstlooked upon me. Daily they would have drawn me to your side but for mywrecked and ruined state, " he said, with a half suppressed sigh. 

His look, his tone, and, more than all, his allusion to the calamity ofhis house, reached her soul, and broke the spell of reserve by which shewas bound. 

"Oh, do not say that you are ruined!" she cried, in a voice thrilled andthrilling with profound emotion. "Do not think that you are ruined. _You_ could _never_ be ruined. _Nothing_ could ruin_you_. It is not in the power of fate to ruin a man likeYOU. And if you loved me when you first met my eyes it wasbecause you read in them the soul that was created yours! And if theseeyes have haunted you ever since it was because this soul has been alwayslonging, yearning, aspiring towards yours!" And she dropped her face inher hands and wept for pure joy. 

"Salome, Salome, can this be indeed true? Can I have been so blessed? AmI indeed so happy? Then is this abundant compensation for all that I havelost in this world! Heavenly consolation for all I have suffered onearth! Speak again, oh, my dearest! Tell me once more, for I can scarcelyrealize my happiness! Speak again, beloved, for your words are life tome!" he exclaimed, with profound emotion. 

"Yes, I will tell you all!" she said, wiping away her joyful tears andlooking up. "I will tell you everything for it is your right! You havemade me so happy to-day! I loved you from the beginning. First, I lovedthe magnanimous, self-sacrificing man who, at the age of twenty-oneyears, with a brilliant future before him, could renounce all hisprospects to give peace to his father's latter years. I loved you then, Lord Arondelle, before I knew what manner of man you looked!"

"How blessed, how surely blessed I am in hearing you, " he breathed, ina low and reverent tone. 

"Afterward I saw your portrait in Malcolm's Tower at Lone, " shecontinued, in a soft voice. "And I saw a beauty and a grandeur in theface and form that seemed the fitting manifestation of a soul like yours. And I loved you more than ever. My mornings were passed in the tower nearthe glory of that picture. But I gazed on it so hopelessly! You weremissing, you were lost to your world! And then I was so plain, so pale, and dark and gray-eyed. If I should ever be so fortunate as to meet you, I thought you would never be likely to love me!"

"My consolation! You are most lovely from your spirit, and now you_know_ that I loved you from my first meeting with you, " hebreathed, in a low, earnest tone, pouring his whole soul's devotionthrough the gaze that he fixed on her face. 

Again her eyes drooped as she murmured:

"If I am lovely in the very least, it must be that my love for you hasmade me so; for, even then, when I had only heard your story and seenyour portrait, I loved you so, that I could not think of marriage withany other man. "

"And that was the reason why you refused so many excellent offers?" heinquired, with a smile. 

"Perhaps that was the reason, " she replied, lowly bending her head. 

"Tell me more, my consolation! I thirst for your words; they are as thewords of life to me, " he murmured, eagerly. 

She continued, still speaking in a low, thrilling voice:

"At last--at last--at last--after three long years of waiting, longing, aspiring, I met you face to face. Oh!" she exclaimed, and as she spokeher hand for the first time went out to meet his, which closed upon itwith a close clasp, and her eyes lifted themselves to his in a fullblaze of love that seemed to blend their spirits into one. 

"Oh! if in that moment you loved me, it must have been because you readmy soul, for in that moment I consecrated my life to you for acceptanceor rejection. I recorded a vow in heaven to be no man's wife unlessI could be yours; but to live unmarried so that when, in the course ofnature, my dear father should pass to the higher life and leave me CastleLone, I might be free to transfer it to its rightful owner. "

"Ah! my beloved! you would have been capable of such an act ofrenunciation as that! But I could not have accepted the sacrifice, Salome. "

"In that case I should have made a will and bequeathed it to you, andthen prayed to the Lord to take me from the earth, that you might have itall the sooner. But let that pass. Thanks be to Heaven, there is no needof that. It would have been sweet to die for you, but it is so muchsweeter to _live_ for you, dearest!" she said, lifting up a facein which rosy blushes, radiant smiles, and beaming eyes were blended indazzling beauty. 

"Oh! angel of my destiny, what can I render you for all the blessings youhave brought me?" exclaimed her lover, clasping her to his bosom in aclose embrace. 

"Your love--your love! which will crown me a queen among women!" shewhispered, softly. 

The morning succeeding this scene, Lord Arondelle called and asked fora private interview with Sir Lemuel Levison. 

He was invited up into the library, where he found the banker alone amonghis books. 

"Good morning, Arondelle. Glad to see you. Take this chair, " said the oldgentleman, rising, shaking hands with his visitor, and placing a seat forhim. 

The young marquis returned the hearty shake of the banker's hand, andtook the offered chair. 

"Now, I suppose that you have come to tell me that you have taken up thegirl I flung at your head about a month ago?" said the banker, rubbinghis hands. 

"No, nothing of the sort, " replied the young marquis, effectuallydeclining to understand the jest of his host. "I do not remember that youever flung any girl at my head. I came, Sir Lemuel, to tell you that I amso happy as to have won Miss Levison's consent to be my wife, if we haveyour approbation, " he added, with a bow. 

"Humph! It amounts to about the same thing. Well, my dear boy, you havemy consent and blessing on two conditions. "

"Name them, Sir Lemuel. "

"The first is, that you can assure me on your honor that you really dolove my daughter. I would not give her to an emperor who did not love heras she deserves to be loved, " said the banker, emphatically. 

"Love her!" repeated the young man, in a deep and earnest tone. "Love isscarcely the word, nor adoration, nor worship! She is the soul of mysoul! She lives in my life, and my life is the larger, higher, holier forher!"

"Humph! I don't understand one word of what you are talking about, but Isuppose it means that you really do love Salome. So the first conditionwill be fulfilled, " said the banker, with a smile. 

"And the second, sir. What is the second?"

"The second is, that the marriage shall take place within a month fromthis time. "

"Agreed, sir. The sooner the better. The sooner I may call your lovelydaughter mine, the sooner I shall be the most blessed among men, "exclaimed the young marquis, earnestly clapping his palm into the openhand of the banker, and shaking it heartily. 

"There! well, the second condition will be fulfilled. And now I will tellyou what I never told you in so many words before, namely, that on theday Salome Levison becomes Marchioness of Arondelle, I will give her Loneas a marriage portion. There, now, not a word more upon that subject. Iwill send a message to my attorney to meet us here to-morrow morning, "said the banker, rising and ringing the bell. 

"You will let me thank--" began the marquis. 

"No, I won't!" exclaimed the banker, cutting short the young gentleman'sacknowledgements. "Excuse me now half a minute, I want to write a line, "he added, as he hastily scribbled off a note. 

A footman entered in answer to the bell. 

"Take this to the office of the Messrs. Prye, Lincoln's Inn Fields, andwait an answer, " said Sir Lemuel, handing the folded note to the man, whobowed and retired. 

"Prye must meet us here to-morrow morning to see to the marriagesettlements. And I must see to Prye! Even lawyers may be hurried if theybe well paid for making haste!" concluded the banker, rubbing his hands. "But now go and find Salome, and tell her it is all right! She has notgot a stern father to ruffle the course of her true love, but a spooneyold fellow who spreads out his hands over your heads and says: 'Bul-lessyou, my chee-ild-der-en!'"

Lord Arondelle smiled at the dry banker's imitation of the heavystage-father, but made no comment. 

"Yes, go see Salome; and then go to the duke, your father, and acquainthim with the result of your proposal. I take it for granted that you hadhis grace's authority for making it. "

"I had, sir. He told me to be guided by my own judgment. "

"Well tell him all about the settlements as I have told them to you. Agree to any amendment he may propose, for I will make it all right. "

"That is allowing a very large margin, indeed. I thank you, Sir Lemuel;but I must reflect before taking advantage of it. "

"Well, well; perhaps the duke will meet my solicitor here to-morrowmorning in regard to the settlements. I consider the fact that he hassteadily declined every invitation I have sent him to come to us on anyoccasion. Still, I hope he may be induced to honor us with his presenceto-morrow in the interest of these marriage settlements, and to remainand dine with us in honor of this betrothal, " said the banker. 

"I hope you will kindly continue to excuse my father, sir. His age, hisinfirmities, his failing mind and body, will, I trust, be his sufficientapologies, " said the young marquis gravely. 

"You think that he will not come, then!"

"I fear that he cannot. "

"I'm sorry for that. However, tell him all that I have told you, andagree to any alterations in the settlements that he may see fit tosuggest. There! Go to Salome! Go to Salome! I must be off to the House, "said the conscientious M. P. Rising, and putting an end to the interview. 

It was subsequently arranged that the marriage should be celebrated atCastle Lone on that day three weeks. 

Two weeks out of the three, Sir Lemuel Levison remained in town to givehis daughter and her chaperon an opportunity of getting up as good atrousseau as could be prepared in so short a time. But jewellers, milliners, and dressmakers may be hurried as well as lawyers, when theyare well paid to make haste. And so, in two weeks, the banker's heiress, the future Marchioness of Arondelle and Duchess of Hereward, had atrousseau as magnificent and splendid as if it had been in preparationfor two years. When it was all carefully packed and sent down to Lone, Sir Lemuel Levison and his household prepared to follow. 

On the day before their departure a very curious thing happened. 

Sir Lemuel was waiting in his library, when a footman entered and laid acard before him. It was not a visiting card, but a business card. And itbore the name of a firm:

Dazzle and Sparkle, jewellers, Number Blank, Bond street. 

"What is the meaning of this?" inquired the banker. 

"If you please, sir, the person who brought it directed me to say, thathe craves to speak with you on the most important business, " answered theman. 

"Important to himself most likely, and not in the least so to me. Well, show him up, " said Sir Lemuel. 

The servant withdrew and, after a few moments, reappeared and announced:

"Mr. Dazzle, of Dazzle and Sparkle, Bond street. "

A little, round-bodied, bald-headed man entered the library. 

Sir Lemuel Levison received him with some surprise, but with muchpoliteness. 

"I have come, sir, on a little business, " began the visitor, whoforthwith proceeded and explained his business at length. 

It seemed that the imbecile Duke of Hereward, being well pleased with hisson's marriage, and imagining himself still to be the master of Lone andof a princely revenue, went to Messrs. Dazzle and Sparkle, and ordereda splendid set of diamonds for his prospective daughter-in-law. 

The firm, who, as well as all the world of London, had heard of theforthcoming marriage between the son of the pauper duke and the daughterof the wealthy banker, gravely accepted the order, pondered over it, andfinally determined to lay the whole matter before the banker himself. 

"You have acted with much discretion, Mr. Dazzle. Fill the duke's order, and hold me responsible for the amount. And say nothing of the affair, "was the banker's answer to the tradesman, who bowed and left the room. 

The next morning Sir Lemuel Levison, his daughter, her chaperon, andtheir household, went down to Castle Lone. 

Active preparations were at once commenced for the wedding, which was totake place at Lone on the Tuesday of the following week. 

The first thing that Salome did on reaching the castle was to have theportrait of the Marquis of Arondelle brought down from the tower andmounted in state between the two lofty front windows of her favoritesitting-room. 

Among the servants at Lone, none received the bride elect with moreeffusive love than the old housekeeper, Girzie Ross. 

"Eh, me leddy! Heaven, sent ye to redeem Lone. My benison on ye, meleddy! and my ban on yon hizzie, wha hae been makin' sic' an ado, eversin the report o' your betrothal has been noised about!" said the dame. 

"But who are you talking about, my dear Mrs. Ross?" inquired Salome. 

"Ou just that handsom hizzie, Rosy Cameron, wha will hae it that she, hervera sel', is troth-plighted to our young laird--the jaud!" replied thehousekeeper. 

"But, Mrs. Ross, surely that must be a mistake of yours. No girl couldhave the impertinence to say such a false thing of Lord Arondelle, "exclaimed Salome, in disgust and abhorrence of the very idea presented. 

"Indeed, then, my young lady, _she_ ha' the impertinence to say justthat thing--not in a whisper and in a corner, but loudly in the veracastle court, to whilk she cam yestreen, sae noisily that I was fain tothreaten her wi' the constable before I could get shet o' her, " said thehousekeeper nodding her head. 

"What can the girl mean by it? What excuse can she possibly have tojustify such a mad charge?" inquired Salome, in a painful anxiety thatshe could neither conquer nor yet explain to herself. She did not doubtthe honor of her promised husband. She would have died rather than doubthim. Why, then, should this sudden anguish wring her heart. "What excusecan she have, Mrs. Ross?" repeated Salome. 

"Eh, me leddy, wha kens? Boys will be boys. And whiles the best o' themwill be wild where a bonny lassie is concerned. No that's I'm saying sica thing anent our young laird. But ye ken he used to be unco fond o' thesport o' deer stalking up by Ben Lone, where this handsome hizzie, RoseCameron, bides wi' her owld feyther. And I e'en think the young laird, may whiles, hae putten a speak on the lass. Nae mair nor less than justthat, " said the housekeeper as she left the room to look after someimportant household work. 

A few minutes after her exit, Sir Lemuel Levison entered. 

Finding his daughter almost in tears, he naturally inquired:

"What on earth is the matter with you, my child?"

"Nothing, papa! At least nothing that should trouble me!"

"But what is it?"

"Well then, papa, dear, here has been a foolish girl--_very_foolish, I think she must be, going about, intruding even into theCastle, and telling all that will listen to her, that _she_ isbetrothed to the Marquis of Arondelle. "

"Oh! Just as I feared!" muttered the banker, in a tone that instantlyriveted the attention of his daughter. 

"_What_ did you fear, my father?" she inquired, fixing her eyes uponhis face. 

The banker hesitated. 

His daughter repeated her question:

"_What_ did you fear, my dear father?"

"Why, just what has happened, my love!" impatiently answered the banker. "That this silly report would reach your ears and give you uneasiness. It_has_ reached you; but do not, I beseech you, let it trouble you!"

"There is no truth in it of course, papa?" said Salome, in a tone ofentreaty. 

"No, no, at least none that need concern you. Lord bless my soul, girl, young men will be young men! Arondelle is now about twenty-five years ofage. And he was not brought up in a convent, as you were. He has livedfor a quarter of a century in the world! Surely, you do not expect thata young man should live as long as that without ever admiring a prettyface, and even telling its owner so, do you?"

"I never once thought about that, at all, papa, " said Salome, in amournful tone. 

"No, I'll warrant you didn't! Well, don't think anything more of it now. And don't expect too much of human nature. In this year of grace thereare no saints left alive! Believe that, and accept it, my girl!"

CHAPTER VI. 

A HORRIBLE MYSTERY ON THE WEDDING DAY. 

On the day before the wedding all the preparations were completed. 

The grounds around the castle, paradisial in their own natural beautyunder this heavenly blue sky of June, were adorned with all that art andtaste and wealth could bring to enhance their attractions in honor of theoccasion. 

Triumphal arches of rare exotic flowers were erected at intervals alongthe avenue leading from the castle courtyard down to the bridge thatspanned Loch Lone from the island, to the mountain hamlet on the mainland. The bridge itself was canopied with evergreens, and starred withroses. Every house in the little hamlet of Lone was so wreathed andfestooned with flowers as to look like a fairy bower. The little gothicchurch, said to be coeval in history with the castle itself, wasdecorated within and without as for an Easter or Christmas festival. Andthe only inn of the place, an antiquated but most comfortable publichouse, known for centuries as the "Hereward Arms, " was almost coveredwith flags, banners and bushes, in honor of the presence of the Duke ofHereward, and the Marquis of Arondelle, especially, and of other nobleguests who had arrived there to assist at the wedding of the next day. 

Yes, the expectant bridegroom and his aged father were at the HerewardArms. Etiquette did not admit of their being guests at the Castle on theday before the expected marriage. And much ado had the young marquis tokeep the duke quietly at the inn. The old man enjoying his pleasinghallucination of being still the proprietor of Lone, and the possessor ofa princely revenue, fretted against the delay that detained him at theHereward Arms, when he was so anxious to go on to Castle Lone. And hisson did not venture to leave him until late at night, when he left him inbed and asleep. 

Then the young marquis walked out and crossed the evergreen coveredbridge leading to the Castle grounds. He knew that custom did notsanction his visit to his bride-elect on the night before their wedding, but he could at least gaze on the walls that sheltered her, while herambled over the rich lawns, parterres, shrubberies, and terraces. 

Within the Castle, meanwhile, all the arrangements for the morning'sfestivity were completed. 

Halls, drawing-rooms, parlors, chambers, and dining-rooms, allsumptuously furnished and beautifully decorated, were ready for thewedding guests. 

In the dining-room the luxurious wedding-breakfast was set. The servicewas of solid gold and finest Sevres china; the viands comprised everyforeign and domestic delicacy fitting the feast. 

In the drawing-room the magnificent bridal presents weredisplayed--coronets, necklaces, earrings, brooches, bracelets, rings, of pearls, diamonds, opals, emeralds, sapphires, and amethysts; jewelcaskets, dressing cases, work boxes, and writing desks, of ormolu, ofmalachite, of pearl, and of ivory, of silver, and of gold; illuminatedprayer-books and Bibles, with antique covers and clasps set with preciousstones; tea and dinner sets of solid gold; camel's hair and Cashmereshawls and scarfs; sets of lace in Honiton, Brussels, Valencia. Irishpoint and old point--on to an endless list of the most splendidofferings. 

"The wealth of Ormus and of Ind"

seemed to load the tables in costly gifts to the banker's daughter, andmarquis' bride. 

In the bride's own luxurious dressing-room, the elegant bridal costumewas displayed. It consisted of a fine point-lace dress over atrained-skirt of rich white satin, a full-length vail of pricelesscardinal point-lace; white kid boots, embroidered with small pearls;white kid gloves, trimmed at the wrists with lace; wreath and bouquet oforange flowers; necklace and pendant earrings and bracelets of richOriental pearls, set with diamonds. These jewels were the imaginary giftof the mad duke to the bride-elect of his son, and were paid for, as hasbeen already explained, by the bride's own father. A sentiment of tenderreverence for the unfortunate old duke had inspired Salome to selectthese jewels from all the others that had been lavished upon her, to wearon her wedding day. 

To the credit of the good banker's delicacy and discretion let it besaid, that not even Salome knew but that this elegant gift had been givenby the duke in reality as it was in intention. 

The Castle was now full of guests, friends of the bride and of herfather's family. The eight young ladies who were to attend her to thealtar, had arrived early in the afternoon, each chaperoned by her mother, aunt, or some matronly friend. These had all been shown to their separateapartments. 

They assembled again at the seven o'clock dinner in the familydining-room, and afterwards made a little tour of inspection throughthe rooms, looking with approval and admiration upon the sumptuouswedding-breakfast table, set in the great dining-room, and with surpriseand enthusiasm at the splendid wedding presents displayed in thedrawing-room. Finally, after a social cup of tea, they separated andretired to their several rooms, that they might be up in good time thenext morning. 

When Salome entered her own bed-chamber, she found the old housekeeper, Girzie Ross, awaiting her. 

"I took the liberty, me leddy, to come to see ye, gin ye hae ony commandsfor me the night, " said the dame, courtesying. 

"No, Mrs. Ross, I have no orders to give. All is done, as I understand. If there be anything left undone, you will use you own discretion aboutit. I can thoroughly trust you, " said Salome. 

"Guid-night, then, me leddy. And a guid rest and a blithe waking tillye, " said the dame, courtesying again, and turning to leave the room. 

"One moment, Mrs. Ross, if you please, " said the young lady, gentlyarresting her steps. 

"Ay, me leddy, as mony as ye'll please, " promptly replied the dame, returning to her place. 

"I wish to ask you a question, " began Salome, in a slow and hesitatingmanner. "Have you seen or heard anything more of that girl, Mrs. Ross?"

"Meaning that ne'er-do-weel light o' love Rose Cameron, me leddy!"inquired the housekeeper. 

"Yes, Rose Cameron. There have been such crowds of people on the islandtoday to inspect the decorations, that I thought--I thought--"

"As that handsome jaud might be amang 'em, me leddy? Ou, ay, and sae shewaur! But when I caught her prowling about here, I sent Mr. McRath towarn her off the place, and threaten her wi' the constable gin shedidna gang!" said the housekeeper. 

"But that was cruel, Mrs. Ross. "

"Na, na, me leddy. It waur unco well dune! She was after no guid prowlingabout here, and making an excuse o' luking at the deekorated grounds. Shedidna care for the sight a bodle! Aweel she's gane, and a guid riddance. "

"What does the girl look like, Mrs. Ross?"

"Eh, leddy, she's a strapping wench! tall and broad-shouldered, andfull-breasted, with a handsome head that she carries unco high, and big, bold blue eyes, and a heap o' long, red hair. That's Rosy Cameron, meleddy. "

This was a rather rough portrait of the Juno-like Highland beauty; butthen, it was drawn by an enemy, you know. 

"But dinna fash yersel' about yon hizzie ony mair, me young leddy. She'llna be permitted to trouble ye, " concluded the housekeeper. 

"That will do, Mrs. Ross. Thanks. But pray do not let anyone be harshwith that poor girl. If she is a little crazy, she is all the more to bepitied. Good-night, " said Salome, thus gently dismissing her talkativeattendant. 

"Guid night, me young leddy. Guid rest and blithe waking to ye, " repeatedthe old woman, as she courtesied and left the room. 

"Poor girl!" mused Salome. "I cannot help sympathizing with her tonight. What if Arondelle who is so courteous to all, were courteous to her also. And she, unused to courtesy in her rude Highland home, mistook suchgentle courtesy for preference, for love, and gave him her love inreturn? He would not be in the least to be blamed, while she would bemuch to be pitied. What a cruel sight these wedding preparations must beto her! What a miserable night this must be for her! I must see to thatpoor girl's welfare, " concluded Salome. 

A low rap at her door disturbed her. 

"Come in. "

Her maid entered. 

"What is it, Janet?"

"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel's man has just brought me a message foryou. Sir Lemuel requests, Miss, that you will come to his room before youretire. "

"Dear papa, I will go at once. You need not wait for me here, Janet. Justturn the lights down low--they make the room so warm--and leave thewindows partly open, and then go to bed, my girl, I shall not want youagain tonight, " said Salome, as she passed out of the chamber and wentdown to the long hall, at the opposite extremity of which was herfather's room. 

She entered silently, and found the banker wrapped in his gray silkdressing-gown and seated in his large resting-chair. 

"Come and sit by me, my dear. I only wanted to have a little talk withyou tonight, " he said, holding out his hand to her. 

She went up to him, clasped and kissed the out-stretched hand, and thenseated herself, not on the chair by his side, for that would not havebrought her near enough to him, but on the footstool at his feet, so thatshe could lay her head upon his knees. 

"Salome, my darling, I have not been a good father to you, " he said, sadly, as he ran his long white fingers through the tresses of the littledark-haired head that lay upon his knees. 

"Oh, papa! the best and dearest papa that ever lived!" she answered, drawing his hand to her lips and kissing it fondly. 

"No, no; I have not been a good father to you, my poor motherless child. I feel it to-night. I left you fourteen years in a foreign convent, andscarcely ever saw you. Was that being a good father to you, my child?"

"Yes, dear, it was. I had to be educated. And the nuns did their wholeduty by me, did they not?" said Salome, soothingly. 

"They sent me home a sweet and lovely child, who in the three years thatshe has been my greatest blessing and comfort has made me feel and knowhow much I lost in banishing her from my presence so long--fourteenyears!--a time never to be redeemed!" said the banker, with a sigh. 

"Yes, papa, dear. It can and shall be redeemed. For now you know I shalllive with you as long as you live. My marriage will not deprive you ofyour daughter, but give you a dear and noble son. You know it is settledthat after our brief wedding we shall return to Lone, and you and theduke, and Arondelle and myself, will all live here together until themeeting of Parliament in February, and then we shall go up to Londontogether. So cheer up, papa. All the coming years shall compensatefor all we have lost in the past, " said Salome, gayly caressing him. 

"'The coming years?' Ah, my darling! do you forget that I am quite an oldman to be your father? You were the child of my old age, Salome! I wasnearly fifty when you were born. I am nearly seventy now!"

"_Dear father!_" murmured Salome, caressing him with ineffabletenderness. 

"Do not let me sadden you, my darling. I would not be a day younger. Itis well to be old. It is well to have lived a long time in this world, for it is a good world. But good as it is, it is but rudimentary. It isto the human being only what the soil is to the seed--the germinatingbed; the full and perfect world is beyond. Young Christians believe this. Aged Christians know it. There, brighten up! And think that this marriageof yours and Arondelle's if it be as true as I feel assured it is--willbe not for time only but for all eternity! Believe this and be happierthan you were ever before! There now, my darling! I called you in hereto make my little confession. I have received absolution. Now go to yourrest. Good night, " said the banker, bending and kissing her forehead. 

"Dear, dearest father! bless your daughter before she goes, " said Salome, in a voice thrilling with emotion, as she raised from her seat and kneltat her father's feet. 

The old man laid his hand upon her bowed head and solemnly invoked ablessing upon her. 

"May the Lord look down on you, my daughter. May He give you health andgrace to bear your burdens and do your duties as wife and mother, andsave and bless you and yours, now and ever more, for Christ's dear sake. AMEN. "

She arose in silence from her knees, put her arms around his neck, kissedhim, and glided from the room. 

And now a terrible and mysterious thing happened to the bride-elect. 

The lights had been turned very low in the hall. The household had allretired to rest. The stillness and the sense of darkness awed her as sheglided noiselessly along in the deep shadows. Suddenly she saw the formof a man approaching from the direction of her own room. He might be somebelated servant on some legitimate business for one of the guests, yet hestartled her. She looked intently toward him, but in the obscure lightshe could only see that he was a tall man in dark clothing, and with avery white face. She shrank back in the shadow of the wall as he swiftlyand silently approached her. 

Then with amazement she recognized the face and form of her betrothedhusband. But the face was deadly pale, and the form was shaking as withan ague fit. 

"ARONDELLE! _You here!_" she exclaimed, starting towardshim. 

But she met only the empty air, the form had vanished. 

In unbounded amazement she stared all around to see where it could havegone, and in what part of the darksome hall she herself then stood. 

She found herself opposite to the entrance of a long, narrow passageopening from the hall and leading to the door of a staircasecommunicating with the dungeons of Malcolm's Tower. 

She looked down that passage. It was black as the mouth of Hades!

A nameless terror seized her, and she fled precipitately down the hall, nor stopped until she had reached her own room, rushed in, and shut andbolted the door. Then she sank down into the nearest chair, feeling coldas ice, and trembling from head to foot. 

Her maid had over-acted her instructions, and had not only turned thelights low, but had turned them out entirely. 

There was no need of artificial light, however; for the windows were openand the room was flooded with the brilliant moonshine of these northernlatitudes. 

Salome did not know or care how the room was lighted. She sat therethrilled with awe of what she had just experienced. 

Had she really seen the marquis?--or his spirit? Or had she been thevictim of an optical illusion?

If she had seen the marquis, what could have brought him secretly intothe house and up into the hall of the bed-rooms, at that hour of thenight? And why did he not answer her, when she called him?

It surely could not have been the marquis whom she saw! He never wouldhave crept into the house and up to their private-rooms, at that hour ofthe night, or fled from her, when she called him?

What was it then that she had seen in the likeness of her lover?

Was it the disembodied spirit of Arondelle? _Could_ the spirit of aliving man appear in one place, while the body of the man was present inanother? She had heard and read of such wonders, yet she could not acceptthem as facts. 

No, this was no spirit. 

What then? Had she been the subject of an optical illusion? She had heardof those wonders also!

But no! This was too real, too solid, too substantial for an opticalillusion!

Was the form she had seen possibly that of some other person, some guestof the house, who had lost his way. 

No, and a thousand noes! She knew every guest staying at the castle, andknew that not one of them bore the slightest resemblance to the Marquisof Arondelle. 

No, the form that she had seen in the murky hall seemed that of herbetrothed husband, or it was his spirit. 

She could not tell which, nor could she test the question now. The housewas full of wedding guests, who were now most probably sound asleep intheir beds. And the household all had long since retired. She could notrouse them only to satisfy her own doubts without any other practicalresult. For what if the intruder were Lord Arondelle? He was not in theleast an objectional guest. And in the morning he would explain hisstrange presence. 

By this time Salome had reasoned herself into some degree of calmness. But she was still too much excited to feel sleepy or to think of retiringto bed. 

The mid-summer night was warm and close, even there in the Highlands--orin her nervous condition it seemed to her to be so. She wanted more air. She went to the window, and seated herself in an easy-chair, and lookedout. 

A heavenly night!

The deep-blue sky was spangled with myriads of sparkling stars. The fullharvest moon was at the zenith and pouring down a flood of silveryradiance over mountain, lake and island. 

Right opposite the window was the elegant little bridge that spanned thelake between the island and the mountain, at the base of which stood thelittle Gothic church with the cottages of the hamlet clustered around it. 

A beautiful scene!

This morning it had been gay and noisy with a rejoicing crowd come toinspect the decorated grounds, and to triumph over the approachingmarriage of their disinherited young lord, with the present heiress ofhis lost estate. 

To-morrow this scene would be even more gay and more noisy, with agreater and more rejoicing crowd. For all the Clan Scott were to gatherhere to do honor to the nuptials of their hereditary chieftain. 

But to-night the beautiful scene was holy in its solitude and stillness. 

Hark!

A sound of voices beneath the window. 

Salome started, and drew back. And the next moment, paralyzed byconsternation and despair, she overheard the following conversation:

"_Hist!_ are you there, Rose?" inquired a dear familiar voice. 

"Ay, I'm here, me laird! After being turnit frae the castle like a thief, or a beggar, or a dog! after being threatened wi' a constable and aprison if I ever showed my face here; but once mair I hae come agen, inobedience to your bidding! Come creeping, creeping, creeping ander thecastle wa', by night, like ony puir cat afeared o' scauding water! Ay, melaird, I'm here, mair fule I!" replied a woman's voice. 

"Hush, Rose! Do not say so, my girl. And do not call me 'lord;' I am yourslave and not your 'lord, ' my lady queen! You know I love you--you onlyof all women. "

"Luve me? Ou, ay, sae ye tell me. But this gran' wedding is coming unconear to be naething but a jest. How far will ye carry the jest? Up tillthe altar railings? Into the bridal chamber? It's deceiving and fulingme, ye are, me laird! But I'll tell ye weel! Ye sail no marry yon girl, I say! Gin ye gae sae far as to lead her to the kirk mesel' will meet youat the altar and forbid the marriage. And _then_ see wha will put meout!"

"Hush, hush, you wild Highland witch, and listen to me. I shall not marrythat girl! How can I, when I am married to you? I have had an object inletting this thing go on thus far. My plans could not all be accomplisheduntil to-night. But to-night something will happen that will put allthoughts of marrying and giving in marriage effectually out of the headsof all parties concerned, I will warrant. And to-morrow, you and I willbe far away from this place--together, and never to part again. Wait herefor me, my love; I shall not be long away. But on your life, do not stir, or speak, or scarcely breathe until you see me again. "

"How long will you be gone?"

"Perhaps an hour. Perhaps two hours. You can be patient?"

"Ay, I can be patient. "

Here the low, whispering voice ceased. And Salome?

Before that conversation was half through, Salome had fallen back in herchair in a deadly swoon. 

CHAPTER VII. 

THE MORNING'S DISCOVERY. 

When Miss Levison recovered her consciousness it was broad daylight. Therising sun glancing over the top of the Eastern mountain sent arrows ofgolden light in through the window at which she sat. 

Music filled the morning air!

Salome passed her hands over her eyes, and gazed around. So long anddeep had been her swoon that, for the time, she had utterly lost hermemory, and now found difficulty in trying to recover it. Bewildered, she looked about, and listened to the strange, wild music sounding underher window--a sort of morning serenade or reveille, it seemed. 

Next her eyes fell upon her magnificent bridal array, displayed on standsnear the elegant dressing-table. 

Then she remembered that this was her wedding-day, and a flush of joylighted up her face. 

But it passed in a moment. 

What was this that lay so heavy at her heart! Was it the remnant of anevil dream?

What had happened? Something must have happened! Else why should she findherself seated in that easy-chair at the open window, and see that herbed had not been occupied?

Then, slowly, she recollected the events of the previous night--herretirement to her chamber; her talk there with the housekeeper about RoseCameron, the "handsome hizzie, " who had been haunting the premises andgiving trouble all that day; the message from her father; her affectinginterview with him in his bedroom; her return to her own apartmentthrough the dimly-lighted, deserted hall, where she met the pale andspectral form of Lord Arondelle, who vanished as she called to him!her terrified flight into her own chamber!

All these incidents she clearly remembered. 

Then her excited vigil in the easy-chair, by the open window, and the twovoices that broke upon it--that of her betrothed husband and that of awoman--of this same Rose Cameron, whose name had been so disreputablyconnected with Lord Arondelle's; who then and there claimed to be hiswife and was not contradicted!

There! that was the weight that lay so heavy at her heart!

"And yet it must have been a dream!" she said to herself. Of course shehad fallen asleep there in the easy-chair, and with her thoughts runningon the apparition she had met in the hall, and on the country people'sgossip about Lord Arondelle and Rose Cameron, she had had that evildream. Unquestionably it was only a dream! Lord Arondelle could neverplay so base a part as he had seemed to do in her dream! She reproachedherself for having even involuntarily been the subject of it. 

And yet! and yet! the weight lay heavy at her heart, and although thiswas a warm June morning, she shivered as though it had been January. 

She arose to close the window. 

Then--

What a magnificent and beautiful scene burst upon her vision! The easternhorizon was ablaze with glory. Lovely morning clouds, soft, transparentwhite, tinted with rose, violet and gold, tempered the dazzling splendorof the rising sun, and half vailed the opal-hued mountain tops, and evenhung upon the emerald mountain side. Morning sky, rosy clouds, and opalmountains, were all reflected as by a mirror in the clear water of thelake below. 

The hamlet at the foot of the mountain was gay with flags and banners andfestoons of flowers. The bridge spanning the lake and connecting thehamlet with the island, was grand with triumphal arches. The lake wasalive with gayly-trimmed pleasure-boats of every description. The island, with its groves, shrubberies, parterres, arbors, terraces, statues, wasdecorated with flags and banners, innumerable colored lamps and floralmottoes and devices. 

The streets of the hamlet, the bridge and the island was each alive witha merry crowd of tenantry and peasantry in their picturesque holidaysuits, coming to see the wedding pageant. 

Gayer than all was the gathering of the Clan Scott, in their brillianttartans, and with their national music to do honor to the nuptials of theheir of their chief. 

As Miss Levison looked and listened, the shadows of the night vanishedfrom her mind as clouds before the sun!

How strange the thought that the evil dream should have troubled her atall! But the dream had seemed as real as any waking experience. But then, again, dreams often do seem so! She would think no more of it, exceptto repent having been so unjust to Lord Arondelle, even though it was butin an involuntary dream. 

It was as yet very early in the morning--not seven o'clock. Herserenaders had waked her betimes, and the country people had clearlydetermined to lose not one hour of that festive day. But Miss Levison wasstill shivering in the mild June morning. She thought she would ask for acup of coffee to warm her. 

She rang her bell. 

Her maid entered the room, courtesied, and stood waiting

"Janet, tell the housekeeper to send me a strong, hot cup of coffee, " shesaid. 

"Yes, Miss. If you please, Miss, my lord's gentleman is below with a noteand a parcel for you, Miss. "

"Very well, Janet. Do you bring it up and ask the man to wait. There maybe answer, " replied Miss Levison, as the rose clouds rolled over herclear, pale cheeks. 

The girl courtesied and withdrew. 

"To think of my being so wicked as to have such a dream abouthim--_him_!" she said to herself, as again she shivered with cold. 

Presently the housekeeper entered with a tiny cup of coffee on a smallsilver tray in her hand, and with many cordial congratulations on herlips. 

Fortunately the lace curtains of the bed were down, so that she could notsee that it had not been slept in, and annoy her young mistress withexclamations and questions. 

"Eh, me young leddy! a blithe bridal morn ye hae got; and a braw sight onthe ramparts of a' the Scotts, wi' their tartans and bag-pipes, come todo ye honor!" said the housekeeper, as she held the tray to her mistress. 

Miss Levison drank the coffee, returned the cup, and then inquired:

"Where is Janet? I sent her with a message; she should have returned bythis time. "

"Ou, aye, sae she should. She's clacking her clavvers wi' yon lad fraethe 'Hereward Arm. ' But here she is now, me young leddy, " answered thehousekeeper, as the maid entered the room and placed in her mistress'hand a note and a small parcel, tied up in white paper with narrow whiteribbon, and sealed with the Hereward crest. 

Miss Levison opened the note and read:

"HEREWARD ARMS INN, Tuesday Morning. 

"I greet you, my only beloved, on this our bridal morning--thecommencement of a long and happy union for both of us! Yes, a long union, for it will stretch into eternity, and a happy one, for come what will, we shall be happy in each other. I send you the richest jewel that hasever been in our possession, the only one which has survived the wreck ofour fortunes. It has been preserved more on account of its traditionaryinterest than for its intrinsic value. Tradition tells us that at thetaking of Jerusalem, in the first crusade, this jewel was snatched fromthe turban of Saladin, the Sultan, in single combat, by our wildcrusading ancestor, Ranulph d' Arondelle. It adorned his own hemlet atthe siege of St. Jean d' Acre, some years later. In short, it has beenhanded down from father to son through six centuries and sixteengenerations. It has "in the thickest carnage blazed" on battle-fields, and in the maddest merriment flashed in festive scenes. Yet it is anoffering all too poor for my great love to make, or your great worth toreceive. But take it as the best I have to give. 

"ARONDELLE. "

She read this note with tearful eyes, roseate cheeks' and smiling lips. And then she untied the white ribbon and opened the white paper. It firstdisclosed a golden casket about four inches square, richly chased andbearing the Hereward arms set in small precious stones. The tiny key wasin the lock. She opened it and found, lying on a bed of rich white satin, a large, burning, blazing ruby heart--the famous ruby of the Hereward, said to be the largest in the world. Miss Levison had read of this jewelas one of the most valuable among precious stones. She had heard also, what evidently the young marquis did not think worth while to tell her inconnection with its history, namely, that it had been held as an amuletof such power that it was believed the ducal house of Hereward wouldnever be without a male heir as long as it possessed that priceless rubyheart. Miss Levison supposed this to be the reason why it had beenpreserved by the old duke from the total wreck of his fortune. And themarquis had given it to her! Well, that was not giving it out of thefamily, since she was to be his wife. While offering it he hadundervalued the royal gift. But how highly she appreciated it, ratingit far above all the other jewels that blazed upon her table. 

"And to think I should have had such an evil dream about him, and evensuffered myself to be troubled by it!" she said, pressing his note to herlips. 

Then she shivered so hardly that her old housekeeper exclaimed:

"Me dear young leddy, ye hae surely taken cauld. Let me order a firekindled here. "

"Nonsense, Mrs. Ross--a fire on this warm summer morning? I could notbear it. Besides if I shiver with cold one moment, I glow with heat thenext, " said Miss Levison, smiling. 

"Ay; I am sair afeard ye's gaun to be ill, wi' all thae shivers andglows, " replied the dame, shaking her head. 

"Nonsense again, Mrs. Ross, dear woman. I am well enough. Now, Janet, didyou tell his lordship's messenger to wait?"

"Yes, Miss. "

Miss Levison drew a little writing-stand to her side, opened the desk, took out materials and penned the following note:

"LONE CASTLE, Tuesday. 

"MY MOST BELOVED AND HONORED: Your right royal gift is beyond allprice for richness, beauty, traditional interest, and symbolism, and assuch I shall hold it above all other gifts, and cherish it to the end ofmy life. But it is not only to speak of your invaluable gift I write; itis also to ask you to do a strange thing to please me this morning. It isnow eight o'clock. We are appointed to meet at the church at eleven. Willyou meet me _here_ first at half-past nine? I wish to tell yousomething before we go to the altar. It is nothing important that I haveto tell you--you will probably only laugh at it; but I must get it off mymind; for it weighs there like a sin. Come and receive my littleconfession, and give absolution to YOUR OWN SALOME. "

She enveloped and directed this note, and gave it to Janet, with ordersto hand it to Lord Arondelle's man. 

When the girl had left the room, Miss Levison turned to the housekeeperand inquired:

"Has my father's bell rung yet, do you know?"

"Na, me young leddy, it has na rung yet. Sir Lemuel's man, Mr. Peter, isdown-stairs, waiting for the summons. "

"Perhaps he had better call his master, " suggested Miss Levison. 

"Na, Miss, sae I tauld him; but he said his orders were no to call hismaster the morn', but to wait till he heard his bell ring. He's waitingfor that e'en noo. "

"Very well, Mrs. Ross. Papa was up late last night, I know, and isprobably tired this morning. So we must let him sleep as long aspossible. But as soon as his bell rings, be sure to take him up a cupof coffee. "

"Verra weel, Miss. "

"And, Mrs. Ross, I hope that all our guests are cared for, and served intheir own rooms with tea and toast, or coffee and muffins, as theychoose?"

"Ou, ay, me dear young leddy, I hae ta'en care of a' that. And what willI bring yersel', Miss, before ye begin to dress?"

"Nothing; I have had a cup of coffee. That is sufficient for thepresent. "

"Neathing but ae wee bit cup o' coffee, my dear young leddy?"

"No; I have no appetite. I suppose no girl ever did have on her weddingmorning, " said Miss Levison, shivering and then flushing. 

The housekeeper contemplated her young mistress with growing anxiety. 

"I am sure ye are no weel, " she ventured again to suggest. 

"I am quite well, my dear Mrs. Ross. Do not disturb yourself. But go nowand send Janet and Kitty to me. I must begin to dress. "

The housekeeper left the room, and was soon replaced by the lady's maidand the upper house-maid. 

"Is my bath ready, Kitty?"

"Yes, Miss; and I have poured six bottles of ody collone intil it, " saidthe girl, with a very self-approving air. 

"You needn't have done that, " said Miss Levison, with an amused smile, "but you meant well, and I thank you. "

She took her customary morning bath, and slipping on a soft, white, cashmere wrapper, placed herself in the hands of her maidens to bedressed for the altar. 

Janet combed, and brushed and arranged the shining dark brown hair. Kittylaced the dainty white velvet boots. Janet arrayed her in her bridalrobes, and Kitty clasped the costly jewels around her neck and arms. Oneplaced the bridal vail and wreath upon her head, while the other drew thepretty pearl-embroidered gloves upon her hands. 

At length her toilet was complete, and she stood up, beautiful in heryouth, love, and joy, and imperial in her array. 

She wore a long trained dress of the richest white satin, trimmed withdeep point lace flounces, headed with trails of orange flower buds; anover-dress of fine cardinal point lace, looped up with festoons of orangebuds; a point lace berthe and short sleeve ruffles; a necklace, pendant, and bracelets of pearls set in diamonds, white kid gloves, embroideredwith fine white silk; white satin boots worked with pearls. On her headthe rich, full orange flower wreath. And over all, like mist over frostand snow, fell the long bridal vail of finest point lace, softening thewhole effect. 

"The young ladies, your bridesmaids, bid me tell you, Miss, that they arequite ready to come to you, when you are so to receive them, " said Kitty, as she placed the bouquet of orange flowers in its jewelled holder, andhanded it to her mistress. 

"Very well. I will send for them in good time, " answered Miss Levison, glancing at the little golden clock upon the mantel-piece, and noticingthat it was nearly half-past nine, the hour at which she expected LordArondelle. "But now, Kitty, my good girl, go and inquire if my father isup, and return and let me know. I would like to see him in his room. "

The house-maid courtesied and went out, and after a few minutes' absencereturned running. 

"If you please, Miss, Sir Lemuel hasn't rung his bell yet, and Mr. Peterssays, with his duty to you, Miss, as it is so late, hadn't he better callhis master?"

"By no means! Let Mr. Peters obey his master's orders not to disturb himuntil his bell rings, " answered the young lady. 

"Yes, Miss; and if you please, Miss, here is a card, and his lordship, Lord Arondelle, is down stairs asking for you, Miss, " said the girl, laying the pasteboard in question before her young mistress. 

"Lord Arondelle! Yes, I expected his lordship. Where is he?"

"Mr. McRath showed him into the library, Miss. "

"Quite right. None of our guests have left their rooms yet?"

"No, Miss, they be all busy a dressing of themselves, as I think. "

"Ah! then go before me and open the door, and tell his lordship thatI shall be with him in a moment, " said Miss Levison. 

The girl dropped another courtesy and preceded her mistress down stairs. In going down the great upper hall, Miss Levison passed the door of thedark, narrow passage at right angles with the hall, and leading to thetower stairs, where she had seen the apparition of the night before. Sheshivered and hurried on. She paused a moment before the door leading tothe ante-room of her father's bed-chamber, and listened to hear if hewere stirring; but all within seemed as still as death. She went on anddescended the stairs and reached the library-door, just as Kitty openedit and said:

"Miss Levison, my lord, " and retired to give place to the young lady. 

Miss Levison entered the library. 

Lord Arondelle, in his wedding dress, stood by the central book-table. Ashis costume was the regulation uniform of a gentleman's full dress, itneeds no description here. Gentlemen array themselves much in thesame style for a dinner or a ball, a wedding or a funeral--the onlydifference to mark the occasion being in the color of the gloves. 

Lord Arondelle advanced to meet his bride. 

"My love and queen! this meeting is a grace granted me indeed! Howbeautiful you are!" he exclaimed, taking both her hands and carrying themto his lips. "But you are shivering, sweet girl! You are cold!" he addedanxiously, as he looked at her more attentively. 

"I have been shivering all the morning. I sat at my open window latelast night and got a little chilled; but it is nothing, " she answered, smiling. 

"You shall not do such suicidal things, when I have the charge of you, mylittle lady, " he said, half jestingly, half seriously, as he led her to asofa and seated her on it, taking his own seat by her side. 

"Come, now, " he gayly continued, "was that indiscreet star-gazing whichhas resulted in a cold the little sin for which you wish me to give youabsolution?"

"No, my lord. My sin was an evil dream. "

"A dream!"

"Ay, a dream. "

"But a dream cannot be a sin!"

"Hear it, and then judge. But first--tell me--were you in the castle latelast night?" she gravely inquired. 

He paused and gazed at her before he replied:

"_I_ in the castle late last night? Why, most certainly not! Whyever should you ask me such a question, my love?"

"Because if you were not in the castle last night--"

"Well?"

"I met your 'fetch, ' as the country people would call it. "

"My--I beg your pardon. "

"Your 'fetch, ' your double, your spectre, your spirit, whatever you maycall it. "

"Whatever do you mean, Salome?"

"Shall I tell you all about it?"

"Of course--yes, do. "

Miss Levison began and related all the circumstances in detail of hernight visit to her father's room, and her meeting with an appearancewhich she took to be that of her betrothed husband, but which, on beingcalled by her, instantly vanished. 

Lord Arondelle mused for awhile. Miss Levison gazed on him in anxioussuspense for a few minutes, and then inquired:

"What do you think of it?"

"My love, if I were a transcendental visionary, I might say, that atthe hour you saw my image before you, my thoughts, my mind, my spirit, whatever you choose to call my inner self, was actually with you, andso became visible to you; but--" he paused. 

"But--what?" she inquired. 

"Not being a transcendentalist or a visionary, I am forced to theconclusion that what you thought you saw, was, really nothing but anoptical illusion!"

"You think that?"

"Indeed I do!"

"I assure you, that the image seemed as real, as substantial, and assolid to me then as you do now. "

"No doubt of it! Optical illusions always seem very real--perfectlyreal. "

"It was an optical illusion then! That is settled! And now!" exclaimedSalome. Then she paused. 

"Yes, and now! About the sinful dream! What did you dream of? Throwing meover at the last moment and marrying a handsomer man?" gayly inquired theyoung marquis. 

"I will tell you presently what I dreamed; but first tell me, were you inour grounds last night?" she gravely inquired. 

"Yes, my little lady; but how did you know of it?" inquired the youngmarquis in surprise. 

"I did not know it. Were you under my window?" she asked, in a low, tremulous tone. 

"Yes, love. How came you to suspect me?" he inquired, more than everastonished. 

"I did not suspect you. Had you a companion with you?" she murmured. 

"No, Salome. Certainly not. Why, sweet, do you ask me?"

"I thought I heard your voice speaking to some one who answered you undermy window. "

"But, love, there was no one with me. I was quite alone. And Idid not speak at all--not even to myself. I am not in the habit ofsoliloquizing. "

"Please tell me, if you can, at what hour you were under my window. "

"It was between ten and eleven o'clock. I was walking in the grounds, and I went under your wall and looked up. I saw three shadows passthe lighted windows, which I took to be those of yourself and yourattendants, and then suddenly the lights were turned off and all wasdark. I knew then that you had retired to rest, and of course I turnedaway and walked back to the hamlet. But, love, instead of telling thelittle story you promised, it seems that you have put me through a verysharp examination, " said his lordship, laughing. "Now, what do you meanby it? There is something behind all this, " he added, gravely. 

"Of course there is something behind. Did I not tell you that I had aconfession to make concerning a wicked dream? Listen, Lord Arondelle. Atthe time you stood under my window and saw the light turned off, andsupposing that I had gone to rest, you turned away and left the grounds, at that time I had _not_ gone to rest, but had gone to my father'sroom, in returning from which I experienced that strange opticalillusion. My nerves must have been strangely disordered, for when Ireached my own chamber again, and finding it quite dark, opened thewindow and sat down to look out upon the moonlit lake, I immediately fellasleep, and had a terrible, and a terribly real and distinct dream--adream, dear, that nearly overturned my reason, I do believe. "

"What was it, love?" he inquired. 

She told him without the least reserve. 

He listened to her with interest, and then laughed aloud. 

"The idea of your having such a dream about me as that! I do not wonderit weighed upon your mind. Yes, it was very wicked of you, my sinfulchild--very. But since you sincerely repent, I freely absolve you. _Benedicite!_"

Salome looked and listened to him with surprise; for as she spoke ofdreaming that he called Rose Cameron his wife, he not only laughed atthat idea, but really appeared as if the very existence of the girl wasunknown to him. 

Then Salome ventured another question:

"Do you know any one of the name of Rose Cameron?"

"No, not personally. I believe one of our shepherds, up at Ben Lone, hasa very handsome daughter of that name, but I have never seen her, " saidthe young marquis, with an open sincerity that carried conviction withit. 

Salome was amazed, but convinced. What could have started the falsereports concerning the young marquis and the handsome shepherdess?Clearly Rose's own hallucination. She had seen the marquis somewhere, without having been seen by him; she had fallen in love with him, andhad partly lost her reason and imagined all the rest, she thought. 

"And so you have never even looked upon the beauty of that dream?" shesaid, with a smile. 

"Never even looked upon her, " assented the marquis. 

"Then I do, in downright earnest, beg your pardon for my dream, " saidSalome, gravely. 

"But I have already given you absolution, my erring daughter?_Benedicite! Benedicite!_" replied the marquis still laughing. 

At that moment there was a light rap at the library door, followed by theentrance of a footman who placed a small, twisted note in the hands ofMiss Levison. She opened it and read:

"MY DEAR CHILD: It is after ten o'clock. We go to church ateleven. Sir Lemuel has not yet rung his bell. His valet having receivedhis orders last night not to call him this morning, has declined to doso. What is to be done under these circumstances? Send me a verbalmessage by the bearer. Your loving Aunt, "SOPHIE BELGRADE. "

"My father not yet risen!" exclaimed Salome in surprise. "He must haveoverslept himself with fatigue. Tell Lady Belgrade, with my thanks, thatI will go to my father's room and waken him, " she added, turning to thefootman, who bowed and went to deliver his message. 

"I hope Sir Lemuel is quite well?" said the young marquis, earnestly. 

"He is quite well. My father regulates his habits so well as to live inperfect harmony with the laws of life and health. If he fatigues himselfover night, he always takes a compensating rest in the morning. That iswhat he is doing now. But I think he is sleeping even longer than heintended to do, so I really must arouse him now, if we are to keep ourappointment with the minister. Good-by, until we meet at the church, LordArondelle, " she said, as she floated from the room in her bridal robe, and vail. 

"Who says that she is not beautiful, belies her? She is lovely in personand in spirit, " murmured the young marquis, as he took up his hat toleave the house. 

CHAPTER VIII. 

A HORRIBLE DISCOVERY. 

In order not to attract the attention of the crowds of people who swarmedin the village, on the bridge, and on the island, Lord Arondelle haddriven over to the castle in a closed cab that now waited at the gatesto take him back again. 

He left the library and went out into the great hall. 

The hall porter, an elderly, stout, and important-looking functionary, slowly arose from his chair to honor the young marquis by opening thedoors with his own official hands instead of leaving that duty to thefootman. 

And Lord Arondelle was just in the act of passing out when his steps weresuddenly arrested. 

A WILD AND PIERCING SHRIEK RANG THROUGH THE HOUSE, STARTLING ALL ITSECHOES!

It was followed by a dead silence, and then by the sound of many hurryingfeet and terrified exclamations. 

"Salome! my bride! Oh, what has happened!" thought the startled youngmarquis, rushing back into the hall and up the stairs. 

In the upper hall he found a crowd of terrified people, all hurrying inone direction--toward the bedroom of the banker. 

"The dear old gentleman has got a fit, I fear, and his daughter hasdiscovered him in it, " was the next thought that flashed upon the mind ofthe marquis as, without waiting to ask questions, he rushed through anddistanced the crowd, and reached the door of the banker's bedroom, whichwas blocked up by men and women, wedding guests, and servants, somequestioning and exclaiming, some weeping and wailing, some standing inpanic-stricken silence. 

"What has happened?" cried the young marquis pushing his way with moreviolence than ceremony through all that impeded his entrance into thechamber. 

No one answered him. No one dared to do so. 

"It is Lord Arondelle--let his lordship pass, " said one of the weddingguests, recognizing the expectant bridegroom as he entered the room. 

An awe-struck group of persons was gathered around some object on thefloor; they made way in silence for the approach of the marquis. 

He passed in and looked down. 

HORROR UPON HORRORS! There lay the dead body of the banker, full-dressed as on the evening before, but with his head crushed in andsurrounded by a pool of coagulated blood! The face was marble white; theeyes were open and stony, the jaws had dropped and stiffened into death. Across the body lay the swooning form of his daughter, with her bridalvail and robes all dabbled in her father's blood. 

"HEAVEN OF HEAVENS! Who has done this?" cried the marquis, acold sweat of horror bursting from his pallid brow as he stared upon thisghastly sight!

A dozen voices answered him at once, to the effect that no one yet knew. 

"Run! run! and fetch a doctor instantly! Some of you! any of you who cango the quickest!" he cried, as he stooped and lifted the insensible formof his bride and laid her on the bed--the bed that had not been occupiedduring the night. Evidently from these appearances, the banker had beenmurdered before his usual hour of retiring. 

"Who has gone for a doctor?" inquired Lord Arondelle, in an agony ofanxiety, as he bent over the unconscious form of his beloved one. 

"I have despatched Gilbert, yer lairdship. He will mak' unco guid haste, "answered the steward, who stood overcome with grief as he gazed upon theghastly corpse of his unfortunate master. 

"My lord, " said Lady Belgrade, who stood by too deeply awed for tears, and up to this moment for action either--"my lord, you had better go outof the room for the present, and take all these men with you, and leaveMiss Levison to the care of myself and the women. This is all unspeakablyhorrible! But our first care should be for her. We must loosen her dress, and take other measures for her recovery. "

"Yes, yes! Great Heaven! yes! Do all you can for her! This is maddening!"groaned the marquis, smiting his forehead as he left the bedside, yielding his place to the dowager. 

"Do try to command yourself, Lord Arondelle. This is, indeed, a mostawful shock. It would have been awful at any time, but on your weddingday it comes with double violence. But do summon all your strength ofmind, for _her_ sake. Think of her. She came to this room in herbridal dress to call her father, that he might get ready to take her tothe altar, to give her to you, and she found him here murdered--welteringin his blood. It was enough to have killed her, or unseated her reasonforever, " said the lady, as she busied herself with unfastening the rich, white, satin bodice of the wedding robe. 

"Oh, Salome! Salome! that I could bear this sorrow for you! Oh, mydarling, that all my love should be powerless to save you from a sorrowlike this!" cried the young man, dropping his head upon his clenchedhands. 

"My lord, " continued Lady Belgrade, who was now applying a vial of salammonia to her patient's nostrils: "my dear Lord Arondelle, rouseyourself for her sake! She has no father, brother, or male relative totake direction of affairs in this awful crisis of her life. You, herbetrothed husband, should do it--must do it! Rouse yourself at once. Lookat this stupefied and gaping crowd of people! Do not be like one of them. Something must be done at once. Do WHAT OUGHT TO BE DONE!" shecried with sudden vehemence. 

"I know what should be done, and I will do it, " said the young man, ina tone of mournful resolution. Then turning to the crowd that filled thechamber of horror, he said:

"My friends we must leave this room for the present to the care of LadyBelgrade and her female attendants. "

Then to the dowager he said:

"My lady, let one of your maids cover that body with a sheet and let noone move it by so much as an inch, until the arrival of the coroner. Assoon as it is possible to do so, you will of course have Miss Levisonconveyed to her own chamber. But when you leave this room pray lock itup, and place a servant before the door as sentry, that nothing may bedisturbed before the inquest. "

Lastly addressing the stupefied house-steward, he said:

"McRath, come with me. The castle doors must all be closed, and noone permitted to learn the arrival of a police force, which must beimmediately summoned. "

So saying, after a last agonized gaze upon the insensible form of hisbride, he left the room of horrors, followed by the house-steward and allthe male intruders. 

The news of the murder spread through the castle and all over the island, carrying consternation with it. Yet the wedding guests outside, who werequite at liberty to go, showed no disposition to do so. They had come totake part in a joyous wedding festival--they remained, held by thestrange fascination of ghastly interest that hangs over the scene ofa murder--and such a murder!

So, the crowd, instead of diminishing, greatly increased. Peasants fromthe hills around, who, having had no wedding garments, had forborne toappear at the feast, now came in their tattered plaids, impelled by aneager curiosity to gaze upon the walls of the castle, and see and hearall they could concerning the mysterious murder that had been perpetratedwithin it. 

The country side rang with the terrible story. And soon the telegraphwires flashed it all over the kingdom. 

The coroner hastened to the castle, inspected the corpse, and orderedthat everything should remain untouched. He then empanelled a jury forthe inquest, whose first session was held in the chamber of death, fromwhich the suffering daughter of the deceased banker had been tenderlyremoved. 

Such among the guests who were not detained as witnesses, foundthemselves at liberty to depart. But very few availed themselves ofthe privilege. They preferred to stop and see the end of the inquest. 

Skillful and experienced detectives were summoned by telegraph fromScotland Yard, London, and arrived at the castle about midnight. 

The house was placed in charge of the police while the investigation waspending. 

But the materials for the formation of a decided verdict seemed verymeagre. 

A careful examination of the body showed that the banker had been killedby one mortal blow inflicted by a blunt and heavy instrument that hadcrushed in the skull. The instrument was searched for, and soon foundin a small but very heavy bronze statuette of Somnes that used to standon the bedroom mantel-piece; but was now picked up from the carpet, crusted with blood and gray hair. But the miscreant who had held thatdeadly weapon, and dealt that mortal blow, could not be detected. 

Investigation further brought to light that an extensive robbery had beencommitted. From the banker's person his diamond-studded gold watch, chain, and seals, his gold snuff-box, set with emeralds, a heavycornelian seal ring set in gold, and his diamond studs and sleeve buttonswere taken. A patent safe, which stood in his room, and containedvaluable documents as well as a large amount of money, had been brokenopen, the documents scattered, and the money carried off. 

Yet no trace of the robber could be found. 

The broken safe was the only piece of "professional" burglary to be seenanywhere about the house. The fastenings on every door and every windowwere intact. 

The most plausible theory of the murder was, that some burglar, orburglars, attracted and tempted by the rumor of almost fabulous treasurethen in the castle in the form of wedding offerings to the bride, hadgained access to the building, and penetrated to the upper chambers, where, finding the banker still up and awake, they had killed him by onefell blow, to prevent discovery. 

True, the priceless wedding presents had not been disturbed. They stillblazed in their open caskets upon the drawing-room table--a splendidspectacle. But then they had been guarded all through the night by twofaithful men-servants armed with revolvers and seated at the table undera lighted chandelier. It was supposed that the robbers, seeing thislighted and guarded room, had crept past it and mounted to the banker'schamber to pursue their nefarious purpose there; that simple robbery wastheir first intention, but being seen by the watchful banker, they hadinstantly killed him to prevent his giving the alarm. 

For no alarm had been given!

Every inmate of the house who was examined testified to having passeda quiet night, undisturbed by any noise. 

The hall porter and footmen whose duty it was to see to the closing ofthe castle at night, and the opening of it in the morning, testified tohaving fastened every door at eleven o'clock on the previous night, andto having found them still fastened at six in the morning. 

How, then, did the murderers and robbers gain access to the house, sincethere was no sign of a broken lock or bolt to be seen anywhere, except inthe safe in the banker's room. 

Suspicion seemed to point to some inmate of the castle, who must have letthe miscreants in. 

Yes, but what inmate?

No member of the small family, of course; no visitor, certainly; noservant, probably! Yet, for want of another subject, suspicion fell uponPeters, the valet. He was always the last to see his master at night, andthe first to see him in the morning. He had a pass-key to the ante-roomof his master's chamber. It was believed to be a very suspiciouscircumstance, also that he had so persistently declined to call hismaster that morning, asserting as he did to the very last that Sir Lemuelhad given orders that he should not be disturbed until he rang his bell. 

This story of the valet was doubted. It was suspected that he might havebeen in league with the robbers and murderers, might have admitted themto the house that night after the family had retired, and concealed themuntil the hour came for the commission of their crime; and that he madeexcuses in the morning not to call his master so as to prevent as long aspossible the discovery of the murder, and give the murderers time to getoff from the scene of their awful crime. 

The valet was not openly accused by any one. The officers of the law weretoo discreet to permit that to be done. 

But he was detained as a witness, and subjected to a very severeexamination. 

Peters was a very tall, very spare, middle-aged man, with a slight stoopin his shoulders, with a thin, flushed face, sharp features, weak, blueeyes, and scanty red hair and whiskers, dressed with foppish precision. He looked something like a fool; but as little like the confederateof robbers and murderers as it was possible to imagine. 

Witness testified that his name was Abraham Peters, that he was born inDrury Lane, London, and was now forty years of age; that he had been inthe service of Sir Lemuel Levison for the last five years; that he lovedand honored the deceased banker, and had every reason to believe that hismaster valued him also. He said that it was his service every night toassist his master in undressing and getting to bed, and every morning ingetting up and dressing. 

A juror asked the witness whether he was in the habit of waiting everymorning for his master's bell to ring before going to his room. 

The witness answered that he was not; that he had standing orders to callhis master every morning at seven o'clock, except otherwise instructed bySir Lemuel. 

Another juror inquired of the witness whether he had received theseexceptional instructions on the previous night. 

The witness answered that he had received such; that his master had senthim with a message to his daughter, Miss Levison, requesting her to cometo his room, as he wished to have a talk with her. He delivered hismessage through Miss Levison's maid, and returned to his master's room. But when Miss Levison was announced Sir Lemuel dismissed him withpermission to retire to bed at once, and not to call his master in themorning, but to wait until Sir Lemuel should ring his bell. 

"I left Miss Levison with her father, your honor, and that was the lasttime as ever I saw my master alive, " concluded the valet, trembling likea leaf. 

"I presume that Miss Levison will be able to corroborate this part ofyour testimony. Where _is_ Miss Levison? Let her be called, " saidthe coroner. 

The family physician, who was present at the inquest, arose in his placeand said:

"Miss Levison, sir, is not now available as a witness. She is lying inher chamber, nearly at the point of death, with brain fever. "

"Lord bless my soul, I am sorry to hear that! But it is no wonder, pooryoung lady, after such a shock, " said the kind-hearted coroner. 

"But here, sir, " continued the doctor, "is a witness who, I think, willbe able to give us some light. "

CHAPTER IX. 

AFTER THE DISCOVERY. 

"Sir, if you please, I request that this witness be immediately placedunder examination, " said Lord Arondelle, who sat, with pale, sternvisage, among the spectators, now addressing the coroner. 

"Yes, certainly, my lord. Let the man be called, " answered the latter. 

A short, stout, red-haired and freckle-faced boy, clothed in a well-wornsuit of gray tweed, came forward and was duly sworn. 

"What is your name, my lad?" inquired the coroner's clerk. 

"Cuddie McGill, an' it please your worship, " replied the shock-headedyouth. 

"Your age?"

"Anan?"

"How old are you?"

"Ou, ay, just nineteen come St. Andrew's Eve, at night. "

"Where do you live?"

"Wi' my maister, Gillie Ferguson, the saddler, at Lone. "

"Well now, then, what do you know about this case?" inquired the clerk, who, pen in hand, had been busily taking down the unimportant, preliminary answers of the witness under examination. 

"Aweel, thin your worship, I ken just naething of ony account; but I justhappen speak what I saw yestreen under the castle wa', and doctor here, he wad hae me come my ways and tell your honor; its naething just, "replied Cuddie McGill, scratching his shock head. 

"But tell us what you saw. "

"Aweel, then, your worship, I had been hard at wark a' the day, and couldna get awa to see the wedding deecorations. But after my wark was duneand I had my bit aitmeal cake and parritch, I e'en cam' my way over thebrig to hae a luke at them. "

"Well, and what did you see besides the decorations?"

"An it please your worship, as I cam through the thick shrubbery I spieda lassie, standing under the balcony on the east side o' the castle wa'. "

"At what hour was this?"

"I dinna ken preceesely. It may hae been ten o'clock; for I ken the moonwas about twa hours high. "

"Ay, well; go on. "

"I hid mysel' in the firs and watchit the lassie; for I said to mysel' itwair a tryste wi' her lad, and I behoove to find out wha they were. Sae Iwatchit the lassie. And presently a tall gallant cam' up till her, andthey spake thegither. I could na hear what they said. But anon the tallmon went his ways, and the lassie bided her lane under the balcony. Iwondered at that. And I waited to see the end. I waited, it seemed to me, full twa hour. The moon was weel nigh overhead, when at lang last thegallant cam' on wi' anither tall mon. And they passed sae nigh that Iheard their talk. Spake the gallant: 'I would na hae had it happened fora' we hae gained. ' Said the ither ane: 'It could na be helpit. The auldmon skreekit. He would hae brocht the house upon us, and we hadna stappithis mouth. ' And the twa passit out o' hearing, and sune cam' to thelassie under the balcony. And the three talkit thegither, but I justcouldna hear a word they spake. And sae I went my ways home, wonderingwhat it a' meant. But I thocht nae muckle harm until the morn when Iheerd o' the murder. "

"Would you know the tall man again if you were to see him?" inquired thecoroner. 

"Na, for ye ken I could na see a feature o' his face. "

"Would you know the girl again?"

"Na. I could na see the lass ony mair than the gallant. "

"Nor the third man?"

"Na, nor the ither ane. "

"Did you hear any name or any place spoken of between the parties?"

"Na, na name, na pleece. I hae tuld your honor all I heerd. I heerd nomair than I hae said, " replied the witness. 

And the severest cross-examination could not draw anything more from him. 

The officials put their heads together and talked in whispers. 

This last witness gave, after all, the nearest to a clue of any they hadyet received. 

The notes of the testimony were put in the hands of the London detectivethen present. 

"Allow me to remind you, sir, " said Lord Arondelle, "that this interviewtestified to by the last witness, was said to have taken place betweenten and twelve at night, and that there is a train for London which stopsat Lone at a quarter past twelve. Would it not be well to make inquiriesat the station as to what passengers, if any, got on at Lone?"

"A good idea. Thanks, my lord. We will summon the agent who happened tobe on duty at that hour, " said the coroner. 

And a messenger was immediately dispatched to Lone to bring the railwayofficial in question. 

In the interim, several of the household servants were examined, butwithout bringing any new facts to light. 

After an absence of two hours, the messenger returned accompanied byDonald McNeil, the ticket-agent who had been in the office for themidnight train of the preceding day. 

He was a man of middle age and medium size, with a fair complexion, sandyhair and open, honest countenance. He was clothed in a suit of black andwhite-checked cloth. 

He was duly sworn and examined. He gave his name as Donald McNeil, hisage forty years, and his home in the hamlet of Lone. 

"You are a ticket-agent at the Railway Station at Lone?" inquired thecoroner's clerk. 

"I am, sir. "

"You were on duty at that station last night, between twelve midnight andone, morning?"

"I was, sir. "

"Does the train for London stop at Lone at that hour?"

"The up-train stops at Lone, at a quarter past twal, sir, and seldomvaries for as muckle as twa minutes. "

"It stopped last night as usual, at a quarter past twelve?"

"It did, sir, av coorse. "

"Did any passengers get on that train from Lone?"

"_One_ passenger did, sir; whilk I remarked it more particularly, because the passenger was a young lass, travelling her lane, and it isunco seldom a woman tak's that train at that hour, and never her lane. "

"Ah! there was but one passenger, then, that took the midnight train fromLone for London?"

"But one, sir. "

"And she was a woman?"

"A young lass, sir. "

"Did she take a through ticket?"

"Ah, sir, to London. "

"What class?"

"Second-class. "

"Had she luggage?"

"An unco heavy black leather bag, sir, that was a'. "

"How do you know the bag was heavy?"

"By the way she lugged it, sir. The porter offered to relieve her o' it, but she wad na trust it out o' her hand ae minute. "

"Ah! Was it a large bag?"

"Na, sir, no that large, but unco heavy, as it might be filled fu' o'minerals, the like of whilk the college lads whiles collect in themountains. Na, it was no' large, but unco heavy, and she wad na let itout o' her hand ae minute. "

"Just so. Would you know that young woman again if you were to see her?"

"Na, I could na see her face. She wore a thick, dark vail, doublit overand over her face, the whilk was the moir to be noticed because the nichtwas sae warm. "

"You say her face was concealed. How, then, did you know her to be ayoung woman?"

"Ou, by her form and her gait just, and by her speech. "

"She talked with you, then?"

"Na, she spak just three words when she handed in the money for herticket: 'One--second-class--through. '"

"Would you recognize her voice again if you should hear it?"

"Ay, that I should. "

"How was this young woman dressed?"

"She wore a lang, black tweed cloak wi' a hood till it, and a dark vail. "

A few more questions were asked, but as nothing new was elicited thewitness was permitted to retire. 

Other witnesses were examined, and old witnesses were recalled hour afterhour and day after day, without effect. No new light was thrown upon themystery. 

No one, except Cuddie McGill, the saddler's apprentice, could be foundwho had seen the suspicious man and woman lurking under the balcony. 

Certainly Lord Arondelle remembered the "dream" Miss Levison had told himof the two persons whom she mistook to be himself and Rose Camerontalking together under her window. But Miss Levison was so far incapableof giving evidence as to be lying at the point of death with brain fever. So it would have been worse than useless to have spoken of her dream, orsupposed dream. 

The coroner's inquest sat several days without arriving at any definiteconclusion. 

The most plausible theory of the murder seemed to be that a robbery hadbeen planned between the valet and certain unknown confederates, who hadall been tempted by the great treasures known to be in the castle thatnight in the form of costly bridal presents; that no murder was at firstintended; that the confederates had been secretly admitted to the castlethrough the connivance of the valet; that the strong guard placed overthe treasures in the lighted drawing-room had saved them from robbery;that the robbers, disappointed of their first expectations, next went, with the farther connivance of the valet, to the bedchamber of Sir LemuelLevison, for the purpose of emptying his strong box; that being detectedin their criminal designs by the wakeful banker, they had silenced him byone fatal blow on the head; that they had then accomplished the robberyof the strong box, and of the person of the deceased banker; and had beensecretly let out of the castle by the valet. 

Finally, it was thought that the man and the woman discovered under thebalcony by Cuddie McGill on the night of the murder, were confederatesin the crime, and the woman was the midnight passenger to whom DonaldMcNeil sold the second-class railway ticket to London, and that the heavyblack bag she carried contained the booty taken from the castle. 

On the evening of the third day of the unsatisfactory inquest a verdictwas returned to this effect. 

That the deceased Sir Lemuel Levison, Knight, had come to his death bya blow from a heavy bronze statuette held in the hands of some personunknown to the jury. And that Peters, the valet of the deceased banker, was accessory to the murder. 

A coroner's warrant was immediately issued, and the valet was arrested, and confined in jail to await the action of the grand jury. 

An experienced detective officer was sent upon the track of themysterious, vailed woman, with the heavy black bag, who on the nightof the murder had taken the midnight train from Lone to London. 

Then at length the coroner's jury adjourned, and Castle Lone was clearedof the law officers and all others who had remained there in attendanceupon the inquest. 

And the preparations for the funeral of the deceased banker were allowedto go on. 

In addition to the long train of servants there remained now in thecastle but seven persons:

The young lady of the house, who lay prostrate and unconscious upon thebed of extreme illness or death; Lady Belgrade, who in all this troublehad nearly lost her wits; the Marquis of Arondelle, who had beenrequested to take the direction of affairs; the old Duke of Hereward, who had been brought to the castle in a helpless condition; the familyphysician, who had turned over all his other patients to his assistant, and was now devoting himself to the care of the unhappy daughter of thehouse; and lastly the family solicitor, and his clerk, who were downfor the obsequies. 

Beside these, the undertaker and his men came and went while completingtheir preparations for the funeral. 

There had been some talk of embalming the body, and delaying the burial, until the daughter of the deceased banker should view her father's faceonce more; but the impossibility of restoring the crushed skull to shaperendered it advisable that she should not be shocked by a sight of it. Sothe day of the funeral was set. 

But before that day came, another important event occurred at LoneCastle. It was not entirely unexpected. The old Duke of Hereward, sincehis arrival at the castle, had sunk very fast. He had been carefullyguarded from the knowledge of the tragedy which had been enacted withinits walls. He knew nothing of the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, or evenof the banker's presence in the castle. His failing mind had gone back tothe past, and he fondly imagined himself, as of yore, the Lord of Loneand of all its vast revenues. The presence and attendance of all his oldtrain of servants, who, as I said before, had been kindly retained in theservice of the banker's family, helped the happy illusion in which thelast days of the old duke were passed, until one afternoon, just as thesun was sinking out of sight behind Ben Lone, the old man went quietlyto sleep in his arm-chair, and never woke again in this world. 

A few days after this, in the midst of a large concourse of friends, neighbors and mourners, the mortal remains of Archibald-Alexander-JohnScott, Duke of Hereward and Marquis of Arondelle, in the peerage ofEngland, and Lord of Lone and Baron Scott, in the peerage of Scotland, were laid side by side with those of Sir Lemuel Levison, Kt. , in thefamily vault of Lone. 

The reading of the late banker's will was deferred until his daughter andsole heiress should be in a condition to attend it. 

And the family solicitor took it away with him to London to keep until itshould be called for. 

The crisis of Salome's illness passed safely. She was out of the imminentdanger of death, though she was still extremely weak. 

The family physician returned to his home and his practice in the villageof Lone, and only visited his patient at the castle morning and evening. 

Now, therefore, besides the train of household servants, there remainedat the castle but three inmates--Salome Levison, reduced by sorrow andillness to a state of infantile feebleness of mind and body; LadyBelgrade, nearly worn out with long watching, fatigue, and anxiety; andthe young Marquis of Arondelle, whom we must henceforth designate as theDuke of Hereward, and whom even the stately dowager, who was "of the moststraitest sect, a Pharisee" of conventional etiquette, neverthelessimplored to remain a guest at the castle until after the recovery of theheiress, and the reading of the father's will. 

The young duke who wished nothing more than to be near his bride, readilyconsented to stay. 

But Salome's recovery was so slow, and her frame so feeble, that sheseemed to have re-entered life through a new infancy of body and mind. 

Strangely, however, through all her illness she seemed not to have lostthe memory of its cause--her father's shocking death. Thus she had no newgrief or horror to experience. 

No one spoke to her of the terrible tragedy. She herself was the first toallude to it. 

The occasion was this:

On the first day on which she was permitted to leave her bedchamber andsit for awhile in an easy resting chair, beside the open window of herboudoir, to enjoy the fresh air from the mountain and the lake, she sentfor the young duke to come to her. 

He eagerly obeyed the summons, and hastened to her side. 

He had not been permitted to see her since her illness, and now he wasalmost overwhelmed with sorrow to see into what a mere shadow of herformer self she had faded. 

As she reclined there in her soft white robes, with her long, dark hairflowing over her shoulders, so fair, so wan, so spiritual she looked, that it seemed as if the very breeze from the lake might have wafted heraway. 

He dropped on one knee beside her, and embraced and kissed her hands, andthen sat down next her. 

After the first gentle greetings were over, she amazed him by turning andasking:

"Has the murderer been discovered yet?"

"No, my beloved, but the detectives have a clue, that they feel sure willlead to the discovery and conviction of the wretch, " answered the youngduke, in a low voice. 

"Where have they laid the body of my dear father?" she next inquired ina low hushed tone. 

"In the family vault beside those of my own parents, " gravely replied theyoung man. 

"Your own--_parents_, my lord? I knew that your dear mother had gonebefore, but--your father--"

"My father has passed to his eternal home. It is well with him as withyours. They are happy. And we--have a common sorrow, love!"

"I did not know--I did not know. No one told me, " murmured Salome, as shedropped her face on her open hands, and cried like a child. 

"Every one wished to spare you, my sweet girl, as long as possible. YetI _did_ think, they had told you of my father's departure, else Ihad not alluded to it so suddenly. There! weep no more, love! Viewed inthe true light, those who have passed higher are rather to be envied thanmourned. "

Then to change the current of her thoughts he said:

"Can you give your mind now to a little business, Salome?"

"Yes, if it concerns you, " she sighed, wiping her eyes, and looking up. 

"It concerns me only inasmuch as it affects your interests, my love. Youare of age, my Salome?"

"Yes, I was twenty-one on my last birthday. "

"Then you enter at once upon your great inheritance--an onerous andresponsible position. "

"But you will sustain it for me. I shall not feel its weight, " shemurmured. 

"There are thousands in this realm, my love, good men and true, who wouldgladly relieve me of the dear trust, " said the duke, with a smile. "Wemust, however, be guided by your father's will, which I am happy to knowis in entire harmony with your own wishes. And that brings me to what Iwished to say. Kage, your late father's solicitor, is in possession ofhis last will. He could not follow the custom, and read it immediatelyafter the funeral, because your illness precluded the possibility of yourpresence at its perusal. But he only waits for your recovery and asummons from me to bring it. Whenever, therefore, you feel equal to theexertion of hearing it, I will send a telegram to Kage to come down, "concluded the duke. 

"My father's last will!" softly murmured Salome. "Send the telegramto-day, please. To hear his last will read will be almost like hearingfrom him. "

"There is beside the will a letter from your father, addressed to you, and left in the charge of Kage, to be delivered with the reading of thewill, in the case of his, the writer's, sudden death, " gravely added theduke. 

"A letter from my dear father to me? A letter from the grave! No, rathera letter from Heaven! Telegraph Mr. Kage to bring down the papers atonce, dear John, " said Salome, eagerly, as a warm flush arose on herpale, transparent cheek. 

"I will do so at once, love; for to my mind, that letter is of equalimportance with the will--though no lawyer would think so, " said theduke. 

"You know its purport then?"

"No, dearest, not certainly, but I surmise it, from some conversationsthat I held with the late Sir Lemuel Levison. "

As he spoke the door opened and Lady Belgrade entered the room, sayingsoftly, as she would have spoken beside the cradle of a sick baby:

"I am sorry to disturb your grace; but the fifteen minutes permitted bythe doctor have passed, and Salome must not sit up longer. "

"I am going now, dear madam, " said the duke, rising. 

He took Salome's hand, held it for a moment in his, while he gazed intoher eyes, then pressed it to his lips, and so took his morning's leave ofher. 

The same forenoon he rode over to the Lone Station, and dispatched atelegram to the family solicitor, Kage. 

CHAPTER X. 

THE LETTER AND ITS EFFECT. 

Mr. Kage arrived at Lone, within twenty-four hours after having receivedthe duke's telegram. He reached the castle at noon and had a privateinterview with the duke in the library, when it was arranged that thewill and the letter should be read the same afternoon in the presence ofthe assembled household. 

"The letter also? Is not that a private one from the father to hisdaughter?" inquired the duke. 

"No, your grace. There are reasons why it must be public, which you willrecognize when you hear it read, " answered the lawyer. 

"Then I fear I have been mistaken in my private thoughts concerning it. Pray, will it give us any clue to the perpetrators of the murder?"

"None whatever! It certainly was not a violent death that the bankeranticipated for himself when he prepared that letter to be delivered inthe event of his sudden decease. "

"Has any clue yet been found to the murderer?"

"None that I have heard of. "

"Or to the mysterious woman who was supposed to have carried off thebooty?"

"None, Detective Keightley called on me yesterday for some informationregarding the stolen property, and I furnished him with a photograph ofthat snuff-box given to Sir Lemuel Levison by the Sultan of Turkey--thegold one richly set with precious stones. Sir Lemuel had it photographedby my advice, for identification in case of its being stolen. And he leftseveral duplicate copies with me. I gave one to Keightley. But the mancould give me no information in return. The missing woman seemed lost inLondon. And the proverbial little needle in the haystack might be aseasily found, " said the lawyer. 

The announcement of luncheon put an end to the interview. 

The two gentlemen passed on into the smaller dining-room where LadyBelgrade awaited them. She received the solicitor politely and invitedhim to the table. 

After the three were seated and helped to what they preferred, herladyship turned to the lawyers and said:

"My niece understands that you have a letter for her, left in your chargeby her father. She wishes you to send it to her immediately. Her maid ishere waiting to take it. "

"Pardon me, my dear lady, the letter must remain in my possession untilafter the reading of the will, when, for certain reasons, it must beread, as the will, in the presence of the household. Pray explain this toMiss Levison, and tell her that I shall be ready to read and deliver bothat five o'clock this afternoon, if that will meet her convenience, " saidthe lawyer, respectfully. 

"That will suit her; but I hope the forms will not occupy more than anhour. Miss Levison is still extremely feeble, and ought not to sit uplonger, " said the dowager. 

"It will not require more than half an hour, madam, " replied Mr. Kage. 

Lady Belgrade gave the message to the maid for her mistress. And when thegirl retired, the conversation turned upon the proceedings of the Londondetectives in pursuit of the unknown murderers. 

At the appointed hour the household servants were all assembled in thedining-room. At the head of the long table sat the family attorney andhis clerk. Before them lay a japanned tin box, secured by a brasspadlock. It contained the last will, the letter, and other documentsappertaining to the deceased banker's estate. They were only waiting forthe entrance of Miss Levison and her friends. No one else was expected. There was not the usual crowd of poor relatives who "crop up" at thereading of almost every rich man's will. The late Sir Lemuel Levison hadno poor relations whatever. His people were all rich, and all scatteredover Europe and America, at the head of banks, or branches of banks, inevery great capital, of the almost illustrious house of "Levison, Bankers. "

The assembled household had not to wait long. The door opened and theyoung lady of Lone entered, supported on each side by the Duke ofHereward and the dowager, Lady Belgrade. 

Her fair, transparent, spiritual face looked whiter than ever, incontrast to her deep black crape dress, as she bowed to the lawyer, andpassed to her seat at the table. 

The duke and the dowager seated themselves on either side of her. 

"Are you quite ready, Miss Levison, to hear the will of the late SirLemuel Levison?" inquired the attorney. 

"I am quite ready, Mr. Kage, thanks, " replied the young lady, in a lowvoice, and speaking with an effort. 

The attorney unlocked the box, took out the will, unfolded and proceededto read it. 

The document was dated several years back. It was neither long norcomplex. After liberal bequests to each one of his household servants, rich keepsakes to his dear friends, an annuity to the dowager LadyBelgrade, and a princely endowment to found an orphan asylum andchildren's hospital in the heart of London, he bequeathed the residue ofhis vast estates, both real and personal, without reserve and withoutconditions, to his only and beloved child, Salome. 

After the reading of the will was finished, the attorney arose, camearound to where the ladies sat, and congratulated Miss Levison and LadyBelgrade, on their rich inheritance. 

"How could he do it?" thought the unconventional and weeping heiress. "Oh, how could he congratulate me on an inheritance which came, and couldonly have come, through my dear father's decease!" Then in a voice brokenwith emotion, she said:

"Thanks, Mr. Kage. Will you please now to read my dear papa'sletter?--since you _are_ to read it aloud, I think, " she added. 

"Such was the deceased Sir Lemuel's direction, my dear Miss Levison, "said the lawyer. And returning to his place at the head of the table, hetook the letter from the japanned box, opened it, and said:

"This letter from my late honored client to his daughter was committed bythe late Sir Lemuel Levison to my charge to be retained and read afterthe will, in the event of a circumstance which has already occurred--Imean the sudden and unexpected death of the writer. The letter willexplain itself. "

Here the lawyer cleared his throat, and began to read:

"ELMHURST HOUSE, Kensington, London, "Monday, May 1st, 18--. 

"MY DEAREST ONLY CHILD: Blessings on your head! Nothing couldhave made me happier, than has your betrothal to so admirable a young manas the Marquis of Arondelle. Had I possessed the privilege of choosinga husband for you, and a son-in-law for myself, from the whole race ofmankind, I should have chosen him above all others. But, my dearestSalome, the satisfaction I enjoy in your prospects of happiness isshadowed by one faint cloud. It is not much, my love; it is only theconsciousness of my age and of the precarious state of my health. I maynot live to see you united to the noble husband of your choice. Thereforeit is that I have urged your speedy marriage with what your goodchaperon, Lady Belgrade, evidently considers indecorous haste. She mustcontinue to think it indecorous, because unreasonable. I cannot, and willnot, darken your sunshine of joy, by giving to you _now_ the realreason of my precipitation--the extremely precarious state of my health. Yet, in the event of my being suddenly taken from you, I must preparethis letter to be delivered to you after my death, that you may know mylast wishes. If I live to see you wedded to the good Lord Arondelle, this paper shall be torn up and destroyed; if not, if I should besuddenly snatched away from you before your wedding-day, this letter willbe read to you, after my will shall have been read, in the presence ofyour betrothed husband, your good chaperon and your assembled household, that you and they and all may know my last wishes concerning you, andthat none shall dare to blame you for obeying them, even though in doingso you have to pursue a very unusual course. My wish, therefore, is thatyour marriage with Lord Arondelle may not be delayed for a day uponaccount of my death; but that it take place at the time fixed or as soonthereafter as practicable. In giving these directions, I feel sure that Iam consulting the wishes of Lord Arondelle, the best interests ofyourself, and the happiness of both. Follow my directions, therefore, mydearest daughter, and may the blessing of our Father in Heaven rest uponyou and yours, is the prayer of

"Your devoted father, LEMUEL LEVISON. "

During the reading of the letter the face of Salome was bathed in tearsand buried in her pocket-handkerchief. 

The duke sat by her, with his arm around her waist, supporting her. 

At the end of the reading, without looking up, she stretched out her handand whispered softly:

"Give me my dear father's letter now. "

The attorney, who was engaged in re-folding the documents and restoringthem to the japanned box, left his seat, and came to her side, and placedthe letter in her hands. 

"Thanks, Mr. Kage, " she said, wiping her eyes and looking up. "But nowwill you tell me if you know what my dear father meant by writing of theprecarious state of his health? He seemed to enjoy a very vigorousand green old age. "

"Yes, he '_seemed_' to do so, my dear young lady; but it was allseeming. He was really affected with a mortal malady, which hisphysicians warned him might prove fatal at any moment, " gravely repliedthe lawyer. 

"And he never hinted it to us!"

"He did not wish to sadden your young life with a knowledge of hisaffliction. "

"My own dear papa! My dear, dear papa! loving, self-sacrificing to theend of his earthly life! never thinking of his own happiness--alwaysthinking of mine or of others! My dear, dear father!" murmured the stillweeping daughter. 

"He thought of your happiness, and of the happiness of your betrothedhusband, my dear young lady, when he committed that letter to my care, tobe delivered to you in case of his sudden death, and when he charged meto urge with all my might, your compliance with its instructions. And nowpermit me to add, my dear Miss Levison, that to obey your father's willinthis matter would be the very best and wisest course you could pursue. "

"Thanks, Mr. Kage; I know that you are a faithful friend to our family;but--I must have a little time to recover, " murmured Salome, faintly. 

"Here, you may remember my dear Salome, that when I told you of thisletter in the possession of Mr. Kage, I said that I thought I knew itspurport from certain conversations I had held with your late father. Hehad hinted to me the dangerous condition of his health, and he hadexpressed a hope that no accident to himself should be permitted topostpone our marriage; and then he told me that he had left a letter withhis solicitor to be read in case of his sudden death, and that the letterwould explain itself. He concluded by begging me if anything shouldhappen to him to necessitate the delivery of that letter to you, to urgeupon you the wisdom and policy of following its direction. He could nothave given me a commission I should be more anxious or earnest inexecuting. My dear Salome, will you obey your good father's wishes? Willyou give me at once a husband's right to love and cherish you?" headded in a low whisper. 

"Oh, give me a little time, " she murmured--"give me a little time. Thereis nothing I wish more than to do as my dear father directed me, and asyou wish me; but my heart is so wounded and bleeding now, I am still soweak and broken-spirited. Give me a little time, dear John, to recoversome strength to overcome my sorrow. "

Here she broke down and wept. 

"I think we had best take her back to her room, " said Lady Belgrade, rising. 

Mr. Kage locked up the documents in the japanned box, put the key in hispocket-book, and consigned the box to the care of his clerk. 

Lady Belgrade dismissed the assembled servants to their several duties, and then, assisted by Lord Arondelle, led the bereaved and suffering girlfrom the room. 

The lawyer and his clerk, who were to dine and sleep at the castle, wereleft alone. 

The lawyer rang and asked for a bottle of wine and a couple of glasses, and lighted his cigar, to pass away the time until the dinner hour. 

The next morning Mr. Kage and his clerk went back to London. 

It now became an anxious question, whether the marriage of the young Dukeof Hereward and the heiress of Lone should proceed according to herfather's wishes. 

Mr. Kage, the family attorney, urged it: Dr. McWilliams, the familyphysician, urged it: above all the expectant bridegroom, the Duke ofHereward; only the bride-elect, Salome, and her chaperon, Lady Belgrade, objected to it. 

Salome, ill and nervous from the severe shock she had received, coulddecide upon nothing hastily and pleaded for a short delay. 

Lady Belgrade argued etiquette and conventionalities--the impropriety ofthe daughter's marriage so soon after the father's murder. 

Meanwhile the summer had merged into early autumn; the season of theHighlands was over, and the cold Scotch mists were driving summervisitors to the South coast, or to the Continent. 

The climate was telling heavily upon the delicate organization of SalomeLevison. She contracted a serious cough. 

Then the family physician, (so to speak, ) "put down his foot" withprofessional authority so stern as not to be contested or withstood. 

"This is a question of life or death, my lady, " he said to thedowager--"a question of life and death, ye mind! And not ofconventionality and etiquette! Let conventionality and etiquette go tothe D. , from whom they first came. This girl must die, or she must marryimmediately, and go off with her husband to the islands of the GrecianArchipelago. That is all that can save her. And as for you, my lairdduke, " continued the honest Scotch doctor, breaking into dialect as healways did whenever he forgot himself under strong excitement, "as foryou, me laird duke, if ye dinna overcome the lassie's scruples, and marryher out of hand, the de'il hae me but I'll e'en marry her mysel', andtak' her awa to save her life! Now, then will I tak' her mysel' or willyou?"

"I will take her!" said the young duke, smiling. Then turning to thedowager, he added, gravely: "Lady Belgrade, this marriage must and shalltake place immediately. You must add your efforts to mine to overcomeyour niece's scruples. Your ladyship has been working against meheretofore. I hope now, after hearing what the doctor has said, thatyou will work with me. "

"Of course, if the child's life and health are in question: and, indeed, this climate is much too severe for her, and she certainly does needrousing; and as it has been three months now since Sir Lemuel Levison'sfuneral, I don't see--But, of course, after all, it is for you and Salometo decide as you please;" answered Lady Belgrade, in a confused andhesitating manner, for when the dowager went outside of herconventionalities she lost herself. 

Salome Levison was again besieged by the pleadings of her lover, thecounsels of her solicitor, and the arguments of her physician, all withthe co-operation of her chaperon. 

"I do not see what else can be done, my dear, " she said to her protegee. "The ceremony can be performed as quietly as possible, and you two can goaway, and the world be no wiser. "

"As if I cared for the world! I will do this in obedience to my dearfather's directions and my betrothed husband's wishes, and I do not eventhink of the world, " gravely replied Salome. 

"Now, then, to the details, my dear. What day shall we fix? And shall theceremony be preformed here at the castle or at the church at Lone?"

"Oh, not here! not here! I could not bear to be married here, or at theLone church either. No, Lady Belgrade. We must go up to our town house inLondon, and be married quietly at St. Peter's in Kensington, where I usedto attend divine service with my dear papa, " said Salome, becomingagitated. 

"Very well, my love. But don't excite yourself. We will go. And thesooner the better. These horrid Scotch mists are aggravating myrheumatism beyond endurance, " concluded the dowager. 

It was now the last week in September. But so diligently did the dowager, and the servants under her orders exert themselves both at Castle Loneand in London, that before the first of October, Miss Levison, with herchaperon and their attendants, were all comfortably settled in theluxurious town-house in the West End. 

The Duke of Hereward took lodgings near the home of his bride-elect. 

As the marriage settlements had been executed, and the bridalparaphernalia prepared for the first marriage day set three monthsbefore, there was really nothing to do in the way of preparation for thewedding, and no reason for even so much as a week's delay. An earlyday was therefore set. It was decided that the ceremony should beperformed without the least parade. 

Since her departure from Castle Lone and her arrival at their town house, the change of scene and of circumstances, and the preliminaries of herwedding and her journey, had the happiest effects upon Miss Levison'shealth and spirits. 

She recovered her cheerfulness, and even acquired a bloom she had neverpossessed before. And her attendants took care to keep from her all thatcould revive her memory of the tragedy at Lone. 

One morning the Duke of Hereward came to the house and asked to see LadyBelgrade alone. 

The dowager received him in the library. 

"Has Miss Levison seen the morning papers?" he inquired, as soon as theusual greetings were over. 

"No, they have not yet come, " answered her ladyship. 

"Thank Heaven! Do not let her see them on any account! I would not haveher shocked. The truth is, " he added, in explanation of his words to thewondering dowager, "I have important news to tell you. The mysteriousvailed woman, supposed to be connected with the robbery and murder atLone Castle, has been found and arrested. The stolen property has beendiscovered in her possession. And she--you will be infinitelyshocked--she proves to be Rose Cameron, the daughter of one of ourshepherds, living near Ben Lone. "

CHAPTER XI. 

THE VAILED PASSENGER. 

We must return to the night of the murder, and to the man and woman whomSalome Levison heard, and did not merely "dream" that she heard, conversing under her balcony at midnight. 

When left alone in her dark and silent hiding-place, the woman waitedlong and impatiently. Sometimes she crept out from her shadowy nook, andstole a look up to the casements of the castle, but they were all darkand silent, and closely shut, save one immediately above her head, whichstood open, though neither lighted nor occupied. 

She had waited perhaps an hour when stealthy footsteps were heardapproaching, and not one, but two men came up whispering in hurried andagitated tones. She caught a few words of their troubled talk. 

"You have betrayed me! I never meant, under any circumstances, that youshould have done such a deed!" said one. 

"It was necessary to our safety. We should have been discovered andarrested, " said the other. 

"You have brought the curse of Cain upon my head!" groaned the firstspeaker. 

"Come, come, my lord, brace up! No one intended what has happened. It wasan accident, a calamity, but it is an accomplished fact, and 'what isdone, is done, ' and 'what is past remedy is past regret. ' If the old manhadn't squealed--"

"Hush! burn you! the girl will hear!" whispered the first speaker, asthey approached the woman under the balcony. 

"Rose, here; don't speak. Take this bag; be very careful of it; do notlet it for a moment go out of your sight, or even out of your hand. Goto Lone station. The train for London stops there at 12:15. Take asecond-class ticket, keep your face covered with a thick vail until youget to London, and to the house. I will join you there in a few days, "said the first speaker, earnestly. 

"Why canna ye gae now, my laird?" impatiently inquired the girl. 

"It would be dangerous, Rose. "

"I'm thinking it is laughing at me ye are, Laird Arondelle. You'll bidehere and marry yon leddy, " said the girl, tossing her head. 

"No, on my soul! How can I, when I have married you? Have you not gotyour marriage certificate with you?"

"Ay, I hae got my lines, but I dinna like ye to bide here, near yourleddy, whiles I gang my lane to London. "

"Rose, our safety requires that you should go alone to London. You cannottrust me; yet see how much I trust you. You have in that bag, which Ihave confided to your care, uncounted treasures. Take it carefully toLondon and to the house on Westminster Road. Conceal it there and waitfor me. "

"Who is yon lad that cam' wi' ye frae the castle?" inquired the girl, pointing to the other man who had withdrawn apart. 

"He is one of the servants of the castle, who is in my confidence. Nevermind him. Hurry away now, my lass. You have just time to cross the bridgeand reach the station, to catch the train. You are not afraid to goalone?"

"Nay, I'm no feared. But dinna be lang awa' yersel', my laird, orI shall be thinking my thoughts about yon leddy, " said the girl, as shefolded the dark vail around and around the hat, and without furtherleave-taking, started off in a brisk walk toward the bridge. 

She passed through the castle grounds and over the bridge, and went on tothe station, without having met another human being. 

She secured her ticket, as has been related, and when the train stopped, she took her place on a second-class car. 

Being very much of an animal, and very much fatigued, she could not bekept awake even by the excitement of her novel and perilous position, but, holding on to her booty, and lulled by the swift motion of thetrain, she fell asleep, and slept until eight o'clock next morning, when she was awakened by the stopping of the train and the bustle of thearrival at Euston Square Station. Her first thought was for the safety ofher bag. With a start of dismay she missed it from her lap, where she hadbeen holding it so tightly. 

"An' it 's yer little valise yer a looking for, my dear, there it be atyer feet, where it fell, with a crash, while ye slept. An' there wasanything in it would break, sure it 's broken entirely, " said a kindlyman, pointing to the bag upon the floor. 

She hastily picked it up. 

"Oh! if any one had known what it contains, would it have been left therein safety all the time I slept?" she asked herself, as her hands closedtightly upon her recovered treasure. 

But the passengers were all leaving the train, and so she got out withthe rest. 

She was too cunning to take a cab from the station. She left it onfoot and walked a mile or two, making many turns, before, at length shehailed a "four wheeler, " hired it and directed the cabman to drive toNumber ---- Westminster Road. 

CHAPTER XII. 

THE HOUSE ON WESTMINSTER ROAD. 

An hour's ride through some of the most crowded streets of London broughther to her destination--a tall, dingy, three-storied brick house, in ablock of the same. 

She paid and dismissed the cab at the door, and then went up and rang thebell. 

It was answered by an old woman, in a black skirt, red sack, white apron, and white cap. 

"Well, to be sure, ma'am, you have taken me unexpected; but I'm mainglad to see you so soon. Come in, and I'll make you comfortable in notime, " said the woman, with kindly respect, as she held the door wideopen for her mistress. 

"Any one been here sin' we left Mrs. Rogers?" inquired the traveller. 

"No, ma'am--no soul. It is very lonely here without you. Let me take yourbag, ma'am. It do seem heavy, " said Mrs. Rogers, as she held out her handand took hold of the handle of the satchel. 

"Na, I thank ye. It's na that heavy neither, " exclaimed the girl, nervously jerking back the bag, and following her conductor into thehouse and up stairs. 

An unlikely house to be the shelter of thieves and the receptacle ofstolen goods. There was a look of sober respectability about itsdinginess that might have appertained to a suburban doctor with a largefamily and a small practice. An old oil cloth, whole, but with itspattern half washed off, covered the narrow hall--an old stair-carpet oforiginally good quality, but now thread-bare in places, covered thesteps. This was all that could be seen from the open door by any chancecaller. But upstairs all was very different. 

As the girl reached the landing, the old woman opened a door on her leftand ushered her into a bright, glaring room, filled up with cheap newfurniture, in which blinding colors and bad taste predominated. Carpets, curtains, chair and sofa covers, and hassocks, all bright scarlet;cornices, mirrors, and picture frames, (framing cheap, showy pictures, )all in brassy looking gilt. Through this sitting-room the girl passedinto a bedroom, where, also, the furniture was in scarlet and gilt, except the white draperied bed and the dressing-table. Here the girlthrew herself down in an easy-chair saying:

"I'll just bide here a bit and wash my face and hands, while ye'll gaebring my breakfast. "

"Yes, ma'am. What would you like to have?" inquired the woman. 

"Ait meal parritch, fust of a', to begin wi' twa kippered herrings; asausage; a beefsteak; twa eggs; a pot o' arange marmalade; a plate ofmilk toast, some muffins, and some fresh rolls, " concluded the girl. 

"Anything more, ma'am?" dryly inquired Mrs. Rogers. 

"Nay--ay! Ye may bring me a mutton chop, wi' the lave. "

"Tea or coffee, ma'am?"

"Baith, and mak' haste wi' it, " answered the girl. 

The old woman, smiling to herself, went out. 

The girl being left alone, fastened both doors of her room, hung napkinsover the key-holes, drew close the scarlet curtains of her windows, andthen sat down on the floor and opened the bag and turned out its contentson the carpet. 

Fortunatus! what a sight! Well might her fellow-passenger have hearda crash when the bag slipped from her lap to the bottom of the car!

About twelve little canvas bags filled with coins, and marked variouslyon the sides--£50, £100, £500, £1, 000. 

She gazed at the treasure in a sort of rapture of possession! How fasther heart beat! She did not think that there was so much money in thewhole world! She began to count the bags, and add up their markedfigures, to try to estimate the amount. There were two bags marked onethousand, four marked five hundred, three marked one hundred, and threemarked fifty pounds--in all twelve little canvas bags containingaltogether four thousand four hundred and fifty pounds. 

What a mine of wealth! How she gloated over it! She longed to cut openthe little canvas bags and spread the whole glittering mass of gold andsilver on the carpet before her, that she might gaze upon it--not as amiser to hoard it, but as a vain beauty to spend it. How many bonnets anddresses and shawls and laces and jewels this money would buy? How shelonged to lay it out! But she dared not do it yet. She dared not evenopen the canvas bags. She must conceal her riches. 

She began to put the bags back in the satchel. 

In doing so, she perceived that she had not half emptied it--there wassomething in each of the buttoned pockets on the inside. She opened thepockets and turned out their contents. 

Rainbows and sunbeams and flashes of lightning!

Her eyes were dazzled with splendor. There was set in a ring a largesolitaire diamond in which seemed collected all the light and color ofthe sun! There was a watch in a gold hunting case, thickly studded withprecious stones, and bearing in the center of its circle the initials ofthe late owner, set in diamonds, and which was suspended to a heavy goldchain. There was a snuff-box of solid gold encrusted with pearls, opals, diamonds, rubies, emeralds, amethysts and sapphires, in a design ofOriental beauty and splendor. 

There were also diamond studs and diamond sleeve-buttons--each a largesolitaire of immense value, and there were other jewels in the form ofseals, lockets, and so forth; and all those delighted her woman's eyesand heart. But, above all, the golden box, set with all sorts of flamingprecious stones, with its splendid colors and blazing fires dazzled hersight and dazed her mind. 

"I _will_ keep this for mysel', " she said, as she put it in thebosom of her dress--"I will, I _will_, I WILL! He shall na hae thisagain. I'll tell him it was lost or sto'en. "

Then she opened the satchel and began to put away the other jewels, untilshe took up the watch, looked at it longingly, put it in the bag, took itout again, and finally, without a word, slipped it into her bosom besidethe box. 

Next she trifled with the temptation of the diamond ring. She slipped iton and off her finger. She had large beautiful hands in perfectproportion to her large beautiful form, and the ring that had fitted thebanker's long thin finger fitted her round white one perfectly. So, shetook the jewelled box from her bosom, opened it, put the diamond ring init, then closed and returned it to its hiding place. 

Finally retaining the box, the watch and the rings, she replaced all thejewels and the money-bags in the satchel, and put the satchel for thepresent between the mattresses of her bed. While thus engaged she heardher old attendant moving about in the next room, and she knew that shewas setting the table for her breakfast. 

So she hastened to smooth the bed again, and snatch the napkins off thekeyholes, and unlock the doors lest her very caution should excitesuspicion. 

Then at length she took time to wash the railroad dust from her face, andbrush it from her hair. 

And finally she passed into her sitting-room where she found the tablelaid for her single breakfast. 

Presently her housekeeper entered bringing one tray on which stood teaand coffee with their accompaniments, and followed by a young kitchenmaid with another tray on which stood the bread, butter, marmalade, meat, fish, etc. , with _their_ accompaniments. 

When all these were arranged upon the table, Rose Cameron sat down andfell to. 

Being a very perfect animal, she was blessed with an excellent appetiteand a healthy digestion. She was therefore, a very heavy feeder; and nowbread, butter, fish, meat, marmalade disappeared rapidly from the scene, to the great amusement of the housekeeper and kitchen maid, who had neverseen "a lady" eat so ravenously. 

When the breakfast service was removed, she went back into her bedroom, locked the door, and covered the keyholes as before, and took the satchelfrom between the mattresses, and opened it to gloat over her treasures;for she quite considered them as her own. Again she was "tempted of thedevil. " She thought of the fine shops in London, and the fine ready-madedresses she could buy with the very smallest of these bags of money. 

"Why should I no'? What's his is mine! I'll e'en tak the wee baggie, andgae till the fine shops, " she said to herself. And selecting one of thefifty pound bags, she replaced the others in the satchel, and put thesatchel in its hiding place. 

She got ready for her expedition by arraying herself in a cheap, dark-blue silk suit, and a straw hat with a blue feather. Then shecarefully locked her bedroom door, and took the key with her when sheleft the house. 

Her ambition did not take any very high flights, although she did believeherself to be a countess. She knew nothing of the splendid shops of theWest End. She only knew the Borrough and St. Paul's churchyard, both ofwhich she thought, contained the riches and splendors of the whole world. She went to the nearest cab-stand, took a cab, and drove to St. Paul'schurchyard, (in ancient times a cemetery, but now a network of narrow, crowded streets, filled with cheap, showy shops. ) She spent the best partof the day in that attractive locality. 

When she returned, late in the afternoon, the canvas bag was empty andthe cab was full, for Rose Cameron, the country girl, ignorant of theworld, but having a saving faith in the dishonesty of cities, refused totrust the dealers to send the goods home, but insisted on fetching themherself. 

She displayed her purchases--mostly gaudy trash--to the wondering eyes ofMrs. Rogers, and then, tired out with her long night's journey and herwhole day's shopping, she ate a heavy supper and went to bed. Suchexcesses never seemed to over-task her fine digestive organs or disturbher sleep. After an unbroken night's rest she awoke the next morning witha clear head and a keen appetite, and rang for the housekeeper to bringher a cup of tea to her bedside. 

While waiting for her tea she wondered if her "guid mon" would arriveduring the next twenty-four hours. 

And that revived in her mind the memory of her supposed rival. Duringthe preceding day she had been so absorbed in the contemplation of hernewly-acquired treasures in jewelry and money that she had scarcelythought of what might then be going on at Castle Lone. 

Now she wondered what happened there; whether the marriage had failed totake place; but, of course, she said to herself, it had failed. LordArondelle would never commit bigamy--but _how_ had it failed? Whathad been made to happen to prevent it from going on? And what had thebride and her friends said or thought?

Above all, why had Lord Arondelle, married to herself as she fullybelieved him to be, _why_ had Lord Arondelle allowed the affairto go so far, even to the wedding-morning, when the wedding-feast wasprepared, and the wedding guests arrived?

It must have been done to mortify and humiliate those city strangers whosat in his father's seat, she thought. 

Oh, but she would have given a great deal to have seen her hated rival'sface on that wedding-morning when no wedding took place?

No doubt "John" would tell her all about it when he arrived. And oh! Howimpatient she became for his arrival!

Her reflections were interrupted by the entrance of the housekeeper witha cup of tea in one hand and the _Times_ in the other. 

"Good morning, ma'am. And hoping you find yourself well this morning!Here is your tea, ma'am. And here is the paper, ma'am. There's the mosthawful murder been committed, ma'am, which I thought you might enjoyalong of your tea, " said the worthy woman, as she drew a little stand bythe bedside and placed the cup and the newspaper upon it. 

"A murder?" listlessly repeated Rose Cameron, rising on her elbow, andtaking the tea-cup in her hand. 

"Ay, ma'am, the most hawfullest murder as ever you 'eard of, on an''elpless old gent, away up at a place in Scotland called Lone!"

"EH!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, starting, and nearly letting fallher tea-cup. 

"Yes, ma'am, and the most hawfullest part of it was, as it was done inthe night afore his darter's wedding-day, and his blessed darter herselfwas the first to find her father's dead body in the morning. "

"Gude guide us!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, putting down her untasted tea, and staring at the speaker in blank dismay. 

"You may read all about it in the paper, ma'am, " said the housekeeper. 

"When did it a' happen?" huskily inquired the girl, whose face was nowashen pale. 

"On the night before last, ma'am. The same night you were traveling up toLondon by the Great Northern. And bless us and save us, the poor bridemust have found her poor pa's dead body just about the time you arrivedat home here, ma'am, for the paper says it was ten o'clock. "

"Ou! wae's me! wae's me! wae's me!" cried Rose, covering her ashen-paleface with her hands and sinking back on her pillow. 

"Oh, indeed I'm sorry I told you anything about it, ma'am, if it givesyou such a turn. I _did_ hope it would amuse you while you sippedyour tea. But la! there! some ladies do be _so_ narvy!"

"An' that's the way the braw wedding was stappit!" cried Rose, withouteven hearing the words of her attendant. 

"Yes, ma'am, " replied Mrs. Rogers, not understanding the allusion of thespeaker, "_that_ was the way the wedding was stopped, in course. Nowedding could go on after _that_, you know, ma'am, anyhow, let alonethe bride falling into a fit the minute she saw the bloody corpse of hermurdered father, and being of a raving manyyack ever since. Instead of awedding and a feast there will be an inquest and a funeral. "

"Was--there--a--robbery?" inquired Rose Cameron in a low, faint, frightened tone. 

"Ay, ma'am, a great robbery of money and jewelry, and no clue yet to thevilyuns as did it! But won't you drink your tea, ma'am?"

"Na, na, I dinna need it now. Ou! this is awfu'! Wae worth the day!"exclaimed the horror-stricken girl, shivering from head to foot as withan ague. 

"Indeed, I am very sorry I told you anything about it, ma'am. But Ithought it would interest you. I didn't think it would shock you. But, indeed, if I were you, I wouldn't take on so about people I didn't knowanything about. And you didn't know anything about _them_. Youhaven't even asked the names, " urged the worthy woman. 

"Na, na, I did na ken onything anent them; but it is unco awfu'!" saidRose, in hurried, tremulous tones. 

Not for all her hidden treasures would she have had it suspected that sheeven remotely knew anything about the murder or the man who was murdered. 

"And yet you take on about them. Ah! your heart is too tender, ma'am. Ifyou are going to take up everybody else's crosses as well as your own, you'll never get through this world, ma'am. Take an old woman's wordfor that. "

"Thank'ee, Mrs. Rogers. Noo, please gae awa and leave me my lane. I'llring for ye if I want ye, " said Rose, nervously. 

"Very well, ma'am. I'll go and see after your breakfast. "

"Oh, onything at a'! The same as yestreen. Only gae awa!" exclaimed theexcited girl, too deeply moved now even to care what she should eat forbreakfast. 

When the housekeeper had left her alone she gave way to the emotions ofhorror and fear which prudence had caused her to restrain in the presenceof the woman. She wept, and sobbed, and cried out, and struck her handstogether. She was, in truth, in an agony of terror. 

For now she understood the hidden meaning of her lover's words, when onthe night of the murder he had said to her, under the balcony, "Somethingwill happen to-night that will put all thoughts of marrying and givingin marriage out of the heads of all concerned. " And she comprehended alsohow the meaning of the fragmentary conversation she had overheard betweenher lover and his companion, as they approached her from the house: "Youhave brought the curse of Cain upon me. " "It could not be helped. " "Ifthe old man had not squealed out, " and so forth. 

Sir Lemuel Levison had been robbed and murdered, and she--RoseCameron--had been accessory to the robbery and the murder! She had lainin wait under the balcony while the burglars went in and slaughtered theold banker, and emptied his money chest. She had received the booty, andcarried it off, and brought it to London. She had it even then in herpossession!

She was liable to discovery, arrest, trial, conviction, execution. 

With a cry of intense horror she covered up her head under the bedclothesand shook as with a violent ague. She had suspected, and indeed, she hadknown by circumstance and inference, that the money and jewels containedin the bag she had brought from Castle Lone, had been taken from thehouse, but she had tried to ignore the fact that they had been stolen. But now the knowledge was forced upon her. 

She had been accessory both before and after the facts to the crime ofrobbery and murder, and she was subject to trial and execution. It allnow seemed like a horrible nightmare, from which she tried in vain towake. 

While she shivered and shook under the bedclothes, the housekeeper cameup and opened the door and said:

"Mr. Scott have come, ma'am. Will he come up?"

"Ay, bid him come till me at ance!" cried the agitated woman, withoutuncovering her head. 

A few minutes passed and the door opened again and her lover entered theroom still wearing his travelling wraps. 

"Rose, my lass, what ails you?" he inquired, approaching the bed, andseeing her shaking under the bedclothes. 

"It's in a cauld sweat, I am, frae head to foot, " she answered. 

"You have got an ague! Your teeth are chattering!" said Mr. Scott, stooping over her. 

"Keep awa' frae me! Dinna come nigh me!" she cried, cuddling down closerunder the clothing. She had not yet uncovered her face or looked at him. 

"What is the meaning of all this, Rose?" he inquired, in a tone ofdispleasure. 

"Speer that question to yoursel'! no' to me!" she answered, shuddering. 

"Look at me!" said the man, sternly. 

"I canna look at you! I winna look at you! I hae ta'en an awfu' scunnertill ye!"

"What have I done to you, you exasperating woman, that you should behaveto me in this insolent manner?" demanded the man. 

"What hae ye dune till me, is it? Ye hae hanggit me! nae less!" cried thegirl, with a shudder. 

"_Hanged_ you? Whatever do you mean? Are ye crazy, girl?"

"Ay, weel nigh!"

"But what do you mean by saying that I have hanged you? Come, I insist onknowing!"

"Oh, then I just ken a' anent the murder up at Lone Castle! Ye hae drawnme in till a robbery and murder, without me kenning onything anent ituntil a' was ower, and me with the waefu' woodie before me!"

"Rose, if I understand you, it seems that you think I was in some sortconcerned in the death of Sir Lemuel Levison?"

"Ay, that is just what I _be_ thinking!" said the shuddering girl. 

"Then you do me a very foul and infamous injustice, Rose! Look at me! DoI look like an assassin? Look at me, I say!" sternly insisted the man. 

"I canna luke at ye! I winna luke at ye! I hae lukit at ye ower mucklefor my ain gude already!" cried the girl, cowering under the clothes. 

"See here, lass? I say that you are utterly wrong! I had no connectionwhatever with the death of the banker! I would not have hurt a hair ofhis gray head for all that he was worth! Come! I answer you seriously andkindly, although your grotesque and horrible suspicion deserves aboutequally to be laughed at or punished. Come, look into my face now and seewhether I am not telling you the truth. "

"And sae ye did na do the deed?" she inquired at length, uncovering herhead and showing a pale affrighted face. 

"My poor lass, how terrified you have been! No, of course, I did not. Buthow came you to know anything about that horrible affair?"

Rose took up the morning paper and put it in his hands. 

"Ah! confound the press!" muttered the man between his teeth. 

"What did ye say?"

"These papers, with their ghastly accounts of murders, are nuisances, Rose!"

"Ay sae they be! But ye didna do the deed?"

The man made a gesture of impatience. 

"Aweel, then sin ye had na knowledge o' the deed until after it was done, what did ye mean by saying that something wad happen, wad pit a' thoughtso' marriage and gi'eing in marriage out the heads o' a' concerned?--whenye spak till me under the balcony that same night?"

"I meant--I meant, " said the man, hesitating, "that I would let thepreparations for the wedding go on to the very altar, and then before thealtar I would reject the bride! I had heard something about her. "

"Ah! I thought ye did it a' for spite!"

"But Rose, I never thought you were such an utter coward as I have foundyou out to be to-day!" said the man reproachfully. 

"Ay' I can staund muckle; but I canna staund murder!"

"It is not even certain that there has been any murder committed. Thecoroner's jury have not yet brought in their verdict. Many people thinkthat the old man fell dead with a sudden attack of heart-disease, and infalling, struck his head upon the top of that bronze statuette, which wasfound lying by him. "

"Ay! and that wad be likely eneuch! for na robber wou'd gae to kill a manwi' siccan a weepon as that, " said Rose, who had begun to recover hercomposure. 

Then the man began to question her in his turn:

"You brought the satchel safely?"

"Ay, I brought it safely. "

"Where is it?"

"Lock the door and I'll get it. "

The man locked the door. While his back was turned, Rose jumped out ofbed and slipped on a dressing-gown. Then she put her hand in between themattresses and drew out the bag. 

"Have you examined its contents?" inquired the man. 

"Na, I hanna opened it once, " replied the girl, unhesitatingly telling afalsehood. 

"Oh! then I have a surprise for you. Sir Lemuel Levison was my banker. Hehad my money, and also my jewels, in his charge. He delivered them to melast night a few minutes before I brought them out and gave them to you. You know I wished you to take them to London because--I meant to rejectMiss Levison at the altar, and after that, of course, I could not returnto the castle for anything. Don't you see?"

"Ay, I see! But stap! stap! Noo you mind me about the bag. When youbrought out the bag that night, I heard you and a man talking. You saidto the man, 'You hae brocht the curse o' Cain upon me. ' Noo, an ye hadnaething to do wi' the murder, what did ye mean by that?"

The man's face grew very dark. "She cross-questions me, " he muttered tohimself. Then controlling his emotions, he affected to laugh, and said:

"How you do twist and turn things, Rose! One would think you wereinterested in convicting me. But I had rather think that you are a littlecracked on this subject. I never used the words you think you heard. Theservant had brought me the wrong walking-stick, one that was too shortfor me, and so I said, 'You have brought that cursed cane to me. '"

"Ou, _that_ indeed!" said the credulous girl, "But what did_he_ mean when he said, 'It could na be helpit. The auld mansquealed?'"

"I don't know what he meant, nor do I know whether he used those words. Probably he did not; and you mistook him as you have mistaken me. But Iam really tired of being so cross-questioned, Rose. Look me in the face, and tell me whether you really believe me to be guilty or not?" he said, in his most frank and persuasive manner. 

"Na, na, I canna believe ony ill o' ye, Johnnie Scott, " replied the girl. 

And, in fact, the man had such magnetic power over her that he could makeher believe anything that he wished. 

"Now let us look into this satchel, " he said, proceeding to open it. 

He took out the bags of money. 

"There is one bag gone! fifty pounds gone!" he exclaimed. 

"Na, that canna be, gin it was in the bag. I hanna opened it ance, " saidthe girl, unhesitatingly. 

The man paid no attention to her words, but took out the jewels and beganto examine them. 

"Confound it! The watch and chain are gone, and the solitaire diamondring is gone, and--" here the man broke out into a volley of cursesforcible enough to right a ship in a storm, and said: "The jewelsnuff-box, worth ten times all the other jewels put together, is gone!How is this, Rose?"

"I dinna ken. How suld I ken? I took the bag frae your hands, and I putit back intil your hands, e'en just as I took it, without ever onceseeing the inside o' it, " boldly replied the girl. 

A volley of curses from the man followed, and then he inquired:

"Was the bag out of your possession at any time since you received it?"

"Na, not ance. "

"Then that infernal valet has taken the lion's share of the prog! Iwish I had him by the throat!" exclaimed the man, with a torrent ofimprecations. 

"What do ye mean by a' that?" inquired Rose. 

"I mean, that servant I believed in has robbed me, that is all, " said theman. 

With her recovered spirits Rose had regained her appetite. She now rangthe bell loudly. 

The housekeeper answered it. 

"_Is_ breakfast ready?" inquired the hungry creature. 

"Yes, madam; and I will put in on the table just as soon as you are readyfor it, " answered the old woman. 

"Put it on now, then, " replied the girl. 

The housekeeper left the room. 

Rose made a hasty toilet while her husband was washing the railway dustfrom his face and head. 

And then both went into the adjoining parlor, where the morning meal wasby this time laid. 

After breakfast the man went out. 

The woman remained in the house. She was in a very unenviable state ofmind. She was not yet quite easy on the subject of the murder at LoneCastle. For although her husband and herself might have no connectionwith the crime, still they had undoubtedly been lurking secretly aboutthe house on the very night of its perpetration, and therefore might getinto great trouble. And, besides, she was frightened at having secretedthe costly watch and chain, snuff-box, and other jewels, from her Scott, and then told him a falsehood about them. What if he should find her outin her dishonesty and duplicity?

She did not dream of giving up her stolen property. She would risk allfor the possession of that precious golden box, whose brilliant colorsand blazing jewels fascinated her very soul; but where could she securelyhide it from her husband's search? At that moment it was with the watchand the diamond ring under the bolster of her bed. But there it was indanger of being discovered, should a search be made. 

She went into her bedroom and looked about for a hiding-place. 

At length she found one which she thought would be secure. 

The gilt cornice at the top of her bedroom window was hollow. She climbedup on top of her dressing bureau, and reaching as far as she could shepushed first the snuff-box, (which also contained the diamond ring, )and then the watch and chain, far into the hollow part of the cornice, over the window. 

There she thought they would be perfectly safe. 

The next few days passed without anything occurring to disturb the peaceof this misguided peasant girl. 

Every morning the man who called himself Lord Arondelle, but who wasknown at the house he occupied only as Mr. Scott, and who professed to bethe husband of the young woman--went out in the morning and remainedabsent until evening. 

Every day the girl, known to her servants as Mrs. Scott, spent indressing, going out riding in a cab, and freely spending the money thather husband lavished upon her, and in gormandizing in a manner that musthave destroyed the digestive organs of any animal less sound and strongthan this "handsome hizzie" from the Highlands. 

On the Monday of the week following the tragedy at Castle Lone, however, Mr. Scott came home in the evening in a state of agitation and alarm. 

"Where is that satchel with the money?" he inquired as he entered thebedroom of his wife. 

She stared at him in astonishment, but his looks so frightened her thatshe hastened to produce the bag. 

He took from it a little bag of gold marked £500, and threw it in herlap, saying:

"There, take that!" And before she could utter a word, he hurried out ofthe room. 

She ran down stairs after him, calling:

"John! John! what ails you? What hae fashed ye sae muckle?"

But he banged the hall door and was gone. 

"That's unco queer!" said Rose, as she retraced her steps, up stairs, feeling a vague anxiety creeping upon her. 

"He'll be back sune. He has na gane a journey, for he has na ta'en e'ensa mickle as a change o' linnen, or a second collar, " she said, as sheregained her room, and sank down breathless into a chair. 

The bag of gold he had left her next attracted her attention. £500--tentimes as much as she had ever possessed in her life. The contemplation ofthis fortune drove all speculations about the movements of "John" out ofher head. "John" was always queer and uncertain, and _would_ go offsuddenly sometimes and be gone for days. 

"I winna fash mysel' anent him! He may tak' his ain gait, and I'll tak'mine!" she said to herself, as she resolved to go out the very next dayand buy what her heart had long been set upon--a cashmere shawl!

The next morning's papers however contained news from Lone, which, hadRose taken the trouble to look at them, must have thrown some light uponthe sudden departure of Mr. Scott. 

They contained this telegraphic item, copied from the evening papers:

"The coroner's inquest that has been sitting at Lone, returned last nighta verdict of murder against Peters, the valet of the late Sir LemuelLevison, and against some person or persons unknown. The valet has beenarrested and committed to gaol to await the action of the grand jury. Itis said that he is very much depressed in spirits, and it is supposedthat he will make a full confession, and save himself from the extremepenalty of the law by giving up the names of his confederates in thecrime, and turning Queen's evidence against them. "

Rose did not read the papers at all. They did not interest that fineanimal. 

She went shopping that day, and bought a blazing scarlet cashmere shawl. Mr. Scott did not return in the evening, but she was not troubled. Shehad a roast pheasant, champagne, and candied fruits for supper, andshe was happy. 

She went shopping the next day, and bought a flashing set of jewels. 

Mr. Scott did not return in the evening, but she had another luxurioussupper, and was still happy. In this way a week passed, and still Mr. Scott did not come back. But Rose shopped and gormandized and enjoyedher healthy animal life. 

Then she felt tempted to wear her gold watch and chain when she dressedto go abroad. So one morning she put it on, and went out. She had not theslightest suspicion of the danger to which she exposed herself by wearingit. She was not afraid of any one finding it in her possession, excepther husband. So she wore it proudly day after day. 

One morning, about ten days after the departure of "Mr. Scott, " thepostman left a letter for her. It was a drop-letter. She opened it andread. 

It was without date or signature, and merely contained these lines:

"Business detains me from you longer than I had expected to stay. Do notbe anxious. I will return or send very soon. "

Rose was not anxious. She was enjoying herself. Now after shopping andeating and drinking all day, she went to the theatre at night. Thetheatre--one of the humblest in the city--was a new sensation to her, and her first visit to one was so delightful that she resolved to repeatit every evening. 

"I shanna fash mysel' anent Johnnie ony mair. He'll come hame when hegets ready, " she said in her heart. 

But weeks grew into months, and "Johnnie" did not come home. 

Rose's five hundred pounds had sunk down to fifty pounds, and then indeedshe did begin to grow impatient for the return of her husband. Supposethe money should give out before he came back?

One day, while she was disturbing herself by these questions, she wentout shopping as usual. When she had made her purchases she looked at herwatch, and found that it had stopped. She was too ignorant to know whatwas the matter with it. She only knew that when she wound it up it wouldnot go. 

So she asked the dealer from whom she had bought her goods to direct herto a watchmaker. 

The dealer gave her the address of a jeweller not far off. 

She took her watch to "Messrs. North and Simms, Watchmakers andJewellers, " and asked an elderly man behind the counter, who happened tobe one of the firm, if he could make her watch "gae" while she waited forit in the shop. And she detached it from its chain and handed it to him. 

Mr. North received the rich, diamond-studded, gold repeater, andlooked at the tawdry, ignorant, vain creature that presented it, withastonishment. 

Then he examined the initials set in diamonds, and a change came overhis face. He went to his desk, taking the watch with him. He drew out asmall drawer, took from it a photograph, and compared it with the watchin his hand. Then he placed both together in the drawer and locked it andbeckoned a young man from the opposite counter, scribbled a few words ona card and sent him out with it. 

Rose, who had watched all these movements without the least suspicion oftheir meaning, now moved toward the jeweller and said:

"Aweel then, hae ye lookit at my watch and can ye na mak it ga?"

"The spring is broken, Miss, and it will take a little time to repair it. You can leave it with me, if you please, " replied Mr. North. 

"Indeed, then, and I'm nae sic a fule! I'll na leave it with you at a'. If you canna mak it gae just gie it till me, " she said. 

Now Mr. North did not wish his customer to leave his shop yet a while. The truth was that photographs of the late Sir Lemuel Levison's watch andsnuff-box, in the possession of his legal steward, had been copied andthe copies distributed by London directory to every jeweller in the city, as a means of discovering the stolen property, and finally detecting thecriminals. 

Messrs. North and Simms had received a copy of each. 

And when Rose presented the rich watch to be repaired, Mr. North had atfirst suspected and then identified the article as the missing watch ofthe late Sir Lemuel Levison. And he had locked it in the drawer with thephotographs, and dispatched a messenger to the nearest police station foran officer. 

His object now was to detain Rose Cameron until the arrival of thatofficer. 

"Will you look at something in my line this morning, Miss?" he inquired. 

"Na. Gi'e me my watch, and I will gae my ways home, " she answered. 

"I have a set of diamonds here that once belonged to the EmpressJosephine. They are very magnificent. Would you not like to see them?"

"Ou, ay! an empress's diamonds? ay, indeed I wad!" cried the poor fool, vivaciously. 

Mr. North drew from his glass case a casket containing a fine set ofbrilliants, which probably the Empress Josephine had never even heard of, and displayed it before the wondering eyes of the Highland lass. 

While she was gazing in rapt admiration upon the blazing jewels, themessenger returned, accompanied by a policeman in plain clothes. 

"Excuse me, Miss, I wish to speak to a customer, " said the jeweller, ashe met the officer and silently took him up to the farther end of theshop to his desk, opened a little drawer and showed him the watch and thephotographs. 

Then they conferred together for a short time. The jeweller told thepoliceman how the watch had fallen into his hands; but that the pretendedowner, finding that he could not repair it while she waited, had refusedto leave it, and insisted on taking it home with her. 

"Give it to her. Let her take it home. She can then be followed and herresidence ascertained. I think, without doubt, that we have now got acertain clue to the perpetrators of the robbery and murder at CastleLone. "

CHAPTER XIII. 

A SURPRISE FOR MRS. SCOTT. 

"Will ye gie me my watch or no?" exclaimed Rose, growing impatient ofthe whispered colloquy between the jeweller and the policeman in plainclothes, although she was quite unsuspicious of its subject. 

"Here it is, madam, " said the jeweller, with the utmost politeness, as hecame and placed the watch in her hand. 

She attached it to her chain and then left the shop. 

The policeman sauntered carelessly toward the door and kept his eyecovertly upon her. 

She got into a four-wheeled cab and drove off. 

The policeman hailed a "Hansom, " sprang into it, and directed the driverto keep the first cab in sight and follow it to its destination. 

Rose, as it was now late in the afternoon, and she was longing for herturbot, green-turtle soup, and roast pheasants and champagne, drovedirectly home. 

Her housekeeper met her at the door with good news. 

"A letter from the master, ma'am. The postman brought it soon after youleft home, " she said, putting another "drop" letter in the hand of hermistress. 

"Is dinner ready?" inquired Rose, who was more interested in her mealsthan in her lover. 

"Just ready, ma'am, " replied the housekeeper. 

"Put it on the table directly, then, " said Rose, as she ran up stairs toher own room. 

She threw herself into a chair and opened the letter to read it, at herease. 

It was without date and very short. It only informed her that the writerwas still detained by "circumstances beyond his control, " and enjoinedher to wait patiently in her house on Westminster Road, until she shouldsee him. 

It was also without signature. 

"And there's nae money in it. I dinna ken why he should write to me ata', if he will send me nae money, " was the angry comment of Rose, as sheimpatiently threw the letter into the fire. 

Her "improved" circumstances had not taught the peasant girl anyrefinement of manners. She did not think it at all necessary to changeher dress, or even to wash her face after her dusty drive. But whendinner was announced, she went to the table as she had come into thehouse. And she enjoyed her dinner as only a young person with a perfectlyhealthful and intensely sensual organization could. She lingered longover her dessert of candied fruits, creams, jellies, and light wines. And when the housekeeper came in at length with the strong black coffee, she made the woman sit down and gossip with her about London life. 

While they were so employed, "the boy in buttons, " whose duty it was toattend the street door and answer the bell, entered the room and said:

"A gemman down stairs axing to see the missus. I told 'im 'er was atdinner, and mussent be disturbed at meals, which 'e hanswered, and saidas 'is business were most himportant, and 'e must see you whether or no, ma'am, which I beg yer parding for 'sturbing yer agin horders. "

"It will be a mon frae Johnnie Scott. He'll be fetching me a message orsome money. Gae tell him to come in, " said Rose, in hopeful excitement. 

"Must I bring the gemman up here, missus?" inquired Buttons. 

"Ay, ye fule! Where else? Wad ye ask the gentlemon intil the kitchen? Andwe had na that money rooms to choose fra!" said Rose, impatiently. 

And indeed, in that great empty old house, she had but three to her ownuse--the tawdry scarlet parlor, which was also her dining room; theequally tawdry scarlet chamber; and the dressing-room behind it. 

The boy vanished and soon reappeared, ushering in the policeman in plainclothes. 

"You will be coming frae Mr. Scott, wi' a message?" said Rose, withoutrising to receive him. 

"No, mum; haven't the pleasure of that gent's acquaintance, though Iwould like to enjoy it. I come to _Mrs. _ Scott, however, and onparticular unpleasant business. What is your full name, mum?" grufflyinquired the policeman, approaching her. 

"And what will my name be to you, ye rude mon? And wha ga'ed yecommission to force yersel, on my company at my dinner?" indignantlyinquired Rose. 

"My commission, as you call it, mum, lies in this warrant, whichauthorizes me to make a thorough search of these premises for propertystolen from Lone Castle on the night of the first of June last. "

As the policeman spoke, Rose stared at him with eyes that grew larger, and a face that grew whiter every minute. And as she stared, she suddenlyrecognized the visitor as the man she had seen in the jeweller's shop, talking with the proprietor while the latter was pretending to beexamining the watch she had put in his hand for repairs. 

And now the whole truth burst upon her. The watch had been recognized bythe jeweller, who perhaps had seen it in Sir Lemuel Levison's possession, or perhaps had had it in his own for cleaning, and he had sent for thispoliceman in plain clothes, who had followed her home, "spotted" thehouse, and then taken out a search-warrant. Fright and rage possessed hersoul. And oh! in the midst of all, how she cursed her own folly insecreting those dangerous jewels in the house, and her madness in wearingthe watch abroad. 

"I hope you will submit quietly to the necessary search, mum. It will bethe better for you, " said the officer. 

Then rage got the better of fright in Rose Cameron's distracted bosom. 

"I'll tear your e'en out, first, ye--" here followed a volley ofexpletives not fit to be reported here--"before ye s' all bring me to sican open shame! Search my house, will ye? Ye daur!" and here the handsomeAmazon struck an attitude of resistance. 

The policeman went to the front window, threw it up, and beckoned to somepersons below. 

In two minutes, the sound of footsteps was heard upon the stairs, thedoor was opened, and a couple of officers entered the room. 

Rose Cameron gazed at them in terror and defiance. 

"Mrs. Scott, you are my prisoner. We arrest you on the charge ofcomplicity in the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, and the robbery of CastleLone!" said the first policeman, laying his hand on the girl's shoulder. 

"Tak' yer claws affen me, ye de'il!" exclaimed Rose, springing from underhis hand, and then shrinking, shuddering, into the nearest chair. 

"Perkins, look after this woman, while I direct the search of the house. You come with me, Thompson. We will go through this room now, " said thefirst policeman, putting his hand on the lock of the chamber door. 

"Ye sell na gae into my bedroom, ye de'il! It is na decent for a strangemon to gae into a leddy's chamber!" cried Rose, springing before him tobar his entrance. 

"Never mind her, Mr. Pryor; I'll take care of her, " said the man calledPerkins, as with a firm hand he laid hold of his prisoner, and forcedher, screaming, scratching, and resisting with all her might from thedoor. 

"Excuse me, my girl, but this is a murder case, and we must not standupon politeness to the fair sex; here, " added Perkins, as he forced herdown upon her chair and held her there so firmly that all she could dowas to spit, glare, and rail at him. 

"Oh, my dear, good lady, do be quiet. You are in the hands of the law, which I believe you to be as innersent as the dove unborn; but it will bethe best for you to submit quietly, " said the housekeeper, who hadhitherto sat in appalled silence, taking note of the proceedings. 

"I will na submit to ony sic indignity, " screamed Rose, with anadditional torrent of very objectionable language. 

Meantime officers Pryor and Thompson passed into the bedroom and beganthe search. Bureau and bureau drawers, wardrobes, boxes, caskets, cases, were opened, ransacked, and their contents turned out, but no sign ofthe stolen property was discovered. Closets, wash-stands, and chaircushions next underwent a thorough examination, with a similar result. Then the bed was pulled to pieces, and the mattresses were closelyscrutinized, to detect any sign of a recent ripping and re-sewing of anypart of the seams through which the stolen jewels might have been pushedin among the stuffing, but evidently the mattresses had not been tamperedwith. 

Then the two officers of the law stopped and looked at each other. 

"Before proceeding further in our search, we must be sure as the stolengoods are not in this room, " said Pryor. 

"I don't know where they can be concealed in this room, " said Thompson. 

"We must apply our infallible square inch rule, now. Take the inside ofthis room from floor to ceiling, and search in succession _every squareinch of it_. No matter whether the part under review seems a likely oran unlikely, or even a possible or an impossible place of concealment, search it whether or no. Stolen goods are often found in impossibleplaces, or in what seems to be such, " said Pryor. 

The search was re-commenced on the new principle, and following thesquare inch system into an impossible place, they at last came upon thestolen treasure, hidden in the hollow of the cornice at the top of thescarlet window curtains, near the bedstead. 

"Here we are! all right! The jewel snuff box, and the solitairediamond ring. The watch and chain will be found upon her person. Thiswill be sufficient for to-day. We must close and seal these rooms, andplace a couple of men on guard here before we take the girl to thestation-house, " said Pryor, as he carefully bestowed the recoveredjewels in the deep breast-pocket of his coat. 

The two officers returned to the parlor, where they found Perkins sittingby the prisoner, who was now pallid and quiet, merely because she hadraged herself into a state of exhaustion. 

"Go and fetch a close cab, Thompson. And you, good woman, fetch yourmissus' hat and wraps, and whatever else you may think she will need togo to the Police Station-House, and spend the night there. I will alsotrouble you for that watch and chain, my dear, " said Pryor, turninglastly to his prisoner. 

"I will na gie my bonny watch! And I will na gae to your filthystation-house, ye--!"

Whew! Inspector Pryor was used to storms of abuse from female prisoners, and could stand them well on most occasions; but now he turned as from ashower of fire, and walked rapidly to the window, while Perkins forciblytook from her the watch and chain, and put them for the present into hisown pocket. 

Thompson came in to announce the cab, and the housekeeper enteredwith her mistress's hat and shawl, and a small bundle tied up in ahandkerchief. 

But Rose stormed and wept, and utterly refused either to put on the hatand shawl, or to enter the cab. Nor could any amount of pursuasion orthreats move her obstinacy until she found that the officers of the lawwere about to take her by force, and without her proper out-door dress. 

Then, indeed, she yielded to the coaxing of her housekeeper, and allowedthe old woman to prepare her for her compulsory drive. 

When she was ready, Inspector Pryor would have escorted her down stairs, but she shook off his hand with angry scorn, and with an expletive thatmade even his case-hardened ears burn and tingle again. 

"If I maun gae, I will gae; but I willna hae your filthy hand on me, yebeastly de'il!" she added, as she reached the cab. She paused an instant, with her foot upon the step, and looked up and down the street, as ifshe contemplated for a moment a flight for liberty and life; but probablyshe did not like the prospect of the hue and cry, the pursuit andrecapture sure to ensue, for the next instant she stepped into the cab. 

That night Rose Cameron passed in the Police Station-House of theWestminster precinct. She had slept in much less comfortable, if morerespectable quarters, when she lived in the Highland hut at the foot ofBen Lone. 

The officers who had her in charge overlooked all her viciousness inconsideration of her youth and beauty, and afforded her every indulgencewhich their own duty and her safe-keeping permitted. They gave her a celland a clean cot to herself; and one of them, to whom she gave asovereign, went out at her orders and bought for her a luxurious andabundant supper. 

And Rose--a perfect animal, as I beg leave to remind you--ate heartilyand slept soundly, notwithstanding her perils and terrors. 

The next morning Rose Cameron was taken before the sitting magistrate ofthe Police Court at Vincent Square. 

The two witnesses from Lone, McNeil, the saddler, who had seen herlurking under the window of the castle at midnight on the night of themurder; and Ferguson, the railway clerk, who had sold her the ticket forthe twelve-fifteen express to London, had been summoned by telegraph onthe day before, had come up by the night train, and were now in courtready to identify the prisoner. Sir Lemuel Levison's house-steward, alsosummoned by telegraph, was there to identify the stolen jewels which wereproduced in court. The examination was brief and conclusive. McNeil andFerguson swore to the woman as being Rose Cameron, and also as being thevery woman they had each seen on the night of the murder, under thesuspicious circumstances already mentioned. 

And McRath swore to the watch and chain, the jewelled snuff-box, and thesolitaire diamond ring as the property of his deceased master, worn uponhis person on the same night of the murder. 

The three policemen swore to finding the stolen property in thepossession of the prisoner. 

Rose Cameron was incapable of inventing a plausible defence. 

When asked how this property came into her possession, she said she hadpicked up the watch and chain found upon her person, on the sidewalk, onWestminster Road, where she supposed the owner must have dropped it, andas she did not know who the owner might be, she had kept it, to hersorrow. But as for the gold snuff-box and the solitaire diamond ring, shedid not know anything about them; she had never seen them in her life, until they were drawn out of the hollow cornice by Inspector Pryor, andwhere they must have been hidden by somebody else. 

This explanation was not received. And before the morning was over, RoseCameron was remanded to her cell in the police station-house to waituntil she could be taken back to Scotland for trial. 

When she reached her cell, she gave herself up to a passion of hystericalweeping and sobbing. 

She was interrupted by a visit from her friendly housekeeper. 

"My poor, dear, injured lady, I was here early this morning to see you, but could not get in, " said the woman, after the first exciting greetingswere over. 

"Sit ye down. Dinna staund, and tire yersel', " said the poor creature, glad to see any familiar face. 

"Oh, my good young lady, you were always very kind to me. And I never canbelieve as you've had anything to do with what you are accused of, " saidthe good woman, weeping. 

"And sae I hadna. I dinna ken onything anent it. As for yon braw boxie, Ine'er set een on it, na, nor the fine ring, till the policeman pu'ed itdoon frae the tap o' the window curtain. And the fine watch, they fund onme, and said belongit to Sir Lemuel Levison; that watch waur gied to meby a gude freend, " said Rose, wiping the great tears from her stormyeyes. 

"I will believe it, my good young lady. I can very well believe it. I seehow you have been imposed upon by bad people; but do you keep a stiffupper lip, madam, and don't be in no ways cast down, and your innercencewill come like pure gold from the furniss, as the saying is. And now, mydear young lady, I have some news for you, as will help to divert yourmind from your troubles, I hope, " said the well-meaning woman, soothingly. 

"Is it about Johnnie Scott? Is it about my gude mon?" eagerly inquiredRose. 

"No, my dear young lady, it is not about him. You remember the marriagethat was broken off, for the time between the young Marquis of Arondelleand the heiress of Lone?"

"Yes! broken off by the murder of the bride's feyther, the nicht beforethe wedding day--the murder o' Sir Lemuel Levison, wi' whilk I now staundaccusit. Ou, aye, I mind it! I am na likely to forget it!" sharplyanswered Rose Cameron. 

"Well, my dear young lady, the marriage is on again. "

"_Eh!_" exclaimed Rose Cameron, springing up. 

"Yes, my dear young lady. You know I always take time to look over themorning papers that are left at the house for you, and this morning Iread that a grand marriage would take place at St. George's, HanoverSquare, between the young Duke of Hereward--he who was Marquis ofArondelle before his father's death--and the heiress of the late SirLemuel Levison. And how, after the ceremony, there would be a breakfastat the bride's house, and then how the happy pair would set out for theirwedding tower. "

While the well-meaning housekeeper was speaking, Rose Cameron was staringat her in dumb amazement. 

"I brought the paper in my pocket, ma'am, thinking, under all thecircumstances, it would interest you and help to make you forget yourown troubles. Would you like to read it for yourself?"

"Yes! gie me the paper, " cried Rose, snatching it from the housekeeperbefore the latter could hand it. 

"Where's the place? Where's the place?" cried the impatient young woman, wildly turning the pages. 

"Here it is ma'am. At the top of the 'FASHIONABLE NEWS, '" saidthe landlady, pointing out the item. 

Rose pounced upon it, and read aloud:

"The marriage of His Grace, the Duke of Hereward, with Miss Levison, onlydaughter and heiress of the late Sir Lemuel Levison, will be celebratedat twelve, noon, to-day, at St. George's, Hanover Square. After theceremony the noble party will adjourn to Elmhurst House, WestbourneTerrace, the home of the bride, to partake of the wedding breakfast, after which the happy pair will leave town by the tidal train for Dover, _en route_ for their continental tour. "

Rose Cameron threw down the paper and sprang to her feet with the boundof a tigress. 

"Oh, the villain! Oh, the shamfu', fause, leeing villain! This wad be theimportant business that kept him awa' frae me! This wad be the reason whyhe got me lockit up in prison here--for I ken weel that he pit the dogso' the law on my track noo, if I dinna ken before--to keep me fra gettingout to ban his marriage noo, as I wad ha banned it then hadna somethingelse dune it for me. But it isna too late yet! I'll ban his weddingtravels, gin I couldna ban his wedding! I'll bring him down to disgraceand shame afore a' his graund wedding guests--the fause-hearted, leeing, shamefu' villain! I will pu' him down frae his grandeur yet, gin ye willonly help me!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, pouring out this torrent of words, as she strode up and down the narrow floor of her cell with the stride ofan enraged lioness. 

"My dear, good young lady, I don't know, the least in the world, why youshould get so excited over the young duke's marriage, " said thehousekeeper, gazing in amazement and terror upon the face of theinfuriated young creature. 

"Why suld I get excited o'er it, indeed?" exclaimed Rose, stoppingsuddenly in her furious stride, and confronting her unoffending visitorwith a scowl of rage. 

"Come now; come now;" murmured the woman, soothingly, for she began tofear that she was in the presence, and in the power, of a lunatic. 

"Dinna yo ken then, ye auld fule, that the Dooke o' Hareward is my aingude mon?" imperiously demanded Rose. 

"Oh, her poor head! Her poor head is going, and no wonder, poor lass!"murmured the old woman, compassionately. 

"But how suld ye ken?" cried Rose, scornfully throwing herself down intoher seat again. "He ca'ed himsel' Mr. John Scott. Mr. John Scott! Andmysel' Mrs. John Scott. And sae ye kenned us, and nae itherwise. "

"Poor girl! Poor girl!" murmured the housekeeper. "She's far gone! Fargone! Poor girl!"

"Puir girl, is it? It will be puir dooke before a' is ended! I'll hae himhanggit for trigomy, or what e'er ye ca' the marryin' o' twa wives atance. Twa wives! Ou! I'll nae staund it! I'll nae staund it!" cried Rose, suddenly bounding to her feet. 

"Come now! Come now! my dear, good young lady, " said the housekeeper, coaxingly. 

"Ye'll nae believe it! Ye'll nae believe he's my ain gude mon wha hasmarrit the heiress the morn? Look here, then! And look here! And lookhere!" continued the girl, impetuously, as she took a small moroccoletter-case from her bosom and opened it, and took out one afteranother--a parchment, a letter, and a photograph. 

"Yes, dear, I'll look at anything you like, " said the housekeeper, witha sigh, for she thought she was only humoring a lunatic. 

"Here's my marritge lines. And I was marrit here, in Lunnun town, at a kirk ye ca' St. Margaret's, by a minister ca'ed Smith. It's a'doon here in the lines. Look for yoursel'. Ye can read. See! Here willbe my name, Rose Cameron. And here will be my gudeman's--de'il ha'ehim!--Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle. And here willbe the minister's name at the fut--James Smith; and the witnesses--JohnJones, clerk, and Ann Gray, (she waur an auld body in a black bonnet andshawl). Noo! is that a' richt and lawfu'?" demanded Rose, triumphantly. 

"Indeed, ma'am, it looks so!" said the perplexed housekeeper. Andthese indiscreet words burst from her lips, almost without her ownvolition--"But the idea of the young Marquis of Arondelle marrying ofyou in downright earnest is beyond belief! It is, indeed!"

"And what for nae?" cried Rose, angrily. "What for nae, wad he nae marryme, if he lo'ed me? He wad na hae me without marritge ye suld ken. "

"No offence, my dear young madam. None at all. I was only astonished, that's all, " said the housekeeper, deprecatingly, though she wondered anddoubted whether all she heard and saw was truth. 

"And, here! See here! Here is a letter I got frae him sune after thewedding. Ye ken the Dooke o' Harewood was Markiss o' Arondelle time whenhe married me?"

"Yes, so it seems, " said the housekeeper. 

"Aweel then, see here. This letter begins--'_My ain dear Wifie_, ' yemind?--'_My ain dear Wifie_'--and gaes on wi' a lot o' luve, and a'that, whilk I need na read, till ye. And it ends, look here--'_Yourdevoted husband_--ARONDELLE. ' There! what do ye think o'that?"

"I'm so astonished, ma'am, I don't know what to think. "

"But ye ken weel noo, that my gude mon wha ca'ed himsel' John Scott, wasthe Markiss o' Arondelle, and is noo the Dooke of Harewood?"

"Yes, ma'am, I know that!--that is, if I'm awake and not dreaming, " addedthe woman. 

"And ye ken weel that the Dooke of Harewood hae get me lappet up here inprison sae I canna get out to prevent him ha'eing his wicked will, inmarrying the heiress o' Lone?"

"I know that, too, ma'am--that is, if I'm not dreaming, as I saidbefore, " answered the bewildered old woman. 

"Aweel, noo, I canna get out to forestal this graund wickedness. Theshamefu' villain took gude care to prevent that, but I can circumventhim, for a' that, gin ye will help me, Mrs. Brown. Will ye?"

"You may be sure o' that, my poor young lady; for if things be as theyseem, you have suffered much wrong, " earnestly answered the woman. 

"Aweel, then, tak' my marritge lines, my letter, and this likeness o' mylaird--and may the black de'il burn him in--"

"Oh, my dear child, don't say that. It is dreadful. Tell me what I am todo with these papers and this picture. "

"First of a', ye'll be very carefu' o' 'em, and be sure to bring themback safe to me. "

"Yes, surely, my dear; but what am I to do with them?"

"Ye'll get a cab, and tak' the papers and the picture to the bride'shouse, and ask to see the bride alone, on a matter o' life and death. Andye maun tak' nae denial. Ye maun see her, and tell her anent mysel' here, betrayed into prison sae I canna come to warn her. And show her mymarritge lines, and my letter, and my laird's pictur'--the foul fien' flyawa' wi' him!--and tell her, gin she dinna believe them, to gae to theauld kirk o' St. Margaret's, Wes'minster, and look at the register, andsee the minister, Mr. Smith, and the clerk, Mr. Jones, and the auldbodie, Mrs. Gray, and she'll find out anent it! Will ye do this for me?"

"Yes, I will, my dear child. "

"Here is a half-sovereign then to pay for the cab hire. And, oh! be sureye tak' unco gude care o' my papers! They's a' my fortun', ye ken. "

"Yes, indeed, I know how important they are to you, and I will bring themback safe, " said the housekeeper, as she put the marriage certificate, the letter, the portrait, and the money in her pocket, and arose to leavethe cell. 

"And noo, we'll see, an' I dinna bring ye to open shame, ye graundde'il!" exclaimed Rose. 

"I don't blame your anger, my poor dear, but don't use bad words. And nowI am off. Good-day to you until I see you again, " said the woman, as sheleft the cell. 

Mrs. Brown was a good woman, but she did delight in hearing and retailinggossip, and in making and seeing a sensation; so she rather enjoyed hererrand to Westbourne Terrace. She was also a brave woman, so she did notshrink from meeting the high-born bridegroom and the bride with heroverwhelming revelations. 

CHAPTER XIV. 

THE SECOND BRIDAL MORN. 

We must return to Elmhurst House and take up the thread of Salome'sdestiny, where we left it on the morning on which the young Duke ofHereward had called on Lady Belgrade and informed her ladyship of thearrest of the mysterious, vailed passenger, and implored her to keep allthe papers announcing that arrest, or in any manner referring to thetragedy at Castle Lone, from the sight of the bereaved daughter andbetrothed bride. 

"And so the mysterious vailed woman had been discovered, and she turnsout to be Rose Cameron!" repeated Lady Belgrade, reflectively. Then, after a pause, she said: "I wonder who was her confederate in thatatrocious crime--or, rather, who was her master in it? for she is tooweak and simple to have been anything but a blind tool, poor creature!"

"You knew her, then?" said the duke. 

"Only by report while I was staying at Castle Lone. But the report camefrom the tenantry, who had known her from childhood--a handsome, ignorant, vain and credulous fool of a peasant girl, more likely tobecome the victim of some godless man, than the confederate of murderers. Did _you_ know her, duke?" meaningly inquired the lady, as sheremembered the reports in circulation at Castle Lone, that connected thename of the handsome shepherdess with that of the young nobleman. 

"No, I never saw the girl in my life. I have heard her beauty highlypraised by some of the late companions of my hunting expeditions at BenLone; but I had no opportunity of judging for myself; and, moreover, I always discouraged such conversation among my comrades. But there, thatis quite enough of the unhappy girl. I mentioned her arrest not as a mostimportant fact only, but in order to warn you not to let our dear Salomeget a sight of the daily papers, until you have looked over them, andassured yourself that they contain no reference to this arrest. "

"I see the wisdom of your warning, and I will endeavor to be guided byit; but it may be difficult to do so. My very sequestration of the papersmay excite Salome's suspicions. "

"Then lose them; tear them; but do not let her see any part of them whichmay contain any reference to this girl. I thank Heaven that to-morrow Ishall be able to take her out of the country and guard her peace andsafety with my own head and hand. I shall take care also to keep her awayuntil the trial and conviction of the criminals shall be over and donewith, so that she may not be in any way harassed or distressed by theproceedings. "

"Yes, that will be very wise. If she were in England or Scotland duringthe time of the trial, she might be subpoenaed as a witness for theprosecution. She was the first, poor child, to discover the dead body ofher father, you know, " said Lady Belgrade. 

"I do not forget that circumstance, or what distress it may yet causeher, " replied the young duke. 

And very soon after he took leave and went away. 

Lady Belgrade's task in keeping the day's papers from the sight of SalomeLevison was easier than she had anticipated. 

Salome, deeply interested and absorbed in the final preparations for hermarriage, did not even think of the newspapers, much less ask for them. 

The bridal day dawned, once more, for the heiress of Lone. 

Salome, with her attendant, was up early. The young girl, since herdeparture from Lone Castle, the scene of her father's murder, and herarrival at Elmhurst House, and occupations with her wedding preparations, had wonderfully recovered her health and spirits. 

Yet on this, her bridal day, she arose with a heavy heart. A vague dreadof impending evil weighed upon her spirits. 

This occasion might well have brought back vividly cruelly to her memory, that fatal bridal morn when, going to invoke her father's presence andblessing on her marriage, she found him lying stiff and stark in thecrimson pool of his own curdled blood. She had no father here on earth, now, to give her to the man she loved, and to bless her union with him. 

That, in itself might have been enough to account for the gloom thatdarkened her wedding day. But that was not all. For, though her fatherwas not visibly present here on earth, she knew that he watched andblessed her from his eternal home. No! but her prophetic soul wasdarkened by the shadow of some approaching misfortune. 

Margaret, her new maid, brought her a cup of coffee in her chamber. Aftershe had drank it, she went sadly in her dressing-room, to make her toiletfor the altar. 

Margaret was her only attendant and dresser. 

Salome was still in the deepest mourning for her murdered father. Inleaving it off, for the marriage altar only, she had resolved to replaceit only by such a simple dress as might have been worn by any portionlessbride in the middle class of society. 

She wore a plain white tulle dress, over a lustreless white silk, anIllusion vail, a wreath of orange buds, and white kid gloves and gaiters. She wore no jewels of any sort. 

Her bridesmaids, only two in number, were dressed like herself, exceptthat they wore no vails, and that their wreaths were of white rose buds. 

At eleven o'clock in the morning, a handsome but very plain coach drew upbefore the gate of Elmhurst Terrace. 

The bride, attended by her two bridesmaids and Lady Belgrade, entered it, and was driven off quietly to St. George's, Hanover square. 

No invitations had been issued for the wedding, except to the nearestfamily connections of the bride and bridegroom. 

But unfortunately the news of the approaching marriage had crept out, andgot into the morning papers, and consequently the street before thechurch, the churchyard, and the church itself, were crowded withspectators. 

Way was made for the small bridal procession, which was met at theentrance by the bridegroom's party, consisting of himself, his "bestman, " and his second groomsman. 

There, with reverential tenderness, the young Duke of Hereward greetedhis bride. And the small procession passed up the central aisle, andformed before the altar. 

Around them stood the nearest friends of the two families. 

Behind them, extending back to the farthest extremity of the church, crowded a miscellaneous mass of spectators. 

This must have happened through the oversight of those parties whose dutyit was to have had the church doors closed and guarded, so that themarriage of the so recently and cruelly orphaned daughter might be asprivate and decorous as it was intended to be. 

Baron Von Levison, the head of the Berlin branch of the great Europeanbanking firm of Levison, had come over to act the part of father to hisorphan niece, and stood near the chancel to give her away. 

The Bishop of London, assisted by two clergymen, all in their sacredrobes of office, stood within the chancel to perform the marriageceremony. 

After the short preliminary exhortation, the ceremony was commenced. Thebride was very pale, paler than she had ever been, even in those dreaddays when she stood always face to face with death. In making theresponses her voice faltered, fainted, and died away with every neweffort. No one would have thought from her look, tone or manner, that shewas giving her hand, where her heart had so long and so entirely beenbestowed. She seemed rather like a victim forced unwillingly to the altarby despotism or by necessity, than a happy bride about to be united tothe man of her choice. 

At length the trial was over. The benediction was pronounced, and theyoung husband sealed the sacred rites by a kiss on the cold lips of hisyouthful wife. 

Friends crowded around with congratulations; but all who took the hand ofSalome, Duchess of Hereward, felt its icy chill even through her gloveand theirs. 

"No wonder poor child, " they said to themselves; "she is thinking of herfather, murdered on her first appointed wedding-day. "

But it was not that. Salome had too clear a spiritual insight not to knowthat her father was more alive than he had been while on earth, and thathe was bending down and blessing her, even there. 

No; but the dark shadow of the approaching ill drew nearer and nearer. She could not know what it was. She could only feel it coming andchilling and darkening her soul. 

After a few minutes passed in the vestry, during which the marriage ofArchibald-Alexander-John Scott, Duke of Hereward, and Salome Levison wasduly registered and signed and witnessed, the newly-married pair wereat liberty to return home. 

The young duke handed his youthful duchess into his own handsomelyappointed carriage. 

Baron Von Levison took her vacated place in the carriage with LadyBelgrade and the bridesmaids. 

The few invited guests, being only the nearest family connections of thebride and bridegroom, got into their carriages and followed to thebride's residence on Westbourne Terrace, where the wedding breakfastawaited. 

There were now no decorated halls and drawing-rooms, no bands of music, no display of splendid bridal presents, no parade whatever. 

To be sure, an elegant breakfast-table was laid for the guests. It wasdecorated only with fragrant white flowers from the home conservatory, furnished with white Sevres china and silver, and provided with aluxurious and dainty repast. That was all. All magnificence and splendorof display was carefully avoided in the feast as in the ceremony. 

Only ten in all sat down to the table, viz. , the bride and bridegroom, two bridesmaids, two groomsmen, Lady Belgrade, Baron Von Levison, theBishop of London, and the Rector of St. George's. 

A graver wedding party never was brought together. Even the youthfulbridesmaids and groomsmen, expected to be "the life of the company, " wereawed into silence by the preponderance of age and clerical dignity in thelittle assembly, for the bishop was not ready with his usual harmlesslittle jest, and the rector did not care to take precedence over hissuperior. 

The conversation was serious rather than merry, and the speeches earnestrather than witty. 

Near the end of the breakfast, the bride's health was proposed by thefirst groomsman in a complimentary speech, which was acknowledged in afew appropriate remarks by her nearest relative, the Baron Von Levison. The bridegroom's health was then proposed by the baron, and acknowledgedby a deep and silent bow from the duke. 

Then the health of the bridesmaids, the clergy, Lady Belgrade, and theBaron Von Levison were duly honored. 

And then the young bride arose, courtesied to her guests, and attended byher bridesmaids, retired to change her wedding dress for a travelingsuit. 

"How deadly pale she looks! Is my niece really happy in this marriage?"inquired the Baron Von Levison, in a low tone, of Lady Belgrade, as theguests left the table. 

"She is very happy in this marriage, which she has set her heart on foryears. In a word, this young wife is madly in love with her husband. Butyou must consider what an awful shock she had on her first appointedwedding-day, and how it must recur to her mind in this, " answered thedowager. 

"Ah, to be sure! to be sure! poor child! poor child!" muttered the Germanhead of the family. 

Meanwhile the young Duchess of Hereward reached her apartments. 

Her dresser, Margaret, was in attendance. Her travelling suit of blackbombazine, trimmed with black crape, was laid out. With the assistance ofher maid she slowly divested herself of her white vail and robes, and puton the black travelling dress. A black sack and a black felt hat, bothdeeply trimmed with crape, and black gloves, completed her toilet. 

When she was quite ready she kissed her two bridesmaids and said:

"Leave me alone now for a few minutes, dear girls, and wait for me in thedrawing-room. I will join you very soon. "

The young ladies returned her kisses and retired. 

Then Salome dismissed her maid, that Margaret should prepare to accompanyher mistress. 

Finally, as soon as she found herself alone, she sank on her knees topray, that, if possible, this dark shadow might be permitted to pass awayfrom her soul; that light and strength and grace might be given her to doall her duties and bear all her burdens as Christian wife and neighbor;that she and her husband might be blessed with true and eternal love foreach other, for their neighbor, and above all for their Lord. 

As she finished her prayer, and arose from her knees, her maid re-enteredthe room, dressed to attend her mistress on her journey. 

The girl did not forget to honor the bride with her new title. 

"I beg pardon, your grace, " she said, "but there is a strange-looking oldwoman down stairs who says she is a widow from Westminster Road, and thatshe must see your grace on a matter of life and death, before you starton your wedding tour. "

"I do not know any such person, " said the young duchess, slowly, whilethat vague shadow of impending calamity gathered over her spirit moredarkly and heavily than before. 

"Thomas, the hall footman, brought me the message from the woman, yourgrace, and I went down to see her myself before troubling you. I thoughtshe might be only a bolder begger than usual. But she is no begger, yourgrace. She looks respectable, " answered the girl. 

"Go to the woman and explain to her that I have no time to see her now, and ask her if she cannot intrust her business to you to be brought tome, " said the duchess. 

The maid courtesied and left the room. 

"What is it? What is it? Why does every unusual event strike such deadlyterror to my heart?" inquired the bride, as she sank, pale and trembling, into her resting-chair. 

In a few minutes the door opened and Margaret re-appeared. 

"I beg your grace's pardon, but the old woman is very obstinate andpersistent. She will not tell me her business. She says it is with yourgrace alone; that it concerns your grace most of all; that it is a matterof more importance than life or death; and that--indeed I beg yourpardon, your grace--but I do not like to deliver the rest of her message, it seems so impertinent, " said the girl, blushing and casting down hereyes. 

"Nevertheless, deliver it. I will excuse you. The impertinence will notbe yours, " said the bride, as a cold chill struck her heart. 

"Then, your grace, she seized me by the two shoulders and looked mestraight in the face, and said--'Tell your mistress, if she would saveherself from utter ruin, she will see me and hear what I have to tellher, before she sees the Duke of Hereward again!'" answered the girl, in a low tone. 

"'_Before I see the Duke of Hereward again_. ' Ah, what is it? Whatis it?" murmured the bewildered bride to herself. Then she spoke toMargaret. "Bring the woman up here. I will see her at once. "

Once more the girl obediently left the room. 

The young bride covered her pale face with her hands, and trembled withdread of--she knew not what!

A few minutes passed. The door opened again, and Margaret re-appeared, ushering in Rose Cameron's housekeeper. 

Salome looked up. 

CHAPTER XV. 

THE CLOUD FALLS. 

When Rose Cameron's emissary entered the bride's chamber, the youngduchess arose from her chair, but almost instantly sank back again, overpowered by an access of that mysterious foreshadowing of approachingcalamity which had darkened her spirit during the whole of this, herbridal day. 

And it was better, perhaps, that this should be so, as it prepared her tosustain the shock which might otherwise have proved fatal to one of hernervous and sensitive organization. 

She looked up from her resting-chair, and saw, standing, courtesyingbefore her, a weary, careworn, elderly woman, in a rusty black bonnet, shawl, and gown. No very alarming intruder to contemplate. 

The woman, on her part, instead of the proud and insolent beauty she hadexpected to see, in all the pomp and pride of her bridal day and her newrank, beheld a fair and gentle girl, still clothed in the deepestmourning for her murdered father. 

And her heart, which had been hardened against the supposed triumphantrival of the poor peasant girl, now melted with sympathy. 

And she, who had persistently forced her way into the bride's chamber, with the grim determination to spring the news upon her withouthesitation or compassion, now cast about in her simple mind how tobreak such a terrible shock with tenderness and discretion. 

"You look very much fatigued. Pray sit down there and rest yourself, while you talk to me, " said the young duchess, gently, and pointing toa chair near her own. 

"Ay, I am tired enough in mind and body, my lady, along of not havingslept a wink all last night on account of--what I'll tell you soon, mylady. So I'll even take you at your kind word, my lady, and presume tosit down in your ladyship's presence, " sighed the woman, slowly sinkinginto the indicated seat, and then adding: "I know as ladyship is notexactly the right way to speak to a duke's lady as is a duchess; but Idon't know as I know what is. "

"You must say 'your grace' in speaking to the duchess, " volunteeredMargaret, in a low tone. 

"Never mind, never mind, " said the bride, with a slight smile. "I amquite ready to hear whatever you may have to say to me. What can I do foryou?"

The visitor hesitated and moaned. All her eager desire to overwhelm RoseCameron's rival with the shameful news of her bridegroom's previousmarriage and living wife had evaporated, leaving only deep sympathyand compassion for the sweet young girl, who looked so kindly, and spokeso gentle. Yet deeply she felt that, even for this gentle girl's sake, she must reveal the fatal secret! It was dreadful enough and humiliatingenough to have had the marriage ceremony read over herself and an alreadymarried man, the husband of a living woman; but it would be infinitelyworse, it would be horrible and shameful, to let her go off in ignorance, believing herself to be that man's wife--to travel with him over Europe. 

All this, the honest woman from Westminster Road knew and felt, yet shehad not the courage now to shock that gentle girl's heart by telling thenews which must stop her journey. 

"Please excuse me; but I must really beg you to be quick in telling mewhat I can do to serve you. My time is limited. Within an hour we have tocatch the tidal train to Dover. And--I have much to do in the interim, "said the young duchess, speaking with gentle courtesy to this poor, shabby woman in the rusty widow's weeds. 

"Ah, my lady--grace, I mean! there is no need of being quick! Whenyou hear all I have to tell you--to my sorrow as well as yours, mygrace!--your hurry will all be over; and you will not care about catchingthe tidal train--not if you are the lady as I take my--_your_ graceto be!"

"What do you mean?" inquired Salome, in low, tremulous tones. 

"My lady--grace, I mean! will you send your maid away? What I have totell you, must be told to you alone, " whispered the visitor. 

"Margaret, you may retire. I will ring when I want you, " said the youngduchess. 

And her maid, disgusted, for her curiosity had been strongly aroused, left the room and closed the door. And, as Margaret had too muchself-respect to listen at the key-hole, she remained in ignorance ofwhat passed between the young duchess and the uncanny visitor. 

"Your strange words trouble me, " said Salome, as soon as she foundherself alone with her visitor. 

"Ay, my lady, your grace, I know it. And I am sorry for it. But I cannothelp it. And, indeed, I'm very much afeared as I shall trouble you moreafore I am done. "

"Then pray proceed. Tell me at once all you have to tell. And permit meto remind you that my time is limited, " urged the young duchess. 

"Ay, madam, my lady--grace, I mean. But grant me your pardon if I repeatthat there is indeed no hurry. You will not take the tidal train toDover. Not if you be the Christian lady as I take you for, " gravelyreplied the visitor. 

"I must really insist upon your speaking out plainly and at once, " saidSalome, with more of firmness than she had as yet exhibited, although herpale cheeks grew a shade paler. 

"My lady--your grace, I should say--when I started to come here thismorning, to bring you the news I have to tell, my heart was _that_full of anger against him and you, for the deep wrongs done to one I knowand love, that I did not care how suddenly I told it, or how awfullyit might shock you. But now that I see you, dear lady--grace, I mean--Ido hate myself for having of such a tale to tell. But, for all that--foryour sake as well as for hers, I must tell it, " said the woman, solemnly. 

"For Heaven's sake, go on! What is it you have to tell me?" inquired thebride, in a fainting voice. 

"Well, then, your lady, my grace--Oh, dear! I know that ain't the rightway to speak, but--"

"No matter! no matter! Only tell me what you have to tell and have donewith it!" said Salome, impatiently at last. 

"Well, then--I beg ten thousand pardons, my lady, but did your ladyshipever hear tell, up your way in Scotland, of a very handsome young womanof the lower orders, by the name of Rose Cameron?"

"Yes, I have heard of such a girl, " answered the bride, in a low tone, averting her face. 

"I thought your ladyship must have heard of her. And now--I beg a millionof pardons, my lady--but did your ladyship ever happen to hear of acertain person's name mentioned alongside of hers?"

"I decline to answer a question so improper. What can such a questionhave to do with your present business?" inquired the bride, with moreof gentle dignity than we have ever known her to assume. 

"It has a great deal to do with it, your ladyship. It has everything todo with it, as I shall soon prove to your grace. Take no offence, dearlady. I won't use any name to trouble you. And I won't say anything butwhat I can prove. Will you let me go on on them terms, your ladyship?"humbly inquired the messenger. 

"Yes, yes, if you only WILL be quick. I _wish_ you to goon. I believe you to mean well, though I do not exactly know what youreally _do_ mean, " said Salome, nervously. 

"Well, then, my lady, if you ever heard of this handsome Highland peasantgirl, called Rose Cameron, you must have heard that she lived long of herold father, a shepherd, dwelling at the foot of Ben Lone, near bywhere--a--a certain person had his shooting-lodge. My dear lady, it isthe same wicked old story as we hear over and over again, and a manytimes too often. Well, the young man--a certain person, I mean--while athis shooting-box, foot of Ben Lone, happened to see this handsome lass, and fell in love with her at first sight, as certain persons sometimes dowith young peasant girls as they oughtn't to marry. But mayhap yourladyship have heard all this before. "

Salome had heard it all before; and now, in silence and sadness, she waswondering what she had to hear more; but certainly not expecting to hearthe degrading revelation her visitor had still to make. 

"Well, my lady, " resumed the visitor, "a certain person courted handsomeRose Cameron a long time, trying to coax her to accept of his heartwithout his hand, after the manner of certain persons, to poor and prettyyoung girls. But the handsome peasant was as proud as a princess, and soshe was. And she would see him hanged first, and so she would, before shewould degrade herself for him, especially as she wasn't overmuch in lovewith him herself, but only pleased with his preference, and proud to showhim off. She didn't worship him at all. She worshiped herself, my lady. And she could take care of herself and keep him in his place, even whileshe sort of encouraged his attentions. That was the secret of her powerover him, my lady. She would neither take him on his terms nor let himgo. And the more she resisted him the more he fell down and worshipedher, until, at length, he was ready to give up everything for her sake, and offer her marriage. That was what she really wanted to fetch him to, for she was ambitious as well as honest--that she was! Are you listeningto me, my lady?"

"I am listening, " breathed the bride, in a faint voice. 

She had turned her chair around, so that her weary head could rest uponthe corner of the dressing-table, where she now leaned, face downward, on her spread hands. 

"Well, my lady, when she had fetched him to that pass as to offer hermarriage, she took him at his word, and he brought her up to London. Andthey were married, sure enough, in the old church at St. Margaret'snear by where I live, in Westminster. "

"It is false! It is false! It is false as--Oh! Heaven of Heavens!" criedSalome, wildly, throwing back her head and hands, and then dropping themagain with a low, heart-broken moan. 

"I am cut to the soul, my lady, to say this; but I must say it, even foryour sake, my lady, and I only say what I can easy prove, " spoke thewoman, humbly. 

"Go on, go on, " moaned Salome, without lifting her head. 

"Well, my lady, after their marriage, they came to my house to live, which this was the way of it; I had a three-story brick house onWestminster Road, and I took lodgers. But what between getting only a fewlodgers, and them being bad pay, I got myself over head and ears in debt, and was in danger of being sold up by my creditors, when a certainperson, as called hisself Mr. John Scott, come and took the whole houseright offen my hands just as it was, and engaged me as his housekeeper, telling of me as he was just married, and was agoing to bring home hiswife. Well, my lady, he advanced me money to pay my debts, and then hefetched Mrs. John Scott, which was no other than Rose Cameron, my lady, as I soon after found out from herself. Well, he fetches Mrs. John Scottto look at the first floor which he was agoing to refit complete for her, and according to her taste. Well, your ladyship, she, having of a veryglarish sort of her own, she chooses furniture all scarlet and gold, enough to put your eyes out. And when all was fixed up onto that firstfloor, then he brought her home sure enough. "

Without lifting her face, Salome murmured some words in so low andsmothered a tone that they were inaudible to her visitor. 

"I beg pardon, my lady. What did you please to say?" inquired the woman, bending toward the bowed head of the bride. 

"I asked how long ago was it?" she repeated, in a faint voice. 

"Just about a year, my lady. "

"Go on. "

"Well, then, my lady, first along he seemed very fond of her, seemed todoat on her, and loaded her with dresses, and trinkets, and sweetmeats, and nick-nacks of all sorts, and never came home without bringing of hersomething. And she never got anything very nice but what she would callme up and give me some; for she made quite a companion of me, my lady. But after a few weeks, Mr. John Scott was frequent away from home fordays together. But this didn't trouble Mrs. John Scott much. I soon sawas she wasn't that deep in love with him as she couldn't live withouthim. And so he kept her well supplied with finery and dainties, or withthe money to get them, he might go off as often, and stay as long ashe liked. She lived an idle, easy, merry life, and frequent went to theplay-house, and took me. 'And all was merry as a marriage bell, ' as theold saying says, until this summer, when Mr. John Scott went off, andstayed longer then he ever stayed before. Well, my lady, while he wasstill away, one morning in last June, Mrs. John Scott takes up the_Times_ to look over. She didn't often look over the papers, andwhen she did it was only to see what was going to be played at thetheatres. But _that_ morning her eyes happened to light down onsomething in the paper as put her into a perfect fury. She was so besideherself as to let out a good deal that she meant to have kept in. And byher own goings on I found out that it was the announcement of themarriage, that was to come off in two days at Lone Castle, between theyoung Marquis of Hereward and the daughter and heiress of Sir LemuelLevison, as had set her on fire. I tried my best to quiet her, and evenasked her what it was to her? She said she would soon let 'em all knowwhat it was to her. I begged her to explain. But she would give me nosatisfaction. She seemed all cock-a-whoop, begging your ladyship'spardon, to go somewhere and do something. And that same night she packedher carpet-bag and off she went. I asked her what I should say to Mr. John Scott if he should come home before she did. And she told me neverto mind. I shouldn't have any call to say anything. _She_ shouldsee him before _I_ could. And so off she went that same night. "

"What night was that?" slowly and faintly breathed Salome, withoutlifting her fallen head. 

"Two nights before--before the marriage was to have been, my lady, "answered the woman, in a low and hesitating tone. 

"Proceed, please. "

"And now, my lady, I must tell you what happened at Lone, as I receivedit from her own lips this very morning, before I came here. She went downto Scotland by the night express of the Great Northern, and arrived atLone early in the morning of the day before the wedding-day that shouldhave been. She found great preparations going on for the marriage of themarkis and the heiress. She went over to the castle with the crowd of thecountry people who gathered there to see the grand decorations for thewedding. But she saw nothing of the bride or of the bridegroom; and, moreover, she was warned off with threats by the servants of the castle. But at length, towards night-fall, my lady, she saw Mr. John Scott, as hecalled himself, hanging about the Hereward Arms, and she 'went for him, 'as the saying is. But he drew her apart from the crowd. And there shecharged him with perfidy, and threatened to appear at the church the nextday with her marriage lines and forbid the banns. He did all he could toquiet her, said that she was deceived and mistaken, and that he could notmarry any one, being already married to herself, and that if she wouldmeet him that night at the castle, just under the balcony, near Malcolm'sTower, he would explain everything to her satisfaction. "

"_It was no dream, then!_ Oh, Heaven! it was no dream! And my ownsenses witness against him!" exclaimed Salome again, throwing up her faceand hands with a cry of anguish, and then dropping them, as before, uponthe table in an attitude of abject despair. 

"My lady, this is too much for you! too much!" said the compassionatewoman, weeping over the distress she had caused. 

"No, no; go on, go on; I will hear it all. My own senses, pitying Heaven!my own senses bear witness to it, " moaned Salome, in a smothered voice. 

"Ah, my lady, it grieves me deeply to go on, as you bid me. They met, Mr. John Scott, as he called himself, and Rose Cameron, at the time and placeagreed on--at midnight at Castle Lone, under the balcony near Malcolm'sTower. And there, my lady, he repeated to her that he was not going tomarry anybody, reminding her that he was already married to herself; andhe explained that something would happen before morning, which would putall thoughts of marrying and giving in marriage out of the heads of allparties concerned. And then he--"

A groan of anguish burst from the almost breaking heart of the wretchedbride, as she lifted a face convulsed and deathly white with her soul'sgreat agony. 

"My lady! oh, my lady!" exclaimed the woman, in much alarm. 

"I heard it all! I heard it all!" cried Salome, as if speaking to herselfand unconscious of the presence of a hearer. "I heard it all! I heard itall! Yea! my own senses were witnesses of my own dishonor and despair!"she groaned, as she threw her arms and her head violently forward uponthe table. 

"My lady, for mercy's sake, my lady!" exclaimed the widow, standing upand bending over her. 

"Oh, what a hell! what a hell is this world we live in! And what devilswalk to and fro upon the earth!--devils beautiful and deceitful as thefallen archangel himself!" moaned Salome, all unconscious of the words. 

"Ah, my dear lady, for goodness' sake, now don't talk so, that's adarling, " coaxed the good woman. 

"DO NOT HEED ME! Go on! go on! Give me the death-blow at once, and have done with it!" cried Salome, lifting her blanched and writhenface and wringing hands, and then dashing them down again. 

The appalled visitor seemed stricken dumb. 

"Go on, go on, " moaned the poor bride in a half smothered tone. 

"Lord help me! I have forgotten where I was! I wish it had befallenanybody but me to have this here hard duty to do! Where was I again? Ah!under the balcony. My lady, he told her to wait there for him until hecame back. And he went away, and was gone an hour or more. Then he cameback, and another man along of him. The night was so still, she heardthem coming before they got in sight. And she heard them a talking ina low voice. And Mr. John Scott he seemed awful put out about somethingor other as the other man had done agin his orders. And he said, hoarselike, 'I wouldn't have had it done, no, not for all we have got by it!'And the other one said, 'It couldn't be helped. The old man squealed, andwe had to squelch him. ' Says Mr. John Scott: 'You've brought the curse ofCain upon me!' Says t'other one, 'It was chance. What's done is done, and can't be undone. What's past remedy is past regret. And what can't becured must be endured. The old man squealed, and had to be squelched, orhe'd have brought the house about our ears--'"

"Oh, my father! my dear father! my poor, murdered father! And _you_!oh _you_! with the beauty and glory of the archangel, and thecruelty and deceit of the arch fiend, I can never look upon your faceagain--never! The sight would blast me like a flame of fire, " ravedSalome, throwing back her head, wringing her hands, and gasping as iffor breath of life. 

"Ah, my dear lady, I know how hard it is! Pardon me, my lady, but I feela mother's heart in my bosom for you. Try to be patient, sweet lady, anddo not despair. You are so young yet, hardly more than a child you seem. You have a long life before you yet. And if you be good, as I am sure youwill be, it will be a happy life, in which these early sorrows will passaway like morning mists, " said the woman, soothingly. 

"Oh, never more for me will morning dawn! Eternal night rests on my soul!For myself I do not care! But, oh, my ruined archangel!" she wailed, burying her face in her hands. 

A dead silence fell between the two, until Salome, without changing herposition, murmured;

"Go on to the end; I will not interrupt you again. Oh, that I could wakefrom this night-mare!--or--expire in it! Go on and finish. "

"My lady, while the two men were speaking, they came in sight of thewoman who was waiting under the balcony. Then Mr. John Scott says: 'Hush!my girl will hear us. ' And they hushed, but it was too late--she hadheard them. Mr. John Scott came up to her in a hurry, and put a small butheavy bag in her hand, saying that she must take it and take care of it, and never let it go out of her possession, and that she must hurry backto Lone Station and catch the midnight express train back to London, andthat he himself would follow her, and join her at home the next night. "

"And all that, too, was proved--yes, proved by the mouths of twowitnesses at the inquest, though they did not either of them recognizethe man or the woman, " moaned Salome. 

"Mrs. John Scott returned to my house about breakfast time the nextmorning, my lady, bringing that bag with her, which I noticed shewouldn't let out of her sight, no, nor even out of her hand, while I wasnear her. She wouldn't answer any of my questions, or give me anysatisfaction then, even so far as to tell me where she had been, or ifshe had seen Mr. John Scott. So I knew nothing until the next morning, when I got the _Times_. I don't in general care about reading thepapers myself, but opened it that morning to see if there was anythingin it about the grand wedding at Lone. And oh! My lady, I saw how thewedding had been stopped on account of--on account--of what happened toSir Lemuel Levison that night, my lady, as I don't like to talk of it, or even t think of it. But when Mrs. John Scott rang her bell thatmorning, my lady, I took up the paper with her cup of tea, which shealways took in bed. And oh, my lady, when she came to know what hadhappened at Lone, she went off into the very worst hysterics I eversaw. I was struck all of a heap! I couldn't imagine why she should takeit so awfully to heart as that. But that's neither here nor there. I know_now_ why she took it so to heart. In the midst of all the hubbub, Mr. John Scott returned. And she fairly flew at him! She said, amongother bitter, things, that he would bring her to the gallows yet! And shecharged him with what she had overheard. But somehow or other he laughedat her, and explained it all away to her satisfaction. He could alwaysmake her believe whatever he pleased. If he had told her the rainbow wasonly a few yards of striped Leamington ribbon, she would have believedhim! He didn't stay more than an hour, and was off again in a hurry. Wedidn't see him again until the last of the week. It was the news of thecoroner's verdict on the Lone murder case was telegraphed to London, whenhe came rushing in at the door and up the stairs like a mad-man. And inten minutes he came rushing down stairs again and out of the street doorlike a madman, but he carried the heavy little bag off with him in hishand. And he has never been back since. But, from time to time, he wroteto her, and sent her money, and told her that business still kept himaway. But, mind you, my lady, his letters were all without date orsignature, and were drop letters, now from one London post-office, andnow from another, so that she never knew where to address him. Not that she cared. As long as her money lasted she was, perfectlysatisfied. She lived comfortably, and she amused herself, and oftenwent to the play and took me with her, and all went merry again untilyesterday, when, all on a sudden, the police made a descent on the house, and arrested Mrs. John Scott on a charge of being implicated in therobbery and murder at Castle Lone, and proceeded to search the house, where they found the watch-chain, snuff-box, and other valuable propertybelonging to the late Sir Lemuel Levison!"

"Great Heaven! they found these things in the house rented by--by--"

Salome could say no more, but ended with a groan thatseemed to rend body and soul apart. 

"They found the stolen jewels there, my lady. My unhappy mistress deniedall knowledge of them, but her words availed her nothing. She was carriedoff to prison that same night. This morning she was taken before thesitting magistrate, and examined, and remanded to prison, until she canbe carried back to Scotland for trial. Neither she nor I know at whathour she may be removed, or by what train she may be taken to Scotland. She may be gone now, for aught I know. "

"Where is the poor creature now confined?" inquired Salome, in a dyingvoice. 

"In the Westminster police station-house, my lady, if she has not beenalready removed. But I must tell your ladyship--your grace, I mean--how Ihappen to come to you now. I was at the West End this morning, my lady, and in returning to the city I passed St. George's Church, HanoverSquare, and I saw the pageant of your wedding. And when I got back toWestminster and looked into the station-house to see my unfortunatemistress, and to help her mind often her own troubles, I told her aboutthe wedding of the Duke of Hereward with the heiress of Sir LemuelLevison, at St. George's Church, my lady. She went off into the mostterrible fit of excitement I ever seen her in yet, and I have seen her insome considerable ones, now I do assure your ladyship. And in her ravingand tearing, my lady, I first heerd that Mr. John Scott and the youngMarquis of Arondelle and the Duke of Hereward was all one and the samegentleman, and he was the lawful husband of Rose Cameron. My lady, Ithought her troubles had turned her head, and so I did not believe a wordshe said. And, my lady, I do not expect _you_ to believe _me_without proof, any more than I believed _her_. "

"Oh, Heaven of Heavens! I have the proof! I have the proof in theevidence of my own senses, too fatally discredited until now. But if youhave further proof, give it me at once, " groaned Salome. 

"Here is the marriage certificate. Look at that first, my lady, if youplease, " said Mrs. Brown, putting the document in her hands. 

Salome gazed at it with beclouded vision, but she saw that it was agenuine certificate of marriage between Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis of Arondelle, and, Rose Cameron, signed by James Smith, Rector ofSt. Margaret's Church, Westminster, and witnessed by John Thomas Price, Sexton, and Ann Gray, Pew-opener. 

"The man must have been mad! mad! to have done this, in the firstinstance, and then--done what he has just this morning, " moaned Salome, as she returned the certificate to the woman. 

"My lady, he thought as he had got Rose Cameron lagged, he would never befound out. Here, my lady, is the first letter he wrote to her after theywere married. I reckon it is a foolish love-letter enough, not worthreading; but what I want you to notice is, his handwriting, and the wayhe commences his letter--'My Darling Wife, ' and the way he ends it--'YourDevoted Husband, Arondelle. '"

"I recognize the handwriting, and I note the signature. I do not wish toread the letter, " muttered Salome, waving it away. 

"Well, then, my lady, here is a photograph of his grace, given to hiswife a few days before their marriage, " said the widow, offering a smallcard. 

Salome took it, looked at it, and dropped it with a long, low wail ofanguish. 

It was a duplicate of one presented to herself by the Duke of Hereward, from the same negative. 

Silence again fell between the lady and her visitor until it was brokenby a rap at the door, and the voice of the maid without, saying:

"Beg pardon, your grace, but Lady Belgrade desires me to say that youhave but fifteen minutes to catch the train. "

"Very well, " replied the young duchess; but her voice sounded strangelyunlike her own. 

"Your ladyship will not go on your bridal tour?" said the visitor, imploringly. 

"No, I shall not go on a bridal tour. How can I?--I am not a bride. I amnot a wife. I am not the Duchess of Hereward. I am just Salome Levison, as I was before that false marriage ceremony was performed over me! Butdo you be discreet. Say nothing below stairs of what has passed betweenus here, " said Salome, speaking now with such amazing self-control thatno one could have guessed the anguish and despair of her soul but for themarble whiteness and rigidity of her face. 

"Be sure I shall not say one word, my lady, " answered Mrs. Brown. 

There was another low rap at the door, and again the voice of the maidwas heard:

"Please your grace, what shall I say to Lady Belgrade?"

"Tell her ladyship that I am nearly ready, " answered the young duchess. "And, Margaret, " she added, "show this good woman out. And then, do notreturn here until I ring. "

The visitor courtesied and went to the door, where she was met by themaid, who conducted her down stairs. 

Salome locked and double-locked and bolted the doors leading fromher apartments to the front corridor, and then she retreated to herdressing-room, alone with her terrible trial. 

Who can conceive the mortal agony suffered by that young, overburdenedheart and overtasked brain. 

Who can estimate the force of the conflict that raged in her bosom, between her passion and her conscience? Between her love and her duty?Between what she knew of her worshiped husband, from daily association, and what she had just heard proved upon him by overwhelming testimony, confirmed also by the evidence of her own too long discredited senses!

He--her Apollo--her ideal of all manly excellence--her archangel, as inthe infatuation of her passion she had called him--he a bigamist, and anaccomplice in the murder of her father!

It was incredible! incomprehensible! maddening!

Or surely it was some awful nightmare dream, from which she must soonawake. 

What should she do? How meet again the people below?

She would not look upon _his_ face again. She could not. She feltthat to do so would be perdition. 

In the darkness of her despair a great temptation assailed her. 

But we must leave her alone to wrestle with the demon, while we join thewedding-party below. 

CHAPTER XVI. 

VANISHED. 

After the withdrawal of the bride and her attendant from thebreakfast-table, the bridegroom and his friends remained a few momentslonger, and then joined Lady Belgrade and the bridesmaids in thedrawing-room. 

They passed some fifteen or twenty minutes in pleasant social chat uponthe event of the morning, the state of the weather, and the political, financial, or fashionable topics of the day. 

In half an hour they felt disposed to yawn, and some surreptitiouslyconsulted their watches. 

Then one of the bridesmaids, at the request of Lady Belgrade, sat down tothe piano and condescended to favor the company with a very fine weddingmarch. 

Three quarters of an hour passed, and then the Baron Von Levison--(PaulLevison, the head of the great Berlin branch of the banking-house of"Levison, " had been ennobled in Germany, as his brother had been knightedin England)--Baron Von Levison then inquired of the bridegroom what trainhe intended to take. 

"The tidal train, which leaves London Bridge Station at three-thirty, "answered the duke. 

"Then your grace should leave here in fifteen minutes, if you wish tocatch that train, " said the baron. 

The bridegroom spoke aside to Lady Belgrade. 

"Had we not better send and see if Salome is ready? We have but littletime to lose. "

"Yes, " said her ladyship, who immediately rang the bell, and dispatcheda message to the young duchess's dressing-maid. 

A few minutes elapsed, and an answer was returned to the effect that hergrace would be ready in time to catch the train. 

The travelling carriage was at the door, and all the lighter luggage, such as dressing-bags, extra shawls and umbrellas, were put in it. 

And they waited full fifteen minutes, without seeing or hearing from theloitering bride. 

"I will go up to Salome myself, " said Lady Belgrade, impatiently. 

"No, pray do not hurry her; if we miss this train we can take the next, and though we cannot catch the night-boat from Dover to Calais, we canstop at the 'Lord Warden' and cross the Channel to-morrow morning, "urged the duke. 

"At least I will send another message to her, and let her know that thetime is more than up, " said her ladyship. 

And again she rang the bell and sent a servant with a message to thelady's maid. 

Full ten minutes passed, and then Margaret, the maid, came herself to thedrawing-room door, begged pardon for her intrusion, and asked to speakwith Lady Belgrade. 

Lady Belgrade went out to her. 

"What is it? The time is up! This delay is perfectly disgraceful. Theywill never be able to catch the tidal train now--never!" said herladyship in a displeased tone. 

"If you please, my lady, I am afraid something has happened, " said thegirl, in a frightened tone. 

"What do you mean?" inquired the dowager, sharply. 

"If you please, my lady, I went up and found all the doors leading fromthe corridor into her grace's suite of apartments locked fast. I knockedand called, at first softly, then loudly, but received no answer. Ilistened, my lady, but I heard no sound nor motion in the rooms. "

"I will go up myself, " said Lady Belgrade, uneasily. 

And she hurried, as fast as her age and her size would permit, to thepart of the house comprising the apartments of the duchess. Three doorsopened from the corridor, relatively, into the boudoir, bed-room, anddressing-room, which were also connected by communicating doors within. 

Lady Belgrade rapped and called at each in succession, but in vain. Therewas no response. 

"She has fainted in her room! That is what has happened! This day offatigue and excitement has been too much for her, in the delicate stateof her health. Every one noticed how ill she looked when she came upstairs. Margaret, there is a back door, you are aware, leading from yourlady's bath-room down to the flower garden. Go around and go up the backstairs and see if that door is open--if so, enter the rooms by it andopen this, " said her ladyship, never ceasing, while she talked, to rapat and shake the door at which she stood. 

Margaret flew to obey, and made such good haste, that in about twominutes she was heard within the rooms hurrying to open the closed door. In two seconds bolts were withdrawn, keys turned, and the door wasopened. 

"How is she?" quickly demanded the dowager, as she stepped into thedressing-room. 

"My lady, I haven't seen her grace. If you please, perhaps she is in herchamber, " replied the maid. 

Lady Belgrade bustled into the bed-room, looking all around for thebride, then into the boudoir, calling on her name. 

"Salome! Salome, my dear! Where are you?" No answer; all in the luxuriousrooms still and silent as the grave. 

"This is very strange! She _may_ be in the garden, " said herladyship, passing quickly into the bath-room, and descending the stairsthat led directly into a small flower-garden enclosed by high walls. 

The garden was now dead and sear in the late October frost. No sign ofthe missing girl was there. 

"This is very strange! Can she have gone down into the drawing-room, after all? I will see. There is no possibility of catching the tidaltrain now. It is already three o'clock; the train leaves London BridgeStation at three thirty, and it is a good hour's ride from Kensington!"said Lady Belgrade, speaking more to herself than to her attendant, asshe came out of the rooms. 

"Shall I go through the house and inquire if any one has seen her grace, my lady?" respectfully suggested Margaret. 

"Yes; but first shut and lock that garden door of your lady's bath-room. It is not safe to leave it open, " replied Lady Belgrade, as she againdescended the stairs. 

As she entered the drawing-room, the young Duke of Hereward came to meether. 

"I hope nothing is the matter. Salome was not looking strong thismorning. And this delay? I trust that she is well?" he said, in ananxious, inquiring tone. 

"Salome is not in her apartments. I have sent a servant to seek herthrough the house. Her delay has made you miss the train, your grace, "said Lady Belgrade, in visible annoyance. 

"That does not much matter, so that the delay has not been caused by herindisposition, " said the young duke, earnestly. 

"No indisposition could possibly excuse such eccentricity of conduct atsuch a time. Salome is moving somewhere about the house, according to hercrazy custom, " said Lady Belgrade. 

"I really cannot hear that sweet girl so cruelly maligned, even by heraunt, " said the duke, with a deprecating smile. 

As they spoke, the Baron Von Levison appeared and said:

"I should have been very glad to have seen you off, duke, and to havethrown a metaphorical old shoe after you; but your bride seems to havetaken so long to tie her bonnet strings, that she has made you miss yourtrain. And now you can't go until the night express, and I really can'twait to see you off by that. I have an appointment at the Bank of Englandat four. God bless you, my dear duke. Make my adieux to my niece, andtell her that if the men of her family had been as unpunctual as thewomen seem to be, they never would have established banks all overEurope. "

And with a hearty shake of the bridegroom's hand, and a deep bow to LadyBelgrade, the Baron Von Levison took leave. 

His example was followed by the bishop and the rector, who now came upand expressed regret at the inconvenience the bridegroom would experienceby having missed his train, but agreed that it was much better to knowthat fact before starting for it, and having the long drive to LondonBridge Station and back again for nothing. And they extolled the comfortof the night express, and the elegance of accommodations to be found atthe Lord Warden Hotel. And upon the whole, they concluded that his gracehad not missed much, after all, in missing the "tidal. "

Then again they wished much happiness to attend the married life of theyoung couple, and so bade adieux and departed. 

There now remained of the wedding guests only the two bridesmaids and thegroomsmen. 

These were grouped near one of the bay-windows, and engaged in a subduedconversation. 

The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade still stood near the door, waitingfor news of the lingering bride. 

To them, at length, came the maid, Margaret, with pallid face andfrightened air. 

"If you please, my lady, we have searched all over the house and inquiredof everybody in it. But no one has seen her grace, nor can she be found. "

CHAPTER XVII. 

THE LOST LADY OF LONE. 

"Cannot be found? Whatever do you mean, girl? You cannot mean to saythat the Duchess of Hereward is not in this house?" demanded LadyBelgrade, in amazement. 

"I beg pardon, my lady; but we have made a thorough search of thepremises, without being able to find her grace, " respectfully answeredthe maid. 

"Oh, but this is ridiculous! The duchess is in some of the rooms; shemust be! Go and renew your search, and tell her grace, when you find her, that she has made the duke miss the tidal train; but that we are waitingfor her here, " commanded the lady. 

The girl went, very submissively, on her errand. 

Lady Belgrade dropped wearily into her chair, muttering:

"I do think servants are so idiotic. They can't find her because shehappens to be out of her own room. I would go and hunt her up myself, butreally the fatigue of this day has been too much for me. "

The Duke of Hereward did not reply. He walked restlessly up and down thefloor, filled with a vague uneasiness, for which he could not account tohimself--for surely, he reflected, Salome must be in the house somewhere;it could not possibly be otherwise; and there were a dozen simple reasonswhy she might be missed for a few minutes; doubtless she would soonappear, and smile at their impatience. 

Ay, but the minutes were fast growing into hours, and Salome did notre-appear. 

The maid returned once more from her fruitless search. 

"Indeed, I beg your pardon, my lady; but we cannot find her grace, eitherin the house or in the garden, " she said, with a very solemn courtesy. 

"Now this is really beyond endurance! I suppose I must go and look forher myself, " answered Lady Belgrade, rising in displeasure. 

"Will you let me accompany your ladyship?" gravely inquired the duke. 

Lady Belgrade hesitated for a few moments, and then said:

"Well, --yes, you may come. We will go down stairs first. "

They descended to the first floor, and went through the dining-room, sitting-room, library and little parlors; but without finding her theysought. 

Then they ascended to the next floor and went through thepicture-gallery, the music-room, the dancing-saloon, the hall, andlastly, the three drawing-rooms, in case that she might have returnedthere while they were absent. But their search was still without success. 

Then they ascended to the upper floors, and looked all through thehandsome suites of private apartments, but still without discoveringa trace of the missing bride. 

And so all over the house, from basement to attic, and from central hallto garden wall, they went searching in vain for the lost one. 

The dowager and the duke returned to the drawing-room and looked eachother in the face. 

The dowager was stupefied with bewilderment. The duke was pale withanxiety. 

The mystery was growing serious and alarming. 

"What do you think of it, Lady Belgrade?" inquired the duke. 

"I cannot think at all. I am at my wit's end, " answered the lady. "Whatdo _you_ think?" she inquired, after a moment's pause. 

"I think--that we had better call the servants up, one at a time, and putthem separately through a strict examination, " answered the duke. 

Lady Belgrade rang the bell. 

A footman appeared in answer to it. 

"Examine him first, your grace, " said the lady. 

The duke put the young man through a strict catechism, withoutsatisfactory results. John was the hall footman, whose business it wasto answer the street-door bell and announce visitors. And he assuredhis grace that no one had entered or left the house that morning, to_his_ knowledge, except the wedding party and their attendants. 

The hall-porter was next summoned and examined, and his report was foundto correspond exactly to that of the footman. 

The butler was sent for and questioned, but could throw no light on themystery of the lady's disappearance. 

The pantry footman was next called up. His duty was to wait on the butlerand attend the servants' door, to take in provisions delivered there. Andthe first plausible clue to the mystery of Salome's disappearance wasreceived from him. 

"Yes, my lady, " he said, "there have been a stranger to the servants'door this morning--an elderly old widow woman, my lady, dressed in black, and werry much in earnest about seeing her grace; would take no denial, my lady, on no account; which compelled me to go to her grace'slady's-maid, Miss Watson, my lady, and send a message to her grace, "said the young footman. 

"Did the duchess see this strange visitor?" inquired the duke. 

"Miss Watson come down and seen her first, your grace, and told her howshe mustn't disturb the duchess. But the visitor was so dead set onseeing her grace, and used such strong language about it, that at lastMiss Watson took up her message and in a few minutes come back and tookup the visitor. "

"She did? And what next?" inquired Lady Belgrade. 

"Please, my lady, there was nothing next. In about an hour Miss Margaretbrought the elderly old lady down, and I showed her out of the servants'door. "

"Did she leave the house alone?" inquired the duke. 

"Yes, your grace, just as she came, alone. "

"Go and tell Margaret Watson to come here, " said Lady Belgrade. 

The man bowed and retired. 

In a few minutes the girl made her appearance again. 

"How is it, Watson, that you did not mention the visitor you showed upinto your lady's room this morning?" inquired Lady Belgrade, in a severetone. 

"If you please, my lady, I did not think the visitor signified anything, "meekly answered the maid. 

"How could you tell _what_ signified at a time like this?"

"I beg pardon, my lady; but it was the time itself that made me forgetthe visitor. "

"Who was she? What time did she come? What did she want?" sharplydemanded the lady. 

"Please, my lady, she said her name was Smith, or Jones, or some suchcommon name as that. I think it was Jones, my lady. And she lived onWestminster Road--or it might have been Blackfriars Road. Least-waysit was one of those roads leading to a bridge because I remember it mademe think of the river. "

"Extremely satisfactory! At what hour did this Mrs. Smith or Jones, fromWestminster or Blackfriars, come?" inquired Lady Belgrade. 

"Just as her grace went up to her room to change her dress. She had justfinished changing it when the woman was admitted. "

"And now! what did the woman want of the duchess?"

"I do not know, my lady. Her business was with her grace alone. And sherequested to have me sent out of the room. I did not see the woman again, until her grace called me to show her, the woman, out again. "

"And you did so?"

"Yes, my lady. And I have not seen the woman since. And--I have not seenher grace since, either, my lady. "

"You may go now, " answered Lady Belgrade. 

And the girl withdrew. 

The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade were once more left alonetogether. 

Again their eyes met in anxious scrutiny. 

"What do you think now, Duke?" inquired her ladyship. 

"I think the disappearance of the duchess is connected with the visit ofthat strange woman. She may have been an unfortunate beggar, who, withsome story of extreme distress, so worked upon Salome's sympathies as todraw her away from home, to see for herself, and give relief to thesufferers. Or--I shudder to think of it--she may have been a thief, orthe companion of thieves, and with just such a story, decoyed the duchessout for purposes of plunder. This does not certainly seem to be aprobable theory of the disappearance, but it does really seem the onlypossible one, " concluded the duke, in a grave voice. 

And though he spoke calmly, his soul was shaken with a terrible anxietythat every moment now increased. 

"But is it at all likely that Salome, even with all her excessivebenevolence, could have been induced to leave her home at such a timeas this, even at the most distressing call of charity? Would she nothave given money and sent a servant?" inquired Lady Belgrade. 

"Under normal conditions she would have done as you say. But remember, dear madam, that Salome is not in a normal condition. Remember that it isbut three months since she suffered an almost fatal nervous shock in thediscovery of her father's murdered body on her own wedding morning. Remember that it is scarcely six weeks since her recovery from the nearlyfatal brain fever that followed--if indeed she has ever fully recovered. _I_ do not believe that she has, or that she will until I shall havetaken her abroad, when total change of scene, with time and distance, mayrestore her, " sighed the duke. 

"I thought she was looking very well for the last few weeks, " said LadyBelgrade. 

"Yes, until within the last few days, in which she seems to havesuffered a relapse, easily accounted for, I think, by the associationof ideas. The near approach of her wedding day brought vividly back toher mind the tragic events of her first appointed wedding morning, andcaused the illness that has been noticed by all our friends this day. Theexcitement of the occasion has augmented this illness. Salome has beensuffering very much all day. Every one noticed it, although, with theself-possession of a gentlewoman, she went calmly through the ceremoniesat the church, and through the breakfast here. But I think she musthave broken down in her room, and while in that state of nervousprostration she must have become an easy dupe to that beggar, or thief, whichever her strange visitor may have been, " said the duke; and whilehe spoke so calmly on such an anxious and exciting subject, he, too, under circumstances of extreme trial and suspense, exhibited theself-possession and self-control which is the birthright of the truegentleman no less than of the true gentlewoman. 

"It may be as you think. It would be no use to question the servantsfurther. They know no more than we do. We can do nothing more now butwait, with what patience we may, for the return of that eccentric girl, "said Lady Belgrade, with a deep sigh, as she settled herself down in herchair. 

Another hour passed--an hour of enforced inactivity, yet of unspeakableanxiety. Three hours had now elapsed since the mysterious disappearanceof the bride; and yet no news of her came. 

"She does not return! This grows insupportable!" exclaimed Lady Belgrade, at length, losing all patience, and starting up from her chair. 

"She _may_ be detained by the sick bed, or the death bed, of somesufferer who has sent for her, " replied the duke, huskily, trying to hopeagainst hope. 

"As if she would so absent herself on her wedding day, on the eve of herwedding tour!" exclaimed the lady, beginning to walk the floor in athoroughly exasperated state of mind. 

"Of course she would not, in her normal mental condition; but, as I saidbefore--"

"Oh, yes, I know what you said before. You insinuated that Salome may beinsane from the latent effects of her recent brain fever, developed bythe excitement of the last few days. And, Heaven knows, you may be right!It looks like it! Mysteriously gone off on her wedding day, in theinterim between the wedding breakfast and the wedding tour! Gone offalone, no one knows where, without having left an explanation or amessage for any one. What can have taken her out? Where can she be? Whydon't she return? And night coming on fast. If she does not return withinhalf an hour, you will miss the next train also, Duke, " exclaimed LadyBelgrade, pausing in her restless walk, and throwing herself heavily intoher chair again. 

"Perhaps, " said the Duke, in great perplexity, "we had better have thelady's maid up again, and question her more strictly in regard to thestrange visitor's name and address; for I feel certain that thedisappearance of the duchess is immediately connected with the visit ofthat woman. If we can, by judicious questions, so stimulate the memory ofthe girl as to obtain accurate information about the name and residence, we can send and make inquiries. "

For all answer, Lady Belgrade arose and rung the bell for about thetwentieth time that afternoon. 

And Margaret Watson was again called to the drawing-room and questioned. 

"Indeed, if you please, my lady, I am very sorry. I would give anythingin the world if I could only remember exactly what the old person's namewas, and where she lived. But indeed, my lady, what with being verymuch engaged with waiting on her grace, and packing up the last littlethings for the journey, and getting together the dressing-bags and suchlike, and having of my mind on them and not on the woman, and no waysexpecting anything like this to happen, I wasn't that interested in thevisitor to tax my memory with her affairs. But I know her name was acommon one, like Smith or Jones, and I _think_ it was Jones. And Iknow she said she lived on Westminster Road or Blackfriars Road, or someother road leading over a bridge, which I remember because it made methink about the river. But I couldn't tell which, " said the girl inanswer to the cross-questioning. 

"And is that all you can tell us?" inquired Lady Belgrade. 

"I beg pardon, my lady, but that is all I can remember, " meekly repliedthe girl. 

"Then you might as well remember nothing. You can go!" said LadyBelgrade, in deep displeasure. 

The girl retired, a little crestfallen. 

"Is there any other fool you would like to have called up andcross-examined, Duke?" sarcastically inquired the lady. 

The duke made a gesture of negation. And the lady relapsed into painfulsilence. 

And now another weary, weary hour crept by without bringing news of thelost one. 

The watchers seemed to "possess their souls" in patience, if not "inpeace. " There was really nothing to be done but to wait. There was noplace where inquiries could be made. At this time of the year nearly allthe fashionable world of London was out of town. Nor at any time hadSalome any intimate acquaintances to whom she would have gone. Nor wouldit have been expedient just yet to apply to the detective police for helpto search abroad for one who might of herself return home at any moment. 

The Duke of Hereward and Lady Belgrade could only wait it in terribleanxiety, though with outward calmness, for what the night might bringforth. 

But in what a monotonous and insensible manner all household routinecontinues, "in well regulated families, " through the most revolutionarysort of domestic troubles. 

The first dinner bell had rung; but neither of the anxious watchers hadeven heard it. 

The groom of the chambers came in and lighted the gas in thedrawing-rooms, and retired in silence. 

Still the watchers sat waiting in a state of intense, repressedexcitement. 

The second dinner bell rang. And almost immediately the butler appearedat the door, and announced, with his formula:

"My lady is served, " and then:

"Will your grace join me at dinner?" courteously inquired Lady Belgrade, thinking at the same time of the unparalleled circumstance of thebridegroom dining without his bride upon his wedding day--"Will yourgrace join me at dinner?" she repeated, perceiving that he had not heard, or at least had not answered her question. 

"I beg pardon. Pray, excuse me, your ladyship. I am really not equal--"

"I see! I see! Nor am I equal to going through what, at best, would bea mere form, " said her ladyship. Then turning toward the waiting butler, she said--"Remove the service, Sillery. We shall not dine to-day. "

The man bowed and withdrew. 

And the two watchers, whose anxiety was fast growing into insupportableanguish, waited still, for still, as yet, they could do nothing else butwait and control themselves. 

"Your grace has missed the last train, " said Lady Belgrade, at length, asthe little cuckoo clock on the mantel shelf struck ten. 

"Yes the night express leaves London Bridge station for Dover atten-thirty, and it is a full hour's drive from Kensington, " replied theduke. 

And both secretly thanked fortune that the wedding guests had alldeparted before the bride's mysterious absence from the house at sucha time had become known; and they knew not but that "the happy pairhad left by the tidal train for Dover, _en route_ for theircontinental tour, "--as per wedding programme. And both silently hopedthat the household servants would not talk. 

The time crept wearily on. The clock struck eleven. 

"I cannot endure this frightful suspense one moment longer! I never heardof such a case in all the days of my life! A bride to vanish away on herbridal day! Duke of Hereward you are her husband! WHAT IS TO BEDONE?" exclaimed Lady Belgrade, starting up from her seat and givingfull sway to all the repressed excitement of the last few hours. 

"My dear lady, " said the duke, controlling his own emotions by a strongeffort of will, and speaking with a calmness he did not feel--"My dearlady, the first thing you should do, should be to command yourself. Listen to me, dear Lady Belgrade. I have waited here in constrainedquietness, hoping for our Salome's return from moment to moment, andfearing to expose her to gossip by any indiscreet haste in seeking herabroad. But I can wait no longer. I must commence the search abroad atonce. I shall go immediately to a skillful detective, whom I know fromreputation, and put the case in his hands. What seems to us so alarmingand incomprehensible, may be to a man of his experience simple and clearenough. We are too near the fact to see it truly in its proper light. This man I understand to be faithful and discreet, one who may beintrusted with the investigation of the most delicate affairs. I willemploy him immediately, in the confidence that no publicity will be givento this mystery. In the meanwhile, my dear Lady Belgrade, I counsel youto call the household servants all together. Do not inform them of thenature of my errand out, but caution them to silence and discretion as tothe absence of their lady. You will allow me to confide this trust toyou?"

"Assuredly, Duke! And let me tell you that these servants are all soidolatrously devoted to their mistress, that they would never breathe, orsuffer to be breathed in their presence, one syllable that could, in theremotest degree, reflect upon her dignity, " said the lady. 

"I will return within an hour, madam, " replied the duke, as he bowed andleft the room. 

He went directly to the nearest police station at Church Court, Kensington. 

He asked to see Detective Collinson of the force. 

Fortunately, Detective Collinson was at the office, and soon made hisappearance. 

The duke asked for a private interview. 

The detective invited him to sit down in an empty side-room. 

There the duke put the case of the missing lady in his hands, giving himall the circumstances supposed to be connected with her disappearance. 

The detective exhibited not the slightest surprise at the hearing of thisunprecedented story, nor did he express any opinion. Detectives never aresurprised at anything that may happen at any time to anybody, nor havethey ever any opinions to venture in advance. 

Mr. Collinson said he would take the case and give it his undividedattention, but would promise nothing else. 

The Duke of Hereward, obliged to be contented with this answer, arose toleave the room. In passing out he met the chief, who had not been presentwhen he first entered. 

"Oh, I beg your grace's pardon, but I consider this meeting veryfortunate, " said that officer, respectfully touching his hat. 

"Upon what ground?" gravely inquired the duke. 

"Your grace is wanted as a witness for the Crown, on the trial of JohnPotts and Rose Cameron, charged with the murder of the late Sir LemuelLevison. The girl, who was arrested at a house in Westminster Road a fewdays ago, has been sent down to Scotland, and the trial will commence, onthe day after to-morrow, at the Assizes now open at Bannff. But, according to the newspaper report, we thought your grace to be now onyour way to Paris, and we were just about to dispatch a special messengerto you. So your grace will perceive how fortunate this meeting turns outto be. "

"Yes, I perceive, " said the duke, dryly. 

"And your grace will not be inconvenienced, I hope, " said the chief, ashe bowed and placed a folded paper in the duke's hand. 

It was a subpoena commanding the recipient, under certain pains andpenalties, to render himself at the Town Hall of Bannff as a witness forthe Crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts, alias Abraham Peters, and Rose Cameron. 

CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE FLIGHT OF THE DUCHESS

When the emissary of Rose Cameron had gone, the young Duchess ofHereward, in a whirlwind of long-repressed excitement, slammed, lockedand bolted all the doors leading from her apartments into the hall, andthen fled into her dressing-room and cast herself head long down upon thefloor in the collapse of utter, infinite despair--despair in all itsdepth of darkness, without its benumbing calmness!

Her soul was shaken by a tempest of warring passions! Amazement, indignation, grief, horror, raged through her agonized bosom!

It was well that no human eye beheld her in this deep degradation of woe!For in the madness of her anguish, she rolled on the floor, and tore theclothing from her shoulders and the dark hair from her head! She utteredsuch groans and cries as are seldom heard on this earth--such as perhapsfill the murky atmosphere of hell. She impiously called on Heaven tostrike her dead as she lay! She was indeed on the very brink of ravinginsanity. 

There was but one thought that held her reason on its throne--thenecessity of immediate flight and escape--escape from the man whom shehad just vowed at the altar to love, honor, and obey until death--the manwhom she had worshiped as an archangel!

The man?--the fiend, rather!

What had she just now found him proved to be?

Yes _proved_ to be, beyond the merciful possibility of a savingdoubt!--proved to be by the most overwhelming and convicting testimony, corroborated also by the evidence of her own eyes and ears, too longdiscredited for his sake. 

Her eyes had seen him lurking stealthily in the dark hall, near herfather's bedroom door, late on the night of that father's murder. She hadspoken to him, and at the sound of her voice he had shrunk silently outof sight. 

Yet she had discredited the evidence of her own eyes, and persuadedherself that she had been the subject of an optical illusion. 

Her ears had heard a part of his midnight conversation with his femaleconfederate under the balcony--had heard his prediction that somethingwould happen that night to prevent the marriage that he promised hershould never take place--a prediction so awfully fulfilled in the morningby the discovery of the dead body of her murdered father! She had faintedat the sound of his voice, uttering such treacherous and cruel words;yet on her return to consciousness she had disbelieved the evidence ofher own ears, and convinced herself that she had been the victim of anightmare dream!

Yes! she had disallowed the direct evidence of her own senses ratherthan believe such diabolical wickedness of her idol! But now theevidence of her own eyes and ears was corroborated by the mostcomplete and convincing testimony--the conversation under the balcony, as reported by Rose Cameron's messenger, corresponded exactly with theconversation overheard by herself at the time and place it was said tohave occurred, but which she dismissed from her mind as an evil dream!This corroborating testimony proved it to be an atrocious reality! Andthe man to whom she had given her hand that morning was an accomplicein the murder of her father! unintentionally perhaps, for the witnesstestified to the horror he expressed on learning from his confederatethat a murder had been committed: "The old man squealed and we had tosquelch him!" How she shuddered at the memory of these horrible words!

But this man was not her husband, after all! Although a marriage ceremonyhad been performed between them by a bishop, he was not her husband, butthe husband of Rose Cameron. She had overwhelming and convincing proof ofthis also!

The letters written to Rose Cameron, calling her his dear wife, andsigning himself her devoted husband "Arondelle, " were in the handwritingof the Duke of Hereward! She could have sworn to that handwriting, under any circumstances. 

And the photograph shown as the likeness of Rose Cameron's husband, was aduplicate of one in her own possession, given her by the duke himself. 

And, above all, the certificate of marriage between them, signed by theofficiating clergyman and witnessed by the officers of the church, wasunquestionably genuine, regular, and legal!

No! there was not one merciful doubt to found a hope of his innocenceupon! It was amazing, stupefying, annihilating, but it was true. Her idolwas a fiend, glorious in personal beauty, diabolical in spirit, as thefallen archangel Lucifer, Son of the Morning!

He was deeply, atrociously, insanely guilty!

Yes, insanely! for how could he have acted so recklessly, as well as socriminally, if he had not been insane? Would he not have known that swiftdiscovery and disgrace were sure to follow the almost open commissionof such base crimes? And if no feeling of honor or conscience could havedeterred him, would not the fear of certain consequences have done so?

_His_ insanity was _her_ only rational theory of the case! Buthis supposed insanity did not vindicate him to her pure and just mind. For he was not an insane _man_ so much as an insane devil! He hadonly been mad in his recklessness, not in his crimes. 

Then quickly through her storm-tossed soul passed the thought that bothsacred and profane history recorded instances of crimes committed byrighteous and honorable men. Amazing truth! She remembered the piety andthe _sin_ of David, when he stole the wife of Uriah, and betrayedthat loyal servant and brave soldier to a treacherous and bloody death!She remembered the loyalty and the _treason_ of that chivalrousyoung Scottish prince who headed a fratricidal rebellion, in which hisfather and his king was slain, and who, as James IV. , lived a life ofremorse and penance, until, in his turn, he was slain on the fatal fieldof Flodden. She thought of these, and other instances, in which it mightseem as if an angel and a devil lived together, animating one man's body. This would, of course, produce inconsistency of conduct, insanity ofmind. 

But among all the harrowing thoughts that hurried through her torturedmind, one feeling was predominant--the necessity of instant flight. Therewas no other cause for her to pursue. The bridal train was awaiting herdown stairs. Soon they would send to summon her again. How could she meetthem? What could she say to them? How could she ever look upon the faceof the Duke of Hereward and _live_?

She must fly at once. No, there was no time to write a note and leave itpinned on her dressing-table cushion. Besides, what could she say in hernote? Nothing; or nothing that she would say. 

She must go and make no sign. She forced herself to rise from the floorand commence hurried preparations for immediate flight. 

In all the tumult of her soul, some intuition guided her through herhasty arrangements to take the most effectual means to elude pursuit andbaffle discovery. 

She took off her handsome mourning dress of black silk and crape that shehad put on to travel in, and she packed it, with the black felt hat, vail, sack and gloves that belonged to the suit, in one of her trunks, which she carefully locked. 

Then from some receptacle of her left-off colored dresses, she selecteda dark-gray silk suit, with sack, hat, vail and gloves to match. And inthat she dressed herself. 

Then she reflected. 

"They will think that I went away in my mourning dress, which they willmiss. If they describe me, they will describe a lady in deep mourning. Ifany one comes in pursuit, they will look for a young woman in black, and pass me by, because I shall wear gray and keep my vail down. "

Then she concealed in her bosom all the cash she had in hand, being aboutfifteen hundred pounds in Bank of England notes, which she had previouslydrawn out for her own private uses during her bridal tour. This shethought would go far to meet the unknown expenses of her future. She alsotook her diamonds. She might have to sell them, she thought, for support. 

Then, when she was quite ready, dressed in the dark gray suit, sack, hat, vail and gloves, and with a small valise in her hand, she went into herbath-room, and to the back door at the head of the private stairs leadingdown to the little garden of roses that was her own favorite bower. 

She watched for a few seconds, to be sure that no one was in sight, andthen she slipped swiftly down the stairs and crossed the garden to anarrow back door, which she quickly opened and passed through, shuttingit after her. It closed with a spring and cut off her re-entrance there, even if she had been disposed to turn back. 

But she was not. 

She glanced nervously up and down the lane at the back of the gardenwall, but saw no one there. 

Then she walked rapidly away, and turned into a narrow street, keepingher gray vail doubled over her face all the time. 

She purposely lost herself in a labyrinth of narrow streets, gettingfarther and farther from her home, before she ventured near a cab-stand. 

At length she hailed a closed cab, engaged it, entered it, closed allthe blinds, and directed the driver to take her to the Brighton, Dover, and South Coast Railway Station at London Bridge, and promised him ahalf-sovereign if he would catch the next train. 

Yes! after a few moments of rapid reflection, as to whither she would go, she resolved to leave London by that very same tidal-train on which sheand her husband were to have commenced their bridal tour, for there, ofall places, she felt that she would be safest from pursuit; that, of alldirections, would be the last in which they would think of seeking her!

And while they should be waiting and watching for her at Elmhurst House, she would be speeding towards the sea coast, and by the time they shoulddiscover her flight, she would be on the Channel, _en voyage_ forCalais. 

Beyond this she had no settled plan of action. She did not know where shewould go, or what she should do, on reaching France. 

She only longed, with breathless anxiety, to fly from England, from theDuke of Hereward, and all the horrors connected with him. She felt thatshe was not his wife, could never have been his wife, and that themockery of a marriage ceremony, which had been performed for them by theBishop of London that morning, at St. George's Hanover Square, had madethe duke a felon and not a husband!

If she should remain in England she might even be called upon, in thecourse of events, to take a part in his prosecution. And guilty as shebelieved him to be, she could not bring herself to do that!

No! she must fly from England and conceal herself on the Continent!

But where?

She knew not as yet!

Her mind was in a fever of excitement when she reached London Bridge. 

She paid and discharged her cab, giving the driver the promised halfsovereign for catching the train. 

Then, with her thick vail folded twice over her pale face, and her littlevalise in her hand, she went into the station, made her way to the officeand bought a first-class ticket. 

Then she went to the train, and stopping before one of the firstcarriages called a guard to unlock the door and let her enter. 

"Oh, you can't have a seat in this compartment, Miss, " said a somewhatgarrulous old guard, coming up to her. "This whole carriage is reservedfor a wedding party--the Duke and Duchess of Hereward, as were marriedthis morning, and their graces' retinue, which they are expected toarrive every minute, Miss. But you can have a seat in _this_ one, Miss. It is every bit as good as the other, " concluded the old man, leading the way to a lady's carriage some yards in advance. 

"Reserved for a wedding party--reserved for the Duke and Duchess ofHereward and their retinue!"

How her heart fainted, almost unto death, with a new sense of infinitedisappointment and regret at what might have been and what was! Reservedfor the Duke and Duchess of Hereward! Ah, Heaven!

"Here you are, Miss!" said the guard, opening the door of an emptycarriage. 

"How long will it be before the train starts?" inquired the fugitive ina low voice. 

The guard looked at his big silver watch and answered:

"Time'll be up in three minutes, Miss. "

"But if the--the--wedding party should not arrive before that?"hesitatingly inquired Salome. 

"Train starts all the same, Miss! Can't even wait for dukes andduchesses. 'Gin the law!" answered the old guard, as he touched hishat and closed and locked the door. 

Salome sank back in her deeply-cushioned seat, thankful, at least, thatshe was alone in the carriage. 

And in three minutes the tidal train started. 

CHAPTER XIX. 

SALOME'S REFUGE. 

Salome was scarcely sane. Married that morning, with the approval andcongratulations of all her friends, by one of the most venerable fathersof the church, to one of the most distinguished young noblemen in thepeerage, who was also the sole master of her heart, and--

Flying from her bridegroom this afternoon as from her worst and mosthated enemy!

She could not realize her situation at all. 

All seemed a horrible nightmare dream, from which she was powerless toarouse herself; in which she was compelled to act a painful part, untilsome merciful influence from without should awaken and deliver her!

In this dream she was whirled onward toward the South Coast, on thatclear, autumnal afternoon. 

In this dream she reached Dover, and got out at the station amid all theconfusion attending the arrival of the tidal train, and the babel ofvoices from cabmen, porters, hotel runners, and such, shouting theiroffers of:

"Carriage, sir!"

"Carriage, ma'am!"

"Steamboat!"

"Calais steamer!"

"Lord Warden's!"

"Victoria!" and so forth. 

Acting instinctively and mechanically, she made her way to the steamboat. 

There seemed to be an unusually large number of people going across. 

She saw no one among the passengers, whom she recognized; but still shekept her vail folded twice across her face, as she passed to a settee ondeck. 

She was scarcely seated before the boat left the pier. 

Wind and tide was against her, and the passage promised to be a slow andrough one. 

And soon indeed the steamer began to roll and toss amid the short, crispwaves of Dover Straits, now whipped to a froth by wind against tide. 

Most of the passengers succumbed and went below. 

Now, whether intense mental pre-occupation be an antidote tosea-sickness, we cannot tell. But it is certain that Salome did notsuffer from the violent motion of the boat. She was indeed scarcelyconscious of it. 

She sat upon the deck, wrapped in a large shepherd's plaid shawl, withher gray vail thickly folded over her face, which was turned toward thewest, where the setting sun was sinking below the ocean horizon, anddrawing down after him a long train of glory from over the troubledwaters. 

But it is doubtful if Salome even saw this, or knew what hour, whatseason it was!

A rough night followed. Wrapped in her shawl, absorbed in her dream, Salome remained on deck, unaffected by the weather, and indifferent toits consequences, although more than once the captain approached andkindly advised her to go below. 

It was after midnight when the boat reached her pier at Calais. 

In the same dream Salome left her seat and landed among the sea-sickcrowd. 

In the same dream she allowed the custom-house officers to tumble out thecontents of her little valise, and satisfied, without cavil, all theirdemands, and answered without hesitation all the questions put to her bythe officials. 

In the same dream she made her way to a carriage on the railway trainjust about to start for Paris. 

There were three other occupants of the carriage, which was but dimlylighted by two oil lamps. Salome did not look toward them, but doubledher vail still more closely over her face as she sat down in a corner andturned toward the window, on the left side of her seat. 

The night was so dark that she could see but little, as the trainflashed past what seemed to be but the black shadows of trees, fields, farm-houses, groves, villages, and lonely chateaux. 

A weird midnight journey, through a strange land to an unknown bourne. 

Occasionally she stole a glance through her thick vail toward her threefellow passengers, who sat opposite to her, on the back seat--threesilent, black-shrouded figures who sat mute and motionless as watchersof the dead. 

Very terrifying, but very appropriate figures to take part in hernightmare dream. 

She turned her eyes away from those silent, shrouded, mysterious figures, and prayed to awake. 

She could not yet. 

But as she peered out through the darkness of the night, and saw theblack shadows of the roadway flying behind her as the train spedsouthward, her physical powers gradually succumbed to fatigue, and herwaking dream passed off in a dreamless sleep. 

She slept long and profoundly. She slept through many brief stoppages andstartings at the little way stations. She slept until she was rudelyawakened by the uproar incident upon the arrival of the train at a largetown. 

She awoke in confusion. Day was dawning. Many passengers were leaving thetrain. Many others were getting on it. 

She rubbed her eyes and looked around in amazement and terror. She didnot in the least know where she was, or how she had come there. 

For during her deep and dreamless sleep she had utterly forgotten theoccurrences of the last twenty-four hours. 

Now she was rudely awakened, bewildered, and frightened to find herselfin a strange scene, amid alarming circumstances, of which she knew orcould remember nothing; connected with which she only felt the deepimpression of some heavy preceding calamity. She saw before her the threesilent, black, shrouded forms of her fellow-passengers, but theirpresence, instead of enlightening, only deepened and darkened the gloomymystery. 

She pressed her icy fingers to her hot and throbbing temples, and triedto understand the situation. 

Then memory flashed back like lightning, revealing all the desolation ofher storm-blasted, wrecked and ruined life. 

With a deep and shuddering groan she threw her hands up to her head, andsank back in her seat. 

"Is Madame ill? Can we do anything to help her?" inquired a kindly voicenear her. 

In her surprise Salome dropped her hands, and at the same time her vailfell from before her face. 

Suddenly she then saw that the three mute, shrouded forms before her wereSisters of Mercy, in the black robes of their order, and knew that theyhad only maintained silence in accordance with their decorous rule ofavoiding vain conversation. 

Even now the taller and elder of the three had spoken only to tender herservices to a suffering fellow-creature. 

The fugitive bride and the Sister of Mercy looked at each other, and atthe instant uttered exclamations of surprise. 

In the sister, Salome recognized a lay nun of the Convent of St. Rosalie, in which she had passed nearly all the years of her young life, and inwhich she had received her education, and to which it had once been hercherished desire to return and dedicate herself to a conventual service. 

In Salome the nun saw again a once beloved pupil, whom she, in commonwith all her sisterhood, had fondly expected to welcome back to hernovitiate. 

"Sister Josephine! You! Is it indeed you! Oh, how I thank Heaven!"fervently exclaimed the fugitive. 

"Mademoiselle Laiveesong! You here! My child! And alone! But how is thatpossible?" cried the good sister in amazement. 

Before Salome could answer the guard opened the door with a party ofpassengers at his back. But seeing the compartment already well filled bythe three Sisters of Mercy and another lady, he closed the door again andpassed down the platform to find places for his party elsewhere. 

The incident was little noticed by Salome at the time, although it wasdestined to have a serious effect upon her after fate. 

In a few minutes the train started. 

"My dear child, " recommenced Sister Josephine, as soon as the train waswell under way--"my dear child, how is it possible that I find you here, alone on the train at midnight! Were you going on to Paris, and alone?Was any one to meet you there?"

"Dear, good Sister Josephine, ask me no questions yet. I am ill--reallyand truly ill!" sighed Salome. 

"Ah! I see you are, my dear child. Ill and alone on the night train! HolyVirgin preserve us!" said the sister, devoutly crossing herself. 

"Ask me no questions yet, dear sister, because I cannot answer them. Buttake me with you wherever you go, for wherever that may be, there will bepeace and rest and safety, I know! Say, will you take me with you, goodSister Josephine?" pleaded Salome. 

"Ah! surely we will, my child. With much joy we will. We--(SisterFrancoise and Sister Felecitie--Mademoiselle Laiveesong, )" said SisterJosephine, stopping to introduce her companions to each other. 

The three young persons thus named bowed and smiled, and pressed palms, and then sat back in their seats, while the elder Sister, Josephine, continued:

"We have come up from Fontevrau, and are now going straight on to ourconvent. With joy we will take you with us, my dear child. Our holymother will be transported to see you. Does she expect you, my dearchild?" inquired the sister, forgetting her tacit promise to ask no morequestions. 

"No, no one expects me, " sighed the fugitive, in so faint a voice thatthe good Sister forbore to make any more inquiries for the moment. 

The train rushed onward. Day was broadening. The horizon was growing redin the east. 

The party travelled on in silence for some ten or fifteen minutes, andthen, Sister Josephine growing impatient to have her curiosity satisfied, made a few leading remarks. 

"And so you were coming to us unannounced by any previous communicationto our holy mother? And coming alone on the night train! You possess anoble courage, my child, but the adventure was hazardous to a young andlovely unmarried woman. The Virgin be praised we met you when we did!"said the Sister, devoutly crossing herself. 

"Amen, and amen, to that!" sighed Salome. 

"Our holy mother will be overjoyed to see you. You are sure she does notexpect you, my dear child?"

"No, Sister, she does not expect me, unless she has the gift of secondsight. For I did not expect myself to return to St. Rosalie, to-day, orever. When I took my place in this carriage at midnight, I did not knowhow far I should go, or where I should stop. I took a through ticket toParis; but I did not know whether I should stop at Paris, or go on toMarseilles, or Rome, or St. Petersburg, or New York, or where!" moanedthe fugitive. 

"The holy saints protect us, my child! What wild thing is this you aresaying?" exclaimed Sister Josephine, making the sign of the cross. 

"No matter what I say now, good Sister, I will tell our holy mother all. Is la Mere Genevieve now your lady superior?" softly inquired thefugitive. 

"Yes, surely, my child. And she will be transported to behold her bestbeloved pupil again. You are sure that she will be taken by surprise?"said the good, simple minded Sister, still innocently angling for afarther explanation. 

"Yes, I feel sure that I shall surprise our good mother if I do_not_ delight her; for, as I told you before, I gave her nointimation of any intended visit. I repeat that when I set foot upon thistrain, I had no fixed plan in my mind. I did not know where I should go. My meeting with you is providential. It decides me, nay, rather let mesay, it directs me to seek rest and peace and safety there where my happychildhood and early youth were passed, and where I once desired to spendmy whole life in the service of Heaven. I, too, fervently praise theVirgin for this blessed meeting. I too thank the Mother of Sorrows forbeing near me in my sorrow and in my madness!" murmured Salome, in a low, earnest tone. 

"Holy saints, my child! What can have happened to you to inspire suchwords as these?" exclaimed Sister Josephine in alarm. 

"Never mind what, good Sister. You shall hear all in time. I am forced byfate to keep a promise that I made and might have broken. That is all. "

"Ah, my dear child, I comprehend sorrow and despair in your words; but Ido not comprehend your words!" sighed Sister Josephine. 

"When I left your convent three years ago, I promised did I not, thatafter I should have become of age and be mistress of my fate, I wouldreturn, dedicate my life to the service of Heaven, and spend theremainder of it here? Did I not?" inquired Salome, in a low voice. 

"You did, you did, my child. And for a long time we looked for you invain. And when you did not come, or even write to us, we thought theworld had won you, and made you forget your promise, " sighed SisterJosephine crossing herself. 

The two youthful Sisters followed her example, sighed and crossedthemselves. 

There was a grave pause of a few minutes, and then the voice of Salomewas heard in solemn tones:

"The world won me. The world broke me and flung me back upon the convent, and forced me to remember and keep my promise. I return now to dedicatemyself to the service of Heaven, at the altar of your convent, if indeedHeaven will take a heart that earth has crushed!"

She sighed. 

"It is the world-crushed, bleeding heart that is the sweetest offeringto all-healing, all-merciful Heaven, " said Sister Josephine, tenderlylifting the hand of Salome and pressing it to her bosom. 

Again a solemn silence fell upon the little party. 

Salome was the first to break it. 

"It seems to me we have come a very long way, since we left the laststation. Are we near ours?" she inquired, in a voice sinking withfatigue. 

"We will be at our station in a very few minutes. A comfortable closecarriage will meet us there to convey us to St. Rosalie, " said SisterJosephine, soothingly. 

Salome sank wearily back in her corner seat. The short-lived energy thatenabled her to talk was dying out. Her hands and feet were cold as ice. Her head was hot as fire. Her frame was faint almost to swooning. 

The train sped on. The party in the carriage fell into silence thatlasted until the train "slowed, " and stopped at a little way station. 

"Here we are!" said Sister Josephine, rising to leave the carriage withher companions. 

The guard opened the door. 

Sister Josephine led the way out, and then took the hand of the halffainting Salome, to help her on. 

The two other sisters followed. A close carriage, with an aged coachmanon the box, awaited them. The old man did not leave his seat; but SisterJosephine opened the door and helped Salome into the carriage, and placedher comfortably on the cushions in a corner of the back seat, and thensat down beside her. 

The two younger sisters followed and placed themselves on the front seat. 

The aged coachman, who knew his duty, did not wait for orders, but turnedimmediately away from the station, and drove off just as the trainstarted again on its way to Paris. 

They entered a country road running through a wood--a pleasant ride, ifSalome could have enjoyed it--but she leaned back on her cushions, withclosed eyes, fever-flushed cheeks, and fainting frame. The sisters, seeing her condition, refrained from disturbing her by any conversation. 

They rode on in perfect silence for about a mile, when they came to ahigh stone wall, which ran along on the left-hand side of their road, while the thick wood continued on their right-hand side. The road hereran between the wood and the wall of the convent grounds. 

CHAPTER XX. 

SALOME'S PROTECTRESS. 

"We have arrived. Welcome home, my dear child, " said Sister Josephine, asthe carriage drew up before the strong and solid, iron-bound, oaken gatesof the convent. 

The aged coachman blew a shrill summons upon a little silver whistle thathe carried in his pocket for the purpose. 

The gates were thrown wide open and the carriage rolled into an extensivecourt-yard, enclosed in a high stone wall, and having in its centre themassive building of the convent proper, with its chapel and offices. 

A straight, broad, hard, rolled, gravelled carriage-way led from thegates through the court-yard and up to the main entrance of the building. This road was bordered on each side by grass-plots, now sear in the lateOctober frosts, and flower-beds, from which the flowers had been removedto their winter quarters in the conservatories. Groups of shade trees, statues of saints, and fountains of crystal-clear water adorned thegrounds at regular intervals. In the rear of the convent building was athicket of trees reaching quite down to the back wall. 

The carriage rolled along the gravelled road, crossing the court-yard, and drew up before the door of the convent. 

Sister Josephine got out and helped Salome to alight. 

The sun was just rising in cloudless glory. 

"See, my child, " said Sister Josephine, cheerily pointing to the easternhorizon; "see, a happy omen; the sun himself arises and smiles on yourre-entrance into St. Rosalie. "

Salome smiled faintly, and leaned heavily upon the arm of her companionas they went slowly up the steps, passed through the front doors, andfound themselves in a little square entrance hall, surrounded on threesides by a bronze grating, and having immediately before them a grateddoor, with a little wicket near the centre. 

Behind this wicket sat the portress, a venerable nun, whom age andobesity had consigned to this sedentary occupation. 

"_Benedicite_, good Mother Veronique! How are all within the house?"inquired Sister Josephine, going up to the wicket. 

"The saints be praised, all are well! They are just going in to matins. You come in good time, my sisters! But who is she whom you bring withyou?" inquired the old nun, nodding toward Salome, even while shedetached a great key from her girdle, and unlocked the door, to admit theparty. 

"Why, then, Mother Veronique, don't you see? An old, well-beloved pupilcome back to see our holy mother? Don't you recognize her? Have youalready forgotten Mademoiselle Laiveesong, who left us only three yearsago?" inquired Sister Josephine, as she led Salome into the portress'parlor, followed by the two younger sisters, Francoise and Felecitie. 

"Ah! ah! so it is! Mademoiselle Salome come back to us!" joyfullyexclaimed the old nun, seizing and fondling the hands of the visitor, and gazing wistfully into her flushed and feverish face. "Yes, yes, I remember you! Mademoiselle Laiveesong! Mademoiselle, the rich banker'sheiress! I am very happy to see you, my dear child! And our holy motherwill be filled with joy! She has gone to matins now, but will soon returnto give you her blessing. Ah! ah! Mademoiselle Salome! _Mais Helas!_How ill she looks! Her hands are ice! Her head is fire! Her limbs arewithes! She is about to faint!" added Mother Veronique, aside to SisterJosephine. 

"She is just off a long and fatiguing journey. She is tired and hungry, and needs rest and refreshment. That is all, " answered the sister, drawing the arm of the fainting girl through her own, and supporting heras she led her from the portress' parlor. 

"Ah! ah! is this so? The dear child! Take her in and rest and feed her, my sisters! And when matins are over, bring her to our venerable mother, whose soul will be filled with rapture to see her, " twaddled the old nun, until the party passed in from her sight. 

Sister Josephine led Salome to her own cell, and made her loosen herclothes and lie down on the cot-bed, while Sister Francoise and SisterFelecitie went to the refectory and brought her a plate of biscuit anda glass of wine and water. 

Wine was not the proper drink for Salome, in her flushed and feverishcondition. But she was both faint and thirsty, and the wine, mixed withwater, seemed cool and refreshing, and she quaffed it eagerly. 

But she refused the biscuits, declaring that she could not swallow. Andso she thanked her kind friends for their attention, and sank back on herpillow and closed her eyes, as if she would go to sleep. 

The sisters promised to bring the mother abbess to her bedside as soon asthe matins should be over. And so they left her to repose, and wentsilently away to the chapel to take their accustomed places, and join, even at the "eleventh hour, " in the morning worship. 

But did Salome sleep?

Ah! no. She lay upon that cot-bed with her hands covering her eyes, as ifto shut out all the earth. She might shut out all the visible creation, but she could not exclude the haunting images that filled her mind. Shecould not banish the forms and faces that floated before her innervision--the most venerable face of her dear, lost father, the noble faceof her once beloved--ah! still too well beloved Arondelle!

The music of the matin hymns softened by distance, floated into her room, but failed to soothe her to repose. 

At length the sweet sounds ceased. 

And then--

The abbess entered the cell so softly that Salome, lying with closed eyeson the cot, remained unconscious of the presence standing beside her, looking down upon her form. 

The abbess was a tall, fair, blue-eyed woman, upon whose serene brow theseal of eternal peace seemed set. She was about fifty years of age, buther clear eyes and smooth skin showed how tranquilly these years hadpassed. She was clothed in the well-known garb of her order--in a blackdress, with long, hanging sleeves, and a long, black vail. Her face wasframed in with the usual white linen bands, her robe confined at thewaist by a girdle, from which hung her rosary of agates; and her silvercross hung from her neck. 

The abbess was a lady of the most noble birth, connected with the royalhouse of Orleans. 

In the revolution which had driven Louis Philippe from the throne, herfather and her brother had perished. Her mother had passed away longbefore. She remained in the convent of St. Rosalie, where she was beingeducated. 

And when, early in the days of the Second Empire, her fortune wasrestored to her, instead of leaving the cloister, where she had foundpeace, for the world, where she had found only tribulation, she took thevail and the vows that bound her to the convent forever, and devoted hermeans to enriching and enlarging the house. The convent had alwayssupported itself by its celebrated academy for young ladies. It had alsomaintained a free school for poor children. But now the heiress of thenoble house of de Crespignie added a Home for Aged Women, an asylum forOrphan Girls and Nursery for Deserted Infants. And all these were placedunder the charge of the Sisters of Mercy. 

Of the fifty years of this lady's life, forty had been spent in theconvent where she had lived as pupil, novice, nun and abbess. Hercloistered life had been passed in active good works, if nurturinginfancy, educating orphans, cheering age, and ordering and governingan excellent academy for young ladies, can be called so. 

And whatever such a life may have brought to others, it brought to thisprincess of the banished Orleans family perfect peace. 

She stood now looking down with infinite pity on the stricken form andface of her late pupil. She saw that some heavy blow from sorrow hadcrushed her. And she did not wonder at this. 

For to the apprehension of the abbess, the world from which her latepupil had returned was full of tribulation, as the convent was full ofpeace. 

She stood looking down on her a moment, and then murmured, in tones ofineffable tenderness:

"My child!"

"Mother Genevieve! My dear mother!" answered Salome, clasping her handsand looking up. 

The abbess drew a chair to the side of the cot, sat down, and took thehand of her pupil, saying:

"You have come back to us, my child. I thought you would. You are mostwelcome. "

"Oh, mother! mother! I am _driven_ back to you for shelter froma storm of trouble!" exclaimed Salome, in great excitement, her cheeksburning, and her eyes blazing with the fires of fever. 

"We will receive you with love and cherish you in ourhearts--_unquestioned_--for, my child, you are too illto give us any explanation now, " said the abbess, gently, layingher soft, cool hand upon the burning brow of the girl. 

"Oh! mother, mother, let me talk now and unburden my heavy heart! Youknow not how it will relieve me to do so to _you_. I could not do soto any other. Let me tell you, dear mother, while I may, before it shallbe too late. For I am going to be very ill, mother; and perhaps I maydie! Oh Heaven grant I may be permitted to die!" fervently prayed Salome, clasping her hands. 

"Hush, hush, my poor, unhappy child. I know not what your sorrow hasbeen, but it cannot possibly justify you in your sinful petition. Life, my child, is the greatest of boons, since it contains within it thepossibility of eternal bliss. We should be deeply thankful for simple_life_, whatever may be its present trials, since it holds thepromise of future happiness, " said the gentle abbess. 

"Oh, mother, my life is wrecked--is hopelessly wrecked!" groaned Salome. 

"Nay, nay, only storm-tossed on the treacherous seas of the world. Hereis your harbor, my child. Come into port, little, weary one!" said theabbess, with a tender, cheerful smile. 

"Oh, mother, your wayward pupil has wandered far, far from yourteachings! She has become a heathen--an idolator! Yes, she set up untoherself an idol, and she worshiped it as a god, until at last, ITFELL!--IT FELL! AND CRUSHED HER UNDER ITS RUINS!" said Salome, growing more and more excited and feverish. 

"It is well for us, my child, when our earthly idols do fall and crushus, else we might go on to perdition in our fatal idolatry. Yes, mychild, it is well that your idol has fallen, even though you lie buriedand bleeding under its ruins; for our fraternity, like the good Samaritanof the parable, will raise you up and dress your wounds, and set you onyour feet again, and lead you in the right path--the path of peace andsafety. "

"Mother, mother, will you now hear my story, my confession?" said Salome, earnestly. 

"My child, I would rather you would defer it until you are better able totalk. "

"Mother, mother, I have the strength of fever on me now; but my mind isgrowing confused. Let me speak while I may!"

"Speak on, then, my dear child, but don't exhaust yourself. "

"Mother, though I have failed, through very shame of broken promises, towrite to you lately, yet you must have heard from other sources of myfather's tragic death?"

"I heard of it, my child. And I have daily remembered his soul in myprayers. "

"And you heard, good mother, of how I forgot all my promises to devotemyself to a religious life, and how I betrothed myself to the Marquis ofArondelle, who is now the Duke of Hereward?"

"You yielded to the expressed wishes of your father, my child, as it wasnatural you should do. "

"I yielded to the inordinate and sinful affections of my own heart, and Ihave been punished for it. "

"My poor child!"

"Listen, mother! Yesterday morning, at St. George's church, HanoverSquare, in London, I was married by the Bishop of London to the Duke ofHereward. Yesterday afternoon I received secret but unquestionable proofthat the duke was an already married man when he met me first, and thathis wife was living in London!"

"Holy saints, Mademoiselle! What is this that you are telling me?"exclaimed the astonished abbess. "Surely, surely she is growing deliriouswith fever, " she muttered to herself. 

"I am telling you a terrible truth, my mother! Listen, and I will tellyou everything, even as I know it myself!" said Salome, earnestly. 

The abbess no longer opposed her speaking, although it was evident thather illness was hourly increasing. 

And Salome told the terrible story of her sorrows, commencing with thefirst appointed wedding-day at Castle Lone, and ending with the secondwedding-day at Elmhurst House, and her own secret flight from her falsebridegroom, just as it is known to our readers. 

The deeply shocked abbess heard and believed, and frequently crossedherself during the recital. 

As Salome proceeded with what she called her confession, her fever andexcitement increased rapidly. Toward the end of her recital her thoughtsgrew confused and wandered into the ravings of a brain fever. 

CHAPTER XXI. 

THE BRIDEGROOM. 

According to his promise given to Lady Belgrade, the Duke of Herewardreturned to Elmthorpe House to make his report. 

He found the dowager waiting for him where he had left her, in the backdrawing-room. 

He greeted her only by a silent bow, and she questioned him only by amute look. 

"I have placed the case in the hands of Setter, confidentially, ofcourse. He will commence secret investigations to-night, " he said. 

"This morning, you mean, Duke. It is now two o'clock, " remarked thedowager. 

"Is it, indeed, so late?"

"So early you should say. Yes, it is. But what thinks the detective ofthis affair?"

"He is inclined to think as we do, that our dear Salome has been decoyedaway by some tale of extreme distress, and for purposes of robbery, "answered the young duke, pressing his white lips firmly together inhis effort to control all expression of the anguish that was secretlywringing his heart. 

"And what does he think of the chances of finding her soon and findingher safe?" inquired the dowager. 

The duke slowly shook his head. 

"Well, and what does that mean?" asked the lady. 

"It means that Detective Setter cannot form an opinion, or will notcommit himself to the expression of one at present. And now, dear LadyBelgrade, as it is after two o'clock, I must bid you good-night--"

"Good-morning, rather, " interrupted the dowager. 

"And return to my lodgings, " continued the duke, passing his hand acrosshis forehead, like one "dazed" with trouble. 

"I beg you will do nothing of the sort, Duke, " said Lady Belgrade, hastily interposing. "You have left your lodgings for a wedding tour. Youare not expected back there. Your people think that you are far fromLondon with your bride. In the name of propriety, let them think sostill. Do not go back there to-night, and wake them all up, and starta nine days' wonder of scandal. Stay where you are, Duke, quietly, until we recover our Salome. When we do, you can both leave for Paris. All the world will know nothing of this distressing affair, which, if itwere to come to their knowledge, would be exaggerated, perverted, turnedand twisted out of all its original shape, into some horrid story ofscandal. Remember now, how few people know anything about it--only you, I, the detective necessarily taken into your confidence, and theservants, for whose discretion I can answer. Remain quietly here, therefore, that all gossip may be stopped. "

The duke resumed his seat, but did not immediately answer. 

"Do you not think my counsel good?" inquired the lady. 

"Very good. Thanks, Lady Belgrade. I will follow your advice. There isanother reason why I should do so, but with which you are not acquainted. In the absorption of my thoughts with the subject of our Salome, Itotally forgot to tell you that I have just been subpoenaed as a witnessfor the crown, in the approaching trial of John Potts and Rose Cameronfor the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison. The case will come on at theAssizes at Banff on Thursday next. I must leave for Scotland to-morrow, "said the young duke. 

"Why--you surprise me very much! When was the subpoena served upon you?"inquired the dowager. 

"In a chance recounter at the police-office, where I went to find thedetective, and where I also found a sheriff's officer holding a subpoenafor me, which he was about to send across the channel by a specialmessenger--supposing me to be in Paris. So you see, my dear LadyBelgrade, my wedding tour would have been stopped at Paris, if notnearer. "

"That is well; for now, if the wedding tour is delayed, it will be knownto be a legal necessity, which in no way reflects upon the wedding party. And now, my dear Duke, since you consent to stay all night, let me adviseyou to retire to rest. You will find your valet waiting your orders inthe cedar suite of rooms, to which I had your dressing case and boxestaken. "

"Thanks, Lady Belgrade. Your ladyship anticipates everything. "

"I certainly anticipated the necessity of your remaining here all night, as soon as I found that you could not leave London. And now, Duke, I mustreally send you to bed. I am exhausted. I must lie down, even if I do notsleep, " said the dowager, as she arose and touched the bell. 

The Duke of Hereward raised her hand to his lips, bowed, and left theroom. 

Lady Belgrade followed his example. 

And the weary groom of the chambers entered, in answer to the bell, toturn off the gas and fasten up the rooms. 

The young duke knew where to find the cedar suite--a sumptuous set ofapartments finished and fitted up in the costly and fragrant wood whichgave them their name. 

He found his servant waiting in the dressing-room. 

His grace's valet was no fine gentleman from Paris, as full ofaccomplishments as of vices; but a simple and honest young man from theestate. The extra gravity which young James Kerr put into his manner ofwaiting, alone testified of the reverential sympathy he felt for hisbeloved master. 

The duke threw off the travelling coat that he had assumed for hisjourney and had worn up to this moment; and he took the wadded silkdressing gown, handed him by his valet, and having put it on, he droppedinto an easy resting-chair, and ordered Kerr to lower the gas and thenleave the room for the night. 

The young Duke of Hereward did not retire to bed that night. As soon ashe found himself alone in the half-darkened rooms, he arose from hischair and began to walk restlessly up and down the floor, relieving thepent-up anguish of his bosom by such deep groans as had required all hisself-control to suppress while he was in the presence of others. 

Thus walking and groaning in great agony of mind, he passed the fewremaining dark hours of the morning. 

At daylight he sank exhausted into his easy-chair. But even then heneither "slumbered nor slept, " but passed the time in waiting and longingfor the rising sun, that he might go out and renew his search for hislost bride. 

The sun had scarcely risen when he rang for his valet. 

The young man appeared promptly. 

The duke made a hasty toilet, and then called his servant to attend himdown stairs. 

None of the household were yet astir. 

But, by the direction of the duke, Kerr unlocked, unbolted and unbarredthe street door to let his master out. 

"Close and secure the house after me, James, for it will be hours yetbefore the household will be up, " said the duke, as he passed out. 

It was a clear October day for London. The sun was not more than twentyminutes high, and it shone redly and dully through a morning fog. Thestreets were still deserted, except by milkmen, bakers, costermongers, and other "early birds. "

He walked rapidly to the Church Court police station. 

Detective Setter was not there. But the Duke left word for him to call atElmthorpe as soon as he should return. 

He left the police station and went on toward Elmthrope. But he did notenter the house. He could not rest. He walked up and down the sidewalk infront of the iron railings until he thought Lady Belgrade might haverisen. 

Then he went up the steps and rang the bell. 

The hall porter opened the door and admitted him. 

"Has Lady Belgrade come down yet?" was his first question. 

"My lady has, your grace. My lady is waiting breakfast for your grace, "respectfully answered the footman. 

He longed to ask if any news had been heard of the missing one, but heforbore to do so, and hurried away up-stairs to the breakfast parlor. 

There he found Lady Belgrade, dressed in a purple cashmere robe, andwrapped in a rich India shawl, reclining in a rocking-chair beside abreakfast-table laid for two. 

"Good morning, madam. I fear I have kept your ladyship waiting, " said theduke, as he entered the room. 

"Not a second, my dear duke. I have but just this instant come down, "answered the dowager, politely, and unhesitatingly telling theconventional lie, as she put out her hand and touched the bell. 

"I fear that it is useless to ask you if there is any news of our missinggirl, " said the duke, in a low tone. 

"I have heard nothing. And you? Of course, you have not, or you would nothave asked me the question. But, good Heaven, Duke, you are as pale as aghost! You look as if you had just risen from a sick bed! You look fulltwenty years older than you did yesterday. What have you been doing withyourself? Where have you been?" inquired the dowager. 

The duke answered her last question only. 

"I have been to Church Court to look up Detective Setter. I left ordersfor him to report here this morning. I expect him here very soon. I mustdo all that I can do in London to-day, as it is absolutely necessary forme to leave town by the night express of the Great Northern Railroad, inorder to attend the trial for which I am subpoenaed as a witness, to-morrow. "

"I see! Of course, you must go. There is no resisting a subpoena. But whois to co-operate with Setter in the search for Salome?"

"_You_ must do so, if you please, Lady Belgrade, until my return. Ofcourse, I will hurry back with all dispatch. "

"No fear of that. The only fear is that you will hurry into your grave. But here is breakfast, " said her ladyship, as a footman entered with atray. 

Mocha coffee, orange pekoe tea, Westphalia ham, poached eggs, dry toast, muffins, rolls, and so forth, were arranged upon the table to tempt theappetite of the two who sat at meat. 

Lady Belgrade made a good meal. She was at the age of which physicianssay, "the constitution takes on a conservative tone, " and which poetscall "the time of peace. " In a word, she was middle-aged, fat, andcomfort-loving; and so she was not disposed to lose her rest, or food, or peace of mind for any trouble not personally her own. 

She was vexed at the unconventionality of Salome's disappearance, fearfulof what the world would say, and anxious to keep the matter as close aspossible. That was all, and it did not take away her appetite. 

But the anxious young husband could not eat. A feverish and burningthirst, such as frequently attends excessive grief or anxiety, consumedhim. He drank cup after cup of tea almost unconsciously, until at lengthLady Belgrade said:

"This makes four! I am your hostess, duke; but I am also your aunt bymarriage, and upon my word I cannot let you go on ruining your health inthis way! You shall not have another cup of tea, unless you consent toeat something with it. "

The young duke smiled wanly, and submitted so far as to take a piece ofdry toast on his plate and crumble it into bits. 

Meanwhile, the dowager, having finished her breakfast, took up the_Times_ to look over. 

Presently she startled the duke by exclaiming:

"Thank Heaven!"

"What is it?" hastily inquired the duke, setting down his cup and gazingat the silent reader. "Any news of Salome?" he added, and then nearlylost his breath while waiting for the answer. 

"Oh, yes, news of Salome! But scarcely authentic news. Listen! Hereis a full account of the wedding--with a description of the brideand bridesmaids, and their dresses and attendants, and of the ceremonyand the officiating clergy, and the attending crowd, and thewedding-breakfast, speeches, presents, and so on, all tolerablycorrect for a newspaper report. But now listen to this--"

Her ladyship here read aloud:

"Immediately after the wedding-breakfast, the happy pair left town, bythe London and South Coast Railway, _en route_ for Dover, Paris andthe Continent. "

"There! what do you think of that?" inquired Lady Belgrade, looking up. 

"I think it is not the first occasion upon which a paper has anticipatedand described an expected event that some unforeseen accident preventedfrom coming off, " answered the duke, with a sigh. 

"I thank fortune for this! Now you have really started on your weddingtour in the belief of all London, and all outside of London who take the_Times_; and all _our_ world _do_ take it. And now, if anyrumor of this most inopportune disappearance of our bride _should_get out, why, it will never be believed! That is all! For has not thedeparture of the 'happy pair' been published in the _Times_? Yes, I am very glad of the news reporter's indiscreet precipitancy on thisoccasion, at least, " concluded Lady Belgrade, as she turned to other"fashionable intelligence. "

At that moment a footman entered the breakfast parlor and handed abusiness-looking card to the duke, saying, with a bow:

"If you please, your grace, the person is waiting in the hall. "

"By your leave, Lady Belgrade?--Sims! show the man into the library, andtell him I will be with him in a few moments. --It is Detective Setter, "said the duke, as he arose and left the breakfast parlor. 

He found that officer awaiting him in the library. 

"Any news?" inquired the duke, as he sank into a chair and signed to thevisitor to follow his example. 

"None, your grace. I have made diligent and careful investigations, inthe neighborhoods mentioned by the lady's maid, but have found no traceof any Mrs. White or Brown that answered the rather vague descriptiongiven. I shall, however, resume my search there, " answered the man. 

"There must be no cessation of the search until that woman is found. I need not caution you to use great discretion, " said the duke, earnestly, but wearily, like a man breaking down under an intolerableburden of mental anxiety. 

"Discretion is the very spirit of my business, your grace. "

"What is to be your next step?"

"If your grace will permit me, I should like to examine the rooms of thelost lady, and I should like to question, singly and privately, theservants of the house. "

"A thorough search has been made of the premises, including theapartments of the duchess. And every domestic on the premises has beenexamined and cross-examined. "

"I do not doubt, your grace, that all this has been done as effectuallyas it could be done by any one, except a skillful and experienceddetective; but if you will pardon me, I should like to make anexamination and investigation in person. "

"Certainly, Mr. Setter. Every facility shall be afforded you, " said theduke, touching the bell. 

A footman entered. 

The duke drew a card from his pocket and wrote upon it:

"Detective Setter wishes to search the premises and cross-examine theservants. What does your ladyship say?"

The duke then placed the card in the hand of the footman, saying:

"Be so good as to take this to Lady Belgrade, and wait an answer. "

The servant bowed and left the room. 

"You are aware, Mr. Setter, that I am under the necessity of leavingLondon to-night, to attend the trial of Potts and Cameron to-morrow. "

"As a witness for the Crown. I am, your grace. "

"I shall get back to London as soon as possible. In the meantime, I wishyou to pursue your investigations with the utmost diligence, sparing noexpense. Report in person every morning and evening to Lady Belgradein this house, and by telegraph to me at Lone, in Scotland. Use greatdiscretion in wording your telegrams. Avoid the use of names, or titles, or, in fact, any terms, in referring to the duchess, that may identifyher. I hope you understand me?"

"Perfectly, your grace. I also understand how to speak and write inenigmas. It is a part of my profession to do so, " answered Mr. Setter. 

The duke then drew out his portmonaie, opened it, selected two notes offifty pounds each and put them in the hands of Setter, saying:

"Here are one hundred pounds. Spare no expense in prosecuting thissearch. Draw on me if you have occasion. "

The detective bowed. 

At the same moment the footman re-entered the room, bringing a card ona silver waiter, which he handed to the duke. 

The duke took it and read:

"Your grace surely forgets that, as the husband of the heiress, you arethe absolute master of the house, and your will is law here. Do as youthink proper. "

"You may go, " said the duke to the messenger, who immediately retired. 

"Now, Mr. Setter, do you wish to search the premises, or examine theservants first?" inquired the duke. 

"Examine the servants first, your grace; as I may thereby gain some clewto follow in my search. "

"Very well, " said the duke, again touching the bell. 

The prompt footman re-appeared. 

"Whom do you wish called first?" inquired the duke. 

"The lady's maid, " answered the detective. 

"Go and tell the duchess's maid that she is wanted here immediately, "said the duke. 

The footman bowed and went away on his errand. 

A few minutes passed, and the lady's maid entered. 

"This is--I really forget your name, my good girl, " said the duke, apologetically. 

"Margaret, sir; Margaret Watson, " said the lady's maid, with a courtesy. 

"Ay. This is Margaret Watson, the confidential maid of her grace, Mr. Setter. Margaret, my good girl, Mr. Setter wishes to put some questionsto you, relating to the disappearance of your mistress. I hope you willanswer his inquiries as frankly and fearlessly as you have answeredours, " said the duke, as he took up a paper for a pretext and walked tothe other end of the library, leaving the detective officer at liberty topursue his investigations alone. 

It is needless for us to go over the ground again. It is sufficient tosay that Detective Setter questioned and cross-questioned the girl withall the skill of an old and experienced hand, and at the end of half anhour's sharp and close examination, he had obtained no new information. 

The girl was dismissed, with a warning not to talk of the affair. And shewas followed by the housekeeper, with no better result. 

Thus all the domestics of the establishment were called and examinedsingly; but without success. 

When the last servant was done with, and sent out of the room, thedetective walked up to the duke. 

"Well, Mr. Setter?" inquired the latter. 

"Your grace, I have learned nothing from the servants but what you havealready told me. "

"Do you still wish to search the premises?"

"If your grace pleases. And I wish to begin with the apartments of theduchess. "

"Then follow me. I myself will be your guide, " said the duke, leading theway from the library. 

It would be useless to accompany the detective in this third search. Let it be sufficient to say that this search was thorough, complete, exhaustive, and--unsuccessful. 

It was late in the day when it was finished, and the duke and thedetective returned to the library. 

"You now perceive Mr. Setter, that a day has been lost in these repeatedsearchings and questionings, and no new information, no sign of a clew tothe fate of the duchess has been gained. In an hour I must leave thehouse to catch the Great Northern Night Express. I leave--I am_forced_ for the present, to leave the fate of my beloved wife inyour hands. In saying that, I say that I leave more than my own life inyour keeping. Use every means, employ every agency, spend money freely, the day you bring her safely to me, I will deposit ten thousand pounds inthe Bank of England to your account. "

"Your grace is munificent. If the duchess is on earth, I will findher;--not for the reward only, though it is certainly a very greatinducement to a poor man with a large family; but for the love and honorI bear your grace and the late Sir Lemuel Levison, " said the detective, earnestly, as he bowed and took leave. 

The first dinner-bell rang. 

The duke hastened to his own room, not to dress for dinner, but toprepare for his night journey to Scotland. 

He ordered his valet to pack a valise with all that would be necessaryfor a few days' absence, and then sent him to call a close cab. 

By this time the second dinner-bell rang, and the duke went down, not todine, but to take leave of Lady Belgrade. 

He found her ladyship in the drawing-room. 

"Give me your arm to dinner, if you please, Duke, " she said, rising. 

"I hope you will excuse me; but I have only come to say good-by. I havebut time to catch the train. Kerr has already put my luggage in the cab, which is waiting for me at the door. Good-by, dear Lady Belgrade. Youwill co-operate with Setter in all things necessary to a successfulsearch, I know. Setter has my orders to report to you--"

"You take my breath away!" gasped the dowager. 

"Write to me by every mail. Keep me informed of events--"

"You will kill yourself, Duke! flying off without your dinner, andlooking fitter for going to bed than on a journey!" panted the dowager. 

"Now then, good-by in earnest, dear Lady Belgrade, and God bless you, "concluded the duke, raising her hand to his lips and bowing. 

And before the dowager could say another word he was gone. 

"Well, if he lives to be as old as I am, he will take things easier. Though, if he goes on at this rate, he won't live to be old, " mused theold lady, as she slowly waddled into the dining-room, and took her seatat the table to enjoy her solitary green turtle soup. 

CHAPTER XXII. 

AT LONE. 

The Duke of Hereward went out to the close cab that was waiting for himbefore the door. 

He found his valet standing by it, with a pair of railroad rugs over hisarm. 

He directed the man to mount to a seat beside the cabman, and gave thelatter orders where to drive. 

Then he entered the cab and closed all the doors and windows, that hemight not be seen by any chance acquaintance. 

He was supposed by all the world of London to be away on his weddingtour, and he was willing to let them continue to believe so, until theyshould be enlightened by a report of the great trial, when they wouldlearn the fact and the explanation at once, and thus be preventedfrom making undesirable conjectures and speculations concerning hispresence at such a time in England. 

He leaned back on his seat, and the cabman, having received directionsfrom the valet, drove rapidly off toward the Great Northern RailwayStation at Kings Cross. 

An hour's fast drive brought them to their destination. 

The duke dispatched his valet to the ticket office to engage a coupe onthe express train, so that he might be entirely private. 

And he remained in the cab with closed doors and windows until theservant had secured the coupe, and conveyed all the light luggage intoit. 

Then he left the cab, and passed at once into the coupe, leaving hisservant to pay and discharge the cab, and to follow him on the train. 

James Kerr, after performing these duties, went to the door of hismaster's little compartment to ask if he had any further orders, beforegoing to take his place in the second-class carriages. 

"No, Kerr, but come in here with me. I want you at hand during thejourney, " replied the duke, who, much as he confided in the young man'sdevotion and loyalty, could not quite trust his discretion, and thereforedesired to keep him from talking. 

The valet bowed and entered the coupe, taking the seat that his masterpointed out. 

The train moved slowly out of the station, but gaining speed as it leftthe town, soon began to fly swiftly on its northern course. 

The October sun was setting as the train flew along the marginof the "New River, " as Sir Hugh Myddellen's celebrated piece ofwater-engineering is called. 

The October evening was chill, and the swift flight of the train drawinga strong draught that could not be kept out, increased the chilliness. 

The duke leaned back in his seat and closed his eyes. 

The valet attentively tucked the railway rug around his master's knees. 

The sun had set. The long twilight of northern latitudes came on. 

At the first station where the express stopped, the guard opened the doorand offered to light the lamps, but the duke forbade him, saying that hepreferred the darkness. 

The guard closed the door and retired, and the train started again, andflew on northward through the deepening night. 

It stopped only at the largest towns and cities on its route--atPeterboro', at York, at Newcastle, and Edinboro'. 

It was sunrise when the train reached Lone, the only small station atwhich it stopped on the route. 

The guard opened the door of the coupe, and the young duke got out, attended by his valet. 

The train stopped but one minute, and then shot out of the station andflew on toward Aberdeen. 

The distance between the railway station and the "Hereward Arms, " wasvery short, so the duke preferred to walk it, followed by his valet anda railway porter carrying his light luggage. 

The sun had risen indeed, although it was nowhere visible. 

A Scotch mist had risen from the lake, and settled over the mountains, vailing all the grand features of the landscape. 

Early as the hour was, the hamlet, as they passed through it, seemeddeserted by all its male inhabitants. None but women and children wereto be seen, and even they, instead of being at work, were loitering abouttheir own doors or gossiping with each other. 

Though the duke and his servant were the only passengers that got offthe train at Lone, the whole force of the "Hereward Arms, "--landlord, head-waiter, hostler, boots and stable boys--turned out to meet them. 

"Your grace is unco welcome to the 'Hereward Arms, '" said Donald Duncan, the worthy host, bowing low before his distinguished guest. 

And all his underlings followed his example by pulling their redforelocks and scraping their right feet backwards. 

"Your hamlet seems to be deserted to-day, landlord. What fair or whatelse is going on?" inquired the young duke, as he followed the bowinghost to the neat little parlor of the inn. 

"Ah! wae's the day! Dinna your grace ken! It will be the trial atBanff--the trial of yon grand villain, Johnnie Potts, for the murderof his master. "

"Oh, yes, I know the trial will be commenced to-day; but I did not thinkthat the people here would take so much interest in it as to leave theirwork and go such a distance to see it, " remarked the duke. 

"Would they nae? They'd gae to the North Pole to see it, if necessary, and they'd gae farrer still to see the murtherer weel hanggit! Ay, yourgrace, and what will make it a' the mair exciting, is the rumor whilkgoes round to the effect that the ne'er-do-well, hizzie, Rose Cameron, hae turnit Crown's evidence to save her ain life, and will gie up all heraccomplices. Sae we are a' fain to hear the mystery of the murthercleared up. "

"Indeed! Is that so? The girl has turned Crown's witness? Then, we_shall_ get at the truth!" exclaimed the duke, with more interestthan he had hitherto shown. 

"It is a' true, your grace! And your grace may weel ken how the reportdrawed the heart of the hamlet out to gae to Banff, and hear a' aboot themurther. "

"Yes, yes, " murmured the duke to himself. 

"And now, will your grace please to have a room? And what will your graceplease to have for breakfast?" inquired the landlord, remembering hisduty, and again bowing to the ground. 

"You may show me to a bed-room, where I may get rid of this railway dust, and--for breakfast, anything you please, so that it is quickly prepared. Also, landlord, have a chaise at the door, with a good pair of horses. Imust start for Banff within half an hour, " said the traveller. 

"Save us and sain us! Your grace, also! A' the warld seem ganging toBanff!" cried honest Donald Duncan. 

"I am summoned there as a witness on the trial, landlord. "

"Ay, to be sure. Sae your grace maun be. For it is weel kenned that yourgrace was amung the first to discover the dead body of the murthered man, Heaven rest him! And noo, your grace, I will show ye till your room, "said the landlord, leading the way to a neat bedchamber on the samefloor. 

"Be good enough to send my servant here with my luggage, " said the duke. 

The landlord bowed and went out to deliver the message. 

And in another minute the valet entered the room with the valise, dressing-case, and so forth. 

The duke made a rapid morning toilet, and then returned to the parlor, where the little breakfast table was already laid--coffee, rolls, oat-meal cake, broiled haddock, broiled black cock, and Dundee marmalade, formed the bill of fare. 

The duke forced himself to partake of some solid food in addition to thetwo cups of coffee he hastily swallowed. 

And then, as the chaise was announced, he arose to depart. 

"I desire to keep these rooms until further notice, landlord. I shallreturn here this evening, and stop here during my attendance upon thetrial at Banff, " said the duke, as he got into the chaise, followed bythe valet. 

The driver cracked his whip and the horses started. 

"Aweel, " said the landlord to himself, as he watched the chaise windingits way up the mountain-pass. "Aweel, I waur e'en just confounded to seethe dook here away without the doochess; and I just after reading in the_Times_ how they were married o' the day before yesterday, and ganefor their wedding trip to Paris! Aweel, I suppose, it will be thiswitness business as hae broughten him back. But where's the youngdoochess? Ay, to be sure, he hae left her in her grand toon house inLondon. He wad na be bringing her here at siccan a painfu' time andoccasion as the trial of her ain father's murtherer. Nae, indeed! thatis nae likely, " concluded honest Donald Duncan, as he returned into hishouse. 

Banff was but ten miles north-east of Lone. But the mountain road wasdifficult; and now that the morning mist lay heavy on the landscape, itwas necessary for our travelers to drive slowly and carefully to avoidprecipitating themselves over some rocky steep, into some deep pool orstony chasm. 

They were, thus, an hour in getting safely through the mountain-pass. 

At the end of that time, they came out upon a good road, through a forestof firs, covering a hilly country. 

Then the mist began to roll away before the bright beams of the advancingsun. 

And another hour of fast driving brought them into the town of Banff. 

The duke directed the driver to turn into the street where was situatedthe town-hall, where the court was being held. 

The very looks of the street must have informed any stranger that someevent of unusual interest was then transpiring. The sidewalks were filledwith pedestrians, whose steps were all bent in one direction--toward thetown hall. 

As our travellers drew up before the front of the building, the dukealighted and beckoned to a bailiff to come and clear the way for hispassage into the court-room. 

The officer hurried to the duke, and using his official authority, soonmade a narrow path through the dense crowd that choked up every avenueinto the edifice. 

So, elbowing, pushing and wedging his way, the bailiff led the duke intothe court-room, which was even more closely packed than the ante-rooms. Pressing through this solid mass of human beings, the bailiff led him toa seat directly in front of the bench of judges, and there left him. 

The duke bowed to the Bench, sat down and looked around upon the strangeand painful scene. 

The famous Scotch judge, Baron Stairs, presided. On his right and leftsat Mr. Justice Kinloch and Mr. Justice Guthrie. 

Quite a large number of lawyers, law officers, and writers to the sealwere present. 

Mr. James Stuart, Q. C. , was the prosecutor on the part of the crown. Hewas assisted by Messrs. Roy and McIntosh. 

Mr. Keir and Mr. Gordon, two rising young barristers from Aberdeen, werecounsel for the prisoner. 

John Potts, alias Peters, the accused man, stood alone in the prisoner'sdock. 

He was a tall, gaunt, dark man, whose pallid face looked ghastly incontrast with his damp, lank, black hair, that seemed pasted to hischeeks by the thick perspiration, and with his black coat and pantaloonsthat hung loosely on his emaciated form. 

The young duke thought he had never seen a man so much broken down in soshort a time. 

While the duke was looking at him, the poor wretch turned caught his eyeand bowed. And then he quickly grasped the front railing of the dock withboth his hands, as if to keep himself from falling. 

The young duke turned away his eyes. The sight was too painful. He lookedaround him over the densely packed crowd, in which he recognized many ofhis old friends and neighbors, a great number of his clansmen and nearlyall the old servants of his family. 

Although the month was October, and the weather cool in that northernclimate, the atmosphere of such a packed crowd would have been unbearablebut for the fact that the six tall windows that flanked the court-roomon each side were let down from the top for ventilation. 

The duke turned his attention to the Bench. 

There seemed to be some pause in the proceedings. The judges were sittingin perfect silence. The prosecuting counsel were arranging papers andoccasionally speaking to each other in low tones. 

The duke turned to a gentleman, a stranger, who was sitting on his left, and inquired:

"I have heard that the girl Cameron is not to be arraigned. I have alsoheard that she is held as a witness for the crown. Can you inform mewhether it is so?"

"Yes, sir, it is so. You perceive that she is not in the dock with theother prisoner. She is in custody, however, in the sheriff's room. Theprosecution cannot afford to arraign her, because they cannot do withouther testimony, " answered the stranger. 

A buzz of conversation passed like a breeze through the impatient crowd. 

"Silence in the court!" called out the crier. 

And all became as still as death. 

Mr. Roy, assistant counsel for the crown, arose and read the indictment, charging the prisoner at the bar with the willful murder of Sir LemuelLevison, at Castle Lone, on the twenty-first day of June, Anno Domini, so and so. Without making any comment, the prosecutor sat down. 

The Clerk of Arraigns then arose, and demanded of the accused--

"Prisoner at the bar, are you guilty or not guilty of the crimes withwhich you stand indicted?"

Potts, who stood pale and trembling and clutching the rails in front ofthe dock, replied earnestly though informally:

"Not guilty, upon my soul, my lords and gentlemen, before Heaven, and asI hope for salvation. "

And overpowered by fear, he sank down on the narrow bench at the back ofthe dock. 

The trial proceeded. 

Queen's Counsel, Mr. James Stuart, took the indictment from the hands ofhis assistant, and proceeded to open it with a short, pithy address tothe judges and the jury, and closed by requesting that Alexander McRath, house-steward of Castle Lone, in the service of the deceased, should becalled. 

The venerable, gray-haired old Scot, being duly called, came forward andtook the stand. 

Mr. McIntosh, assistant Queen's Counsel, conducted his examination. 

Being duly sworn, Alexander McRath testified as to the facts within hisown knowledge relating to the case, and which have already been laidbefore our readers--briefly, they referred to the finding of the deadbody of the late Sir Lemuel Levison in his bed-chamber, to which no oneexcept his confidential valet, the prisoner at the bar, had a pass-key, or could have gained admittance during the night. 

The witness was cross-examined by Mr. Keir of the counsel for theprisoner, but without having his testimony weakened. 

Other domestic servants were called, who corroborated the evidence givenby the last one as to the finding of the dead body, and the intimate andconfidential relations which had subsisted between the deceased and theprisoner at the bar, who always carried a pass-key to his master'sprivate apartments. 

Then the boy, Ferguson, a saddler's apprentice from the village of Lone, was called to the stand; and being sworn and examined, testified to themeeting and the conspiracy at midnight before the murder, under thebalcony, near Malcolm's Tower, at Castle Lone, to which he had been aneye and ear-witness. 

This witness was subjected to a very severe cross-examination, whichrather developed and strengthened his testimony than otherwise. 

McNeil, the ticket agent of the railway station at Lone, was next called, sworn, and examined. He testified to having sold a ticket just aftermidnight on the night of the murder to a vailed woman, who carried asmall but very heavy leathern bag, which she guarded with jealous care. His description corresponded with that given by young Ferguson of thevailed woman, and the bag he had seen given to her by the balcony atCastle Lone on the same night. 

This witness, also, was sharply cross-examined without effect. 

"Now, my lords and gentlemen of the jury, " began Queen's Counsel Stuart, speaking more gravely than he had ever done before, "I shall proceed tocall a witness whose testimony will assuredly fix the deep guilt in thecase we are trying where it justly belongs. Let Rose Cameron be placedupon the stand. "

There was a great sensation in the court-room. The dense crowd wasstirred with emotion as thick forest leaves are stirred with the wind. 

"Silence in the court!" called out the crier. 

And silence fell like a pall upon the crowd. 

A door was opened on the left of the Judge's Bench, and the handsomeHighland girl was led in by a sheriff's officer. She was dressed in adark-blue merino suit, with a black felt hat and blue feather to match, and dark-blue gloves. Her long light hair flowed down her shoulders, acataract of gold. She stepped with an elastic and imperial step asnatural to her as to the reindeer. A very Juno of stately beauty sheseemed as she rolled her large, fearless eyes over the crowdedcourt-room, until, at length, they fell on the form of the young Dukeof Hereward, seated on a front seat. 

She started and flushed. Then recovered herself, caught his eyes, andfixed them with her bold, steady gaze, smiled a vindictive, deadly smile, and so passed with stately steps to her place on the witness stand. 

CHAPTER XXIII. 

A STARTLING CHARGE. 

The Duke of Hereward was quite unable to account for the look ofvindictive and deadly hatred and malice cast on him by Rose Cameron. Hecould only suppose that she mistook him for some one else, or that sheunreasonably resented his active share in the prosecution of the searchfor the murderers of Sir Lemuel Levison. 

He sat back in his seat and watched her while she stepped upon thewitness-stand and turned to face the jury. 

Every pair of eyes in the court-room were also fixed upon her. For it wasbelieved that she had been an accomplice in the murder, as well as in therobbery, at Castle Lone, and that she had turned Queen's evidence inorder to escape the extreme penalty of the law. And all there who lookedupon her were as much dazzled by her wondrous beauty, as appalled by herawful guilt. 

The Clerk of the Court administered the oath. The assistant Queen'sCounsel proceeded to examine her. 

"Your name is Rose Cameron?"

"Na! I'm nae Rose Cameron. I'm Rose Scott, and an honest, married woman, "said the witness, turning a baleful look upon the Duke of Hereward, andletting her large, bold, blue eyes rove defiantly, triumphantly over thesea of human faces turned toward her. She never blenched a bit under thefire of glances fixed upon her. These glances would have pierced likespears any finer and more sensitive spirit. They never seemed to touchhers. 

"What a handsome quean it is!" said some. 

"What a diabolical malignity there is in her looks. Eh, sirs! The veracut of her 'ee wad convict her, handsome as she is!" whispered another. 

"Ay, she looks as if she could ha ta'en a hand in the murther as well asin the robbery, " muttered a third. And so on. 

These comments were made in so low a tone that they did not in the leastdisturb the decorum of the court. 

"Your name is Rose Scott, then?" proceeded Counsellor Keir. 

"Ay, it is. "

"What is your age?"

"Twenty-six come next Michael-mas. "

"Your residence?"

"Are ye meaning my hame?"

"Yes, your home. "

"I dinna just ken. It used to be Ben Lone on the Duk' o Harewood'sestate, when I waur a lass. Sin I hae been a guid wife I hae bided inWestminster Road, Lunnun. "

At the mention of Westminster Road, the Duke of Hereward startedslightly, and bent forward to give closer attention to the words ofthe witness. 

"With whom did you live in Westminster Road?" proceeded the examiner. 

"Wi' my ain guid man, ye daft fule!" exclaimed Rose Cameron, in a rage. "Wha else suld I bide wi'? And noo, ye'll speer nae mair questions anentmy ain preevit life, for I'll nae answer any sic. A woman maunna gietestimony in open coort against her ain husband, I'm thinking. "

"Certainly not. "

"Sae I thocht!" said Rose Cameron, cunningly. "And sae ye'll speer naemair questions anent my ain preevit affair; but just keep ye to thepoint, and it please ye! I am here to tell all I ken anent the murtherand robbery at Castle Lone! Ay! and I will tell a' hang wha' it may!" sheadded, with a most vindictive glare at the Duke of Hereward. 

"The witness is right so far. We have nothing whatever to do with herdomestic status. Proceed with the examination, and keep to the point, "interposed the judge. 

"We will, my lord. We only wished to prove the fact that the witness wasliving on the most intimate terms with one of the parties suspected ofthe murder. "

"I waur living wi' my ain husband, as I telt ye before, ye born idiwat!An' I'm no ca'd upon to witness for or against him. Sae I'll tell ye a' Iked anent the murther and the robbery at Castle Lone; but de'il hae megin I tell ye onything else!" exclaimed Rose Cameron. 

"The witness is quite right in her premises, though censurable in hermanner of expressing them. Proceed with the examination, " said the judge. 

The assistant Q. C. Bowed to the Bench and turned to the witness. 

"Tell us, then, where you were on the night of the murder. "

"I waur in the grounds o' Castle Lone. "

"At what time were you there?"

"Frae ten till twal o' the clock. "

"Were you alone?"

"For a guid part of the time I waur my lane i' the castle court. "

"What took you out on the castle grounds alone at so late an hour?"

"I went there to keep my tryste with the Markis of Arondelle, " answeredthe witness, with a sly, malignant glance at the young nobleman whosename she thus publicly profaned!

The Duke of Hereward started, and fixed his eyes sternly and inquiringlyupon the bold, handsome face of the witness. 

Her eyes did not for an instant quail before his gaze. On the contrary, they opened wide in a bold, derisive stare, until she was recalled by thequestions of the examiner. 

"Witness! Do you mean to say, upon your oath, that you went to CastleLone at midnight to meet the Marquis of Arondelle?"

"Aye, that I do. I went to the castle to keep tryste wi' his lairdship, the Marquis of Arondelle. He wha was troth-plighted to the heiress o'Lone. Ae wha is noo ca'd his grace the Duk' o' Harewood!" said thewitness, emphatically, triumphantly. 

The statement fell like a thunderbolt on the whole assembly. 

When Rose Cameron first said that she went to the castle to keep trystewith the Marquis of Arondelle, those who heard her distrusted theevidence of their own ears, and turned to each other, inquiring inwhispers:

"What did she say?"

Or answering in like whispers:

"I don't know. "

But now that she had reiterated her statement with emphasis and withtriumph, they asked no more questions, but gazed in each other's facesin awe-struck silence. 

And as for the Duke of Hereward! What on earth could a gentleman haveto say to a charge as absurd as it was infamous, thus made upon him bya disreputable person in open court?

Why, to notice it even by denial would seem to be an infringement of hisdignity and self-respect. 

The Duke of Hereward, after his first involuntary start and stare ofamazement, controlled himself absolutely, and sat back in his chair, perfectly silent and self-possessed under this ordeal. 

Not so the senior counsel for the defence. 

Rising in his place, he addressed the bench:

"My lord, we object to the question put to the witness, which, while ittends to compromise a lofty personage of this realm, can, in no manner, concern the case in hand. My lord, we are not trying his grace the Dukeof Hereward. "

"The bench has already instructed the counsel for the Crown to keep tothe point at issue while examining the witness, " said the presidingjudge. 

"Ou, ay! Ye are nae trying the Duk' o' Harewood, are ye nae? Aweel, then, I'm thinking ye'll be trying him before a's ower!" put in Rose Cameron, spitefully. 

"Witness, tell the jury what occurred, within your own knowledge, whileyou were in the grounds of Castle Lone, " said Mr. Keir. 

"And how will I tell onything right gin I am forbid to name the name o'him wha wur maistly concernit?" demanded Rose Cameron. 

"You are to give your own testimony in your own way, unless otherwiseinstructed by the bench, " said Mr. Keir. 

"Aweel, then, first of a', I went to the castle by appointment to meetLaird Arondelle, as he was then ca'd. I walked about and waited fu' anhour before his lairdship cam' till me. "

"At what hour was that?"

"I heard the castle clock aboon Auld Malcom's Tower strike eleven when Icam' under the balcony o' the bride's chamber, whilk is nigh it. I waitedfu' half an hour there before his lairdship cam' stealing through theshrubbery--De'il hae him, wha ha brocht a' this trouble on me!" exclaimedthe witness, vehemently, as her eyes, fairly blazing with blue fire, fixed themselves on the face of the young duke. 

The Duke of Hereward bore the searching glare quite calmly. He simplyleaned back in his chair, with folded arms and attentive face, on whichcuriosity was the only expression. 

"Mr. Keir, " said the venerable Counsellor Guthrie, of the defence, "isall this supposed to concern the case before the jury?"

"Ay, does it!" cried Rose Cameron, before the lawyer addressed couldreply. "Ay, does it, as ye will sune see, gin ye will gie me leave tospeak. "

Meanwhile the Duke of Hereward took out his note-book and wrote theselines:

"_Pray let the witness proceed without regard to her use of my name. I think the ends of justice require that she be suffered to give hertestimony in her own way_. HEREWARD. "

He tore this leaf out and passed it on to Mr. Guthrie, who read it withsome surprise, and then waved his hand to Mr. Keir, and sat down with theair of a man who had complied with an indiscreet request, and washed hishands of the consequences. 

"The time of the court is being unnecessarily wasted. Let the examinationof the witness go on, " said the presiding judge. 

"It shall, my lord, " answered the Queen's Counsel, with an inclination ofhis white-wigged head. Then turning to the bold blonde on the stand, heproceeded:

"Witness, tell the jury what occurred that night under the balcony ofMiss Levison's apartments at Castle Lone. "

Rose Cameron threw another vindictive glance at the Duke of Hereward, andcommenced her narrative. 

Now, as her story was substantially the same that has been already givento the reader, it is not necessary to recapitulate it here. Only in onerespect it differed from the stories she had hitherto told to herlandlady or housekeeper, Mrs. Brown, of Westminster Road; as on thisoccasion she reserved all allusion to any real or fancied marriagebetween herself and the nobleman she claimed as her lover, and thenaccused as the accomplice of thieves and assassins, in the murder androbbery at Castle Lone, on the night preceding the day appointed for hisown marriage with its heiress!

It would be impossible to describe the effect of this terrible testimonyon the minds of all who heard it. 

The Bench, the Bar, and the Jury, whom, it would seem, nothing in thisworld had power to startle, astonish, or discompose, sat like statues. 

Scarcely less immovable was the young Duke of Hereward, the subjectof this awful charge, who sat back in his seat with an air of gravecuriosity, and with the composure of a man who was master of thesituation. 

But the crowd which filled the court-room seemed utterly confounded bywhat they heard. Upon the whole, they either disbelieved this witness, ordistrusted their own ears. Their young laird, as she called the presentduke, was their model of all wisdom, goodness, magnanimity. Truly, theyhad heard a rumor of some little love-making between the young laird anda handsome shepherdess at Ben Lone, probably this same Rose Cameron; eventhese rumors they did not fully credit; but that the noble young Duke ofHereward should be the accomplice of thieves and murderers in the robberyat Castle Lone, and the assassination of Sir Lemuel Levison, on the verynight preceding the morning appointed for his marriage with Sir Lemuel'sdaughter!

Oh! the charge was too preposterous, as well as too horrible, to beentertained for an instant. 

Finally the prevailing opinion settled into this: that the young lairdhad probably admired the handsome shepherdess a little, and had left herfor the heiress; and that, from jealousy and for revenge, the girl wasnow perjuring herself to ruin her late lover. 

Would her testimony be believed? Would it have weight enough to cause thearrest of the young duke?

"Eh, sirs! what an awfu' event the like o' that wad be!" whispered onegray-haired clansman to another. 

And all bent eager ears to hear the remainder of the testimony which wasstill going on. 

After relating the history of her journey to London, with the stolentreasure in charge, she proceeded to tell of the abrupt flight of "theduke, " with the bulk of the treasure in his possession, and of her ownsubsequent arrest with the stolen jewels found in her apartments. 

She was cross-examined by the defence, but without effect. 

Her testimony, if it could be established, would ruin the Duke ofHereward, but could in no way affect the prisoner at the bar. 

When the prosecution perceived this, they realized that they had been, incommon parlance, "sold. "

They were to be sold again. 

"You may stand down, " said Mr. Keir, sharply. 

"Na, I hanna dune yet. I hae mair to say, " persisted the witness. 

"Say it, then. "

"I ken it is nae lawfu' for a wife to gie testimony against her ainhusband, " said Rose Cameron, with a cunning leer that marred the beautyof her fine blue eyes. 

"Certainly not. What has that to do with this case?"

"It hae a' things to do with it. "

"Explain yourself, witness; and remember that you are on your oath. "

"Ay, I weel ken the solemnity of an aith. And I hae telt the truth underaith; nathless, maybe my teestimony suld na be received. "

"Why not?"

"Why no'? Why, gin a wife maunna teestify agin her ain husband, I suld nahae teestified agin the Duk' o' Harewood, who is my ain lawfu' husband!"said Rose Cameron, purposely raising her voice to a clear, ringing tonethat was distinctly heard all over the court-room. 

Had a shell fallen and exploded in their midst, it could scarcely havecaused greater consternation. 

"What said the lass?" questioned many. 

"I dinna just ken, " answered many others. 

They certainly did not believe the report of their own ears on thisoccasion. 

As for the Duke of Hereward, who was then engaged in writing a few lineson the fly-leaf of his note-book, he just looked up for a moment and wassurprised into the first smile that had lighted his grave face since theopening of the trial. 

The cool counsel who was conducting the examination of the witness, and whom nothing on earth could throw off his track, now proceeded toinquire:

"Witness! Do we understand you to say that you are the wife of his gracethe Duke of Hereward?"

"Ay, just!" replied Rose Cameron, pertly. "Gin ye hae ony understandingat a', and gin ye are na the auld daft idiwat ye luke, ye'll understandme to say I am the lawfu' wedded wife o' the Duk' o' Harewood. Him aswas marrit o' Tuesday last to the heiress o' Lone! Gin ye dinna believeme, I hae my marriage lines, gie me by the minister o' St. Margaret'sKirk, Weestminster, where he marrit me! Ou, ay! and I wad hae tell ye a'this in the beginning, only I kenned weel, if I _did_, ye wad na haelet me gae on gie' ony teestimony agin me ain husband. De'il hae him! Butnoo, as ye hae heerd the truth anent the grand villainy up in CastleLone, I dinna mind telling ye wha I am. Ay, and ye may set aside mywitness, gin ye like! But the whole coort hae noo heard it. Ay, and thewhole warld s'all hear it, or a' be dune! And noo I am thinking ye'll eenlet the puir mon in the dock just gae free; and pit my laird, his greece, the nubble duk', intil the prisoner's place. Ye'll no hae to seek himfar, " added the woman, suddenly whisking around and facing the young Dukeof Hereward, with a perfectly fiendish look of malice distorting herhandsome face. "There he sits noo! he wha marrit me and afterwards marritthe heiress o' Lone! he wha betrayed me intil a prison, and wad haebetrayed me to the gallows, gin I had na been to canny for him! There heis noo, and he can na face me and deny it!"

The Duke of Hereward did not deign to deny anything. He passed the flyleaf, upon which he had written some lines, on to the old lawyer, Guthrie, who looked over it, nodded, and then rising in his place, addressed the Bench:

"My lord, we desire that the witness, who is now transcending the dutiesand privileges of the stand, be ordered to sit down. "

"Oh! I'll sit down!" pertly interrupted Rose Cameron. "I hae had my ainway, and I hae said my ain say, and now I'll e'en gae--gin this auld fulebe done wi' me. "

"We have done with you; you can stand down, " replied Mr. Keir, inmortification and disgust. 

Rose Cameron stepped down from the stand with the air of a queendescending from her throne. In look and motion she was graceful andmajestic as the antelope. You had to hear her speak to learn how reallylow and vulgar she was. 

She darted one baleful blast of hatred from her blue eyes, as she passedthe Duke of Hereward, and was then conducted back to the sheriff's room, where she was to be detained in custody until the conclusion of thetrial. 

CHAPTER XXIV. 

THE VINDICATION. 

Mr. Guthrie now requested that the witness Ferguson might be recalled. 

The order was given. And the Lone saddler's red-headed apprentice tookthe stand. 

Mr. Guthrie referred to the notes that had been passed to him by the Dukeof Hereward, and then said:

"Witness, you told the jury that on the night before the murder of SirLemuel Levison, you were employed in your master's service up to a latehour. "

"Ay, your honor; but I waur fain to see the wedding decorations, for a'that, " said the boy. 

"Precisely. But now tell the jury what was the service upon which youwere employed to so late an hour that night. "

"It wad be a bit wedding offering to our laird, wha hae always favoredhis ain folks wi' his custom. It waur a Russia leather travelingdressing-bag for his lairdship, the whilk the master had ta'en unco guidcare suld be as brawa bag as ony to be boughten in Lunnen town itsel', whilk mysel' was commissioned, and proud I waur, to tak', wi' my master'sduty, to his lairdship. "

"Doubtless. Now tell the jury at what hour you took this wedding offeringto Lord Arondelle. "

"Aweel, it wad be about half-past nine o'clock. I went wi' thedressing-case to the Arondelle Arms, where his lairdship and hislairdship's feyther, the auld duk' were biding. The hostler telt me thathis lairdship had gane for a walk o'er the brig to Castle Lone. Sae Iwere fain to wait there for him. "

"How long did you wait?"

"Na lang. I was na mair than five minutes before I saw his lairdshipcoming o'er the brig toward the house. And sune his lairdship came intothe inn, and I made my bow, and offered his lairdship the wedding-gift, wi' my maister's respectful guid wishes. His lairdship smiled pleasantly, and tauld me to fetch it after him up to his chamber. I followed my lairdup-stairs to his ain room, where his lairdship's valet, Mr. Kerr, waswaiting on him. His lairdship wrote a braw note of acknowledgementsto my maister, and gie it me to take away. My laird also gie me ahalf-sovereign, for mysel'. I dinna tak' the note just then to mymaister. I saw by the clock on the mantel that it only lacked a quarterto ten o'clock, sae I e'en made my duty to his lairdship and run downstairs, ran a' the way o'er to Castle Lone, for I war fain to see thedecorations. I got to Malcolm's Tower just in time to hear the auld clockin the turret strike eleven, and to see the mon and the woman meetthegither in the shadows. "

"Are you sure that you could not identify that man or woman?"

"Anan?"

"Would you know either of them again?" inquired Mr. Guthrie, changing themanner of his question. 

"Na! I tauld ye sae before. They were half hidden i' the bushes. "

"You say it was a quarter to ten when you left Lord Arondelle in his roomat the inn?"

"Ay, war it. "

"And that it was eleven o'clock when you witnessed the meeting betweenthe man and the woman at Castle Lone!"

"Ay, war it. And I had to run a' the way to do it in that time. It waurguid rinning. "

"You left his lordship's valet with him, do you say?"

"Ay, I did. And the head waiter o' the Arondelle Arms, too, wha was justgaeing in wi' his lairdship's supper. "

"That will do. You may now stand down, " said Mr. Guthrie. 

The shock-headed apprentice, who had done such good service to his Gracethe Duke of Hereward, and such damage to the false witness against him, now left the stand and made his way through the crowd to his distantseat. 

Mr. Guthrie once more got upon his feet to address the Bench, and said:

"May it please the Court, I move that the testimony of the Crown'switness, Rose Cameron, alias Rose Scott, be set aside as totallyunreliable; and, further, that she be indicted for perjury. "

Upon this motion of Mr. Guthrie there followed some discussion among thelawyers. 

Finally it was decided to put the duke's valet, the hotel waiter, andother witnesses, on the stand, who would be able to corroborate or rebutthe evidence given by the lad Ferguson, and thereby break down orestablish the testimony offered by Rose Cameron. 

James Kerr was, therefore, called to the witness-stand, sworn andexamined. 

He said that he had been in the service of the duke's family ever sincehe was nine years of age, first as page to the late duchess, but for thelast three years as valet to the present duke; that he was with hismaster at the "Arondelle Arms" on the night of the murder; that the duke, who was then the Marquis of Arondelle, left the inn at half-past eighto'clock, to walk over the bridge to Castle Lone; that he returned athalf-past nine, accompanied to his room by the boy Ferguson, who broughta handsome Russia leather travelling-case; that the marquis sat down tohis writing-table, wrote a note and gave it to the boy, who immediatelyleft the house. 

"At what hour was this?" inquired Mr. Guthrie. 

"It was a few minutes before ten. The clock struck very soon after theboy left. I remember it well, because his lordship's supper had beenordered for ten, and the waiter just entered to lay the cloth when thelad left, and his lordship sat down to supper at ten precisely. After thesupper-service had been removed, his lordship went to his writing-deskand wrote for an hour, and then sealed and dispatched a packet directedto the _Liberal Statesman_. I took it myself to the Post-Office, toensure its being in time for the midnight mail. It was then abouthalf-past eleven o'clock. I was gone on my message for about fiveminutes. On my return I found my master where I had left him, sitting athis writing-desk, arranging his papers. But when I entered he locked hisdesk and said he would go to bed. I waited on him at his night toilet. And then, as the inn was very much crowded, I slept on a lounge in mymaster's bed-room. The house was full of noise; so many of the Scotswere present, making merry over the approaching marriage of theirchieftain's son. Neither my master nor myself rested well that night. I arose early to see my master's bath. The marquis arose at eighto'clock. "

Such was the substance of James Kerr's testimony, which perfectlycorroborated that of the lad Ferguson, and greatly damaged that of RoseCameron. 

The hotel waiter happened to be among those who had cast all theirworldly interests to the winds, abandoned their callings of whateversort, and come at all risk of consequences to be present at the trial. He was found in the court-room, called to the witness-stand, sworn andexamined. 

His testimony corroborated that of the two last witnesses, and utterlybroke down that of Rose Cameron. 

There was further consultation between the Bar and the Bench. Finally thetestimony of the Crown's witness was set aside, and a warrant was madeout for the arrest of Rose Cameron, otherwise Rose Scott, upon thecharge of perjury. 

The warrant was sent out to the sheriff's room, to which, after leavingthe witness-stand, Rose Cameron had been conducted. 

And now the crowd in the court-room, composed chiefly of neighbors, friends, kinsmen, and clansmen of the young Duke of Hereward, breathedfreely. 

The thunder-cloud had passed. 

Their hero was vindicated. Truly they had never for an instant doubtedhis integrity, much less had they suspected him of a heinous, anatrocious crime. Still, it was an immense relief to have the black shadowof that bloody charge withdrawn. 

There was but one more witness for the prosecution to be examined; thatwitness was no less a person than the young Duke of Hereward himself. 

He was called to the stand, and sworn. 

Every pair of eyes in the court-room availed themselves of theopportunity afforded by the elevated position of the witness-stand, to gaze on the man who had so recently been the subject of such aterrible accusation; and all admired the calmness, self-possession, and forbearance of his conduct during the fearful ordeal through whichhe had just passed. 

He simply testified as to the finding of the dead body, the position ofthe corpse, the condition of the room, and so forth. He was not subjectedto a cross-examination, but was courteously notified that he was atliberty to retire. 

He resumed his former seat. 

The case for the prosecution was closed. 

Mr. Kinlock, junior counsel for the prisoner, arose for the defence. Hemade a short address to the jury, in which he spoke of the slight groundsupon which his unhappy client had been charged with an atrocious crime, and brought to trial for his life. The law demanded a victim for thatheinous crime, which had shocked the whole community from its centre toits circumference, and his unfortunate client had been selected as a sinoffering. He reminded the jury how the very esteem and confidence of themaster and the fidelity and obedience of the servant had been mostingeniously turned into strong circumstantial evidence, to fix theassassination of the master upon the servant. The deceased, had entirelytrusted the prisoner; had given him a pass-key with which he might enterhis chambers at any hour of the day or night; and hence it was arguedthat the prisoner, being the only one who had the entree to thedeceased's apartments, must have been the person who admitted themurderer to his victim. The prisoner had faithfully obeyed his master'sorders for the day, in declining to enter his rooms before his bellshould ring; and thence it was argued that he only delayed to call hismaster because he knew that master lay murdered in his room, and hewished to give the murderers, with whom he was said to be confederated, time to make good their escape. He was sure, he said, that a just andintelligent jury must at once perceive the cruel injustice of suchfar-fetched inferences. In addition he would call witnesses who wouldtestify to the good character of the accused, and prove that the greatesteem and confidence in which he had been held by his late master wasabundantly justified by the excellent character and blameless conduct ofthe servant. 

Mr. Kinlock then proceeded to call his witnesses. 

They were the fellow-servants of the accused. Some of them were the verysame witnesses that had been called by the prosecution, and were nowre-called for the defence. One and all, in turn, testified to the uniformgood behavior of the valet while in the service of Sir Lemuel Levison, deceased. 

The presiding judge, Baron Stairs, summed up the evidence in a very fewwords. 

The evidence against the prisoner at the bar was circumstantial only. Ithad appeared in evidence that some servant of the family had admitted theassassin to the house. It did not appear who that servant was. The valetJohn Potts, was the only one who had the pass-key to the apartments ofthe deceased. That circumstance had fixed suspicion upon him; had broughthim to trial; the trial had brought out no new facts; the witnessprincipally relied on by the prosecution had not only failed to give anytestimony to convict the prisoner, but had certainly perjured herself toshield the real criminal, whoever he was, and to accuse a noblepersonage, whose high character and lofty station alike placed himinfinitely above suspicion. On the other hand, many witnesses hadtestified to the good character and conduct of the prisoner, and theestimation in which he had been held by his late master. Such was theevidence, pro and con. 

His lordship concluded by saying that the jury might now retire anddeliberate upon their verdict, remembering that in all cases ofuncertainty they should lean to the side of mercy. 

The jury arose from their seats, and, conducted by a bailiff, retired tothe room provided for them. 

Many of the people now left the court-room to get refreshments. 

But as the judges remained upon the bench, the Duke of Hereward kept hisseat. He felt sure that the jury would not long deliberate beforebringing in their verdict. 

Meanwhile he turned to glance at the prisoner. 

John Potts looked like a man without a hope in the world. We have alreadyseen that an awful change had come over him since the day of his arrest, three months before. Now, as he leaned forward where he sat, and restedhis head upon his skeleton hands, that clasped the top of the railing ofthe dock, his face, or what could be seen of it, was ghastly pale withagony, while his emaciated frame trembled from head to foot. _He lookedlike a guilty man. _ And his looks were now, as they had been from themoment in which the dead body of his master had been discovered, thestrongest testimony against him. 

For all that, you know, they cannot hang a man merely because he looks asif he ought to be hung. 

After an absence of about fifteen minutes, the jury, led by a bailiff, returned to the court-room. 

The prisoner looked up, shivered, and dropped his head upon his claspedhands again. 

The dead silence of breathless expectation in the court-room was nowbroken by the solemn voice of the Clerk of Arraigns, inquiring, inmeasured tones:

"Gentlemen of the jury, have you agreed upon your verdict?"

"We have, " answered the foreman, a jolly, red-headed, round bodied Banffbaker. 

"Prisoner at the bar, stand up and look upon the jury, " ordered theclerk. 

The poor, abject, and terrified wretch tottered to his feet and stood, pallid, shaking, and grasping the front rails of the dock for support. 

"Gentlemen of the jury, look upon the prisoner. How say you, is theprisoner at the bar guilty or not guilty of the felony herewith he standscharged?" demanded the clerk. 

"We find the charge against the prisoner to be--NOT PROVEN, "[A]answered the foreman, speaking for the whole in a strong, distinct voice, that was heard all over the court-room. 

[Footnote A: "Not Proven"--a Scotch verdict in uncertain cases. ]

On hearing the verdict which saved him from death, even if it did notvindicate him, John Potts let go the rails of the dock and fell back inhis chair in a half-fainting condition. 

"The prisoner is discharged from custody. The Court is adjourned, " saidthe presiding baron, rising and leaving his seat. 

While one of the bailiffs was kindly supporting the faltering steps ofthe released prisoner, in taking him from the dock, and while the crowdin the court-room were pouring out of the front doors, the presidingjudge, Baron Stairs, came down to the place where the young Duke ofHereward still sat. He had known the duke's father, and had also knownthe duke himself from boyhood. He now held out his hand cordially, saying:

"I am very glad to see your grace, though the occasion is a painful one. Let me congratulate you on your marriage, I wish you every good thing inlife. You have already got the _best_ thing--a good wife. I knewMiss Levison. A finer young woman never lived. I congratulate you withall my heart, Duke!"

"I thank you very much, Lord Stairs, " said the bridegroom, warmlyreturning the greeting of the judge. 

"But I fear I must condole with you also. It was really too bad to haveyour honeymoon eclipsed at its rising, by a summons to attend as awitness on a criminal trial!--too bad! However, fortunately, the trialwas a short one. And you are now at liberty to fly to your bride! I hopethe duchess is well, " added his lordship. 

"She has never been quite well, I grieve to say, since the catastrophe atLone, " answered the duke, evasively. 

"Ah, no! ah no! It cannot be expected that she should be so yet. It willtake time! It will take time! By the way, where are you stopping, my dearDuke? I am at the 'Prince Consort!' Will you come home with me and dine?"heartily inquired the baron. 

"Many thanks, my lord. But I am not staying in town. I must hurry back toLone this evening in order to secure the midnight express to London. Themost important business demands my immediate presence there, " gravelyreplied the young duke. 

"Ah, of course! of course! the bride! the duchess! Certainly, my dearduke. I will not press you further, " said the baron, laughing cordially. 

Neither of the gentlemen made the slightest allusion to the testimonygiven by the crown's evidence which had cast so foul and false anaspersion on the character of the duke. 

By this time the court-room was nearly emptied. 

The duke and the baron walked out together. 

The crowd had dispersed from before the court-house. 

The duke and the baron shook hands and parted on the sidewalk. 

"Give my warm respects to the duchess. Tell her grace that I shall hopeto meet her and present my congratulations in person, on her return fromthe Continent. That will be in time for the meeting of Parliament, Ipresume, " said his lordship, as he was about to step into his carriage. 

"Thanks, my lord. Yes, I hope so, " answered his grace, as he lifted hishat and turned away. 

The baron's carriage drove off to his hotel. 

The duke walked rapidly to the inn, where he had ordered his post-chaiseto be put up. 

He partook of a light luncheon while his horses were being harnessed, andthen entered the chaise, attended by his valet, and ordered the coachmanto drive as fast as possible, without hurting the horses, to Lone. 

He was most anxious to reach the "Arondelle Arms, " to see if any telegramfrom Detective Setter had reached the office for him. 

So long as the road ran through the Firwood, and was comparatively smoothand level, the coachman kept his horses at their best speed; but when itentered the mountain pass of the chain running around Loch Lone, he wascompelled to drive slowly and carefully. 

The sun set before they emerged from the pass, and it was nearly darkwhen the chaise drew up before the Arondelle Arms. 

The duke got out of the chaise, and passed through the little assemblageof villagers who were standing there discussing the verdict of the jury. He hurried at once to the bar-room to inquire if any letter or telegramhad come for him. 

"Na, naething o' the sort, " replied the landlord, who, seeing thedisappointment expressed upon the duke's face, added: "But, under favor, your grace, there's time eneuch yet. Your grace hae na been twenty-fourhours awa' fra Lunnun. "

Without waiting to answer the host, the young duke hurried out, andwalked rapidly off to the telegraph office, which was at the railwaystation. 

"Ye see yon lad?" said the landlord to his wife. "He hanna been a day frahis bride, and yet he expects to hae a letter or a message frae her everyminute. Aweel we hae a' been fules in our time!"

So saying the philosophical host of the Arondelle Arms gave his mind tothe service of his numerous customers, who had come from the trial atBanff very hungry and thirsty, and now filled the bar-room with theirpersons, and all the air with their complaints. 

They were not at all satisfied with the verdict. They had had a murder, and they had a right to have a hanging. They had been defrauded of theirprospect of this second entertainment, and they were not well pleased. 

Meanwhile, the duke hurried off to the telegraph office, to see if by anychance a telegram had been received there for him and detained. 

When he entered the little den, he found the operator at work. Heforebore to interrupt the man until the clicking of the wires ceased. Then he asked:

"Can you tell if there is any message here for me?--the Duke ofHereward, " added his grace, seeing the puzzled look of the operator, who was a stranger in the country. 

"Yes, your grace. It has only just now come, " respectfully answered theyoung man, as he drew out a long, narrow strip of thick, white paper, upon which the message had been stamped by the instrument, and proceededto select an official envelope in which to inclose it. 

"Never mind that. Give it to me at once, " said the duke, taking the stripfrom the hand of the operator and hastily perusing it. 

The message ran thus:

"OLD CHURCH COURT, KENSINGTON, LONDON, "October 31st, 3 P. M. 

"To HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, Arondelle Arms, Lone, N. B. She is found. Pray come to London immediately. It is important. 

"J. A. SETTER. "

CHAPTER XXV. 

WHO WAS FOUND!

"She is found. "

"Who is found? The lost bride, or that mysterious messenger who was withthe fugitive an hour before her flight, who was suspected to have luredher away, and who might be able to give a clew to her whereabouts? GoodHeaven! why could not the detective have sent a definite message?"thought the duke, as he studied the telegram. 

Suddenly his face lighted up as he said to himself. "It is Salome who isfound! Of course it must be Salome, since no one else was really lost. Itis Salome, and that is the very reason why Setter spoke so indefinitely;for I remember now that I instructed him to avoid using the name of theduchess in any telegram. Salome is found! Ah! I thank Heaven! She isfound! But--" he reflected with a sudden re-action of feeling--"how, where, when, by whom, under what circumstances was my bride found? Is shewell or ill? Can she give any satisfactory explanation of her absence?"were the next anxious, soul-racking questions that chased each otherthrough his mind. 

"Oh, for the strong pinions of the eagle, that I might fly to her at onceand satisfy all these anxious doubts, " he breathed. 

It was now but six o'clock in the afternoon. The first train for Londonwould not stop at Lone until midnight, and would not reach London untileight o'clock the next morning--fourteen hours of suspense!

He could not bear that. 

The telegraph operator was about to close the office. 

The duke stopped him by saying:

"I wish to send a telegram to London. "

"It is after hours, your grace, " answered the operator, verydeferentially. 

"I will pay you whatever you may demand for your extra services, over andabove your usual fee, " said the duke. 

The operator hesitated. 

"That is to say, if there is no rule in your office to forbid it, " addedthe duke. 

"There is no rule to prevent it, your grace. My time is up, and I wasabout to go home to supper, that was all. I will send your grace'smessage, if you please, " the operator explained, as he took his seatagain. 

The duke hastily dashed off the following message:

"LONE, N. B. , October 31st, 6 P. M. 

"To J. A. SETTER, Police Station, Old Church Court, Kensington, London: Shall leave for London by this midnight express-train. Is shequite well? Answer immediately. HEREWARD. "

The operator took the message with a bow. The click of the instrument wassoon heard, as the message, with the speed of light, flew on its errand. 

"Will you remain here until I can receive an answer?" inquired the duke, as soon as the sound ceased. 

"I should be happy to accommodate your grace; but if there should be noanswer, say up to twelve o'clock?" suggested the young man. 

"In that case I should not ask you to remain; as you must know by mytelegram that I am to take the train for London at that hour. "

"Certainly, your grace; but I thought it possible that you might wish themessage taken to some other person in the event of your absence. "

"Not at all. I want it for myself alone. If it does not come beforetwelve I shall have no use for it. "

"Then I will remain here until midnight, if necessary; but it may not benecessary. "

"And you shall set your own price upon your time, " said the duke. 

"Thanks, your grace; I am happy to be able to accommodate you; and wouldprefer to leave all other considerations to yourself, " said the youngman, very politely and--politicly. 

Even while they spoke, a warning vibration of the wires was perceived, followed by the _click, click, click_, of the instrument. 

"There is a message coming--most probably an answer to yours, though itis very soon to get one, " said the operator, as he turned to give hiswhole attention to his work. 

The duke looked on with breathless eagerness. 

As soon as the sound ceased, the operator drew off the message and handedit to the duke, who seized it and hastily read;

"LONDON, October, 31st, 7 P. M. 

"TO THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, LONE, N. B. : She is perfectly well. 

"J. A. SETTER. "

"Thank Heaven! I breathe freely now!" said the young duke to himself, ashe arose from his seat. 

He liberally rewarded the telegraph operator, and then left the officeand walked back to the inn. 

The Arondelle Arms was all alive with excitement. More travellers hadcome down from Banff, and the inn was crowded, principally by men of theClan Scott. Every room was filled, every window lighted up. The barand the tap room reeked. 

The duke was making his way through the crowd as best he might, when hewas met by the landlord, who bowed, and apologized, and finally offeredto conduct his grace by a private entrance to the parlor connected withthe duke's own reserved suit of apartments. 

"An' noo, what will your grace hae to your supper?" hospitably inquiredthe host, as soon as his guest was comfortably seated in his arm-chairbefore the fire. 

"Anything at all, so that it is cleanly served, for which I can, ofcourse, trust the Arondelle Arms, " said the duke, smiling. 

The landlord bowed and went out. 

The duke leaned back in his chair, and stretched his feet to the genialwarmth of the fire. 

He was feeling very happy. An immense load of anxiety was lifted from hisheart. She was found! She was perfectly well! In twelve hours he wouldsee her, and hear her own explanation of her very strange conduct. Herexplanation would be perfectly satisfactory. So great was his confidencein her that he felt sure of this. 

She was found. She was perfectly well. There was nothing to prevent themfrom starting on their wedding tour as soon as they might wish to do so. They would, therefore, leave London by the tidal train for Dover on thenext afternoon. The world would take it for granted that the wedding tourhad been interrupted and delayed only by the trial. The world would neversuspect Salome's strange escapade. 

While these thoughts were passing through the mind of the duke, thewaiter came in and laid the cloth for supper. 

And soon the landlord himself entered, bearing a tray on which wasarranged a choice bill of fare, the principal item of which was a roastedpheasant. 

The duke who had scarcely tasted food during the twenty-four hours of histerrible anxiety, now that his anxiety was relieved, felt his appetitereturn, demanding refreshment at the rate of compound interest. 

He sat down to the table. The landlord waited on him. 

The honest host of the Arondelle Arms was "dying, " so to speak, for aconfidential conversation with his noble guest. For some little time hisrespect for the Duke of Hereward held his curiosity in check; but atlength curiosity conquered respect, and he burst forth with:

"That wad be an unco impudent claim, the hizzie Rose Cameron tried to setup agin your grace, as I hear all the folk say out by--the jaud maunn beclear daft. "

"It would be charitable to suppose that she is 'daft, ' as you call it, landlord. It would be well if a jury could be persuaded to think so, as, in that case, it would save her from the penalty of perjury. But we willspeak no more of the poor girl. Take away the service, if you please, "said the duke, quietly. 

The landlord, balked of his desire to gossip, bowed, and cleared thetable. 

It was not yet nine o'clock. There were more than three hours to bepassed before the express-train for London would reach Lone. 

The duke, refreshed by his supper, felt no sense of weariness, nodisposition to lie down and sleep away the three remaining hours of hisstay. His mind was in too excited a condition to think of sleep. Neithercould he read. 

So, soon after he was left alone by the landlord, he arose and saunteredout through the private entrance into the night air. 

The streets of the village were very quiet, for the reason that on thisnight the men were all collected at the Arondelle Arms, discussing theevents of the day; and at this hour the women were all sure to be intheir houses, putting their children to bed, setting bread to rise, or"garring th' auld claithes luke amaist as guid as the new. "

The hamlet was very still under the starlit sky. 

The Arondelle Arms, lighted up and musical, was the only noisy spot aboutit. 

The mountains stood, grand and silent, like gigantic sentinels around it. 

The lake, the island, and the castle of Lone lay beneath it. 

A sudden impulse seized the duke to cross the bridge, and re-visit oncemore the home of his youth, the scene of his family's disaster, the stageof that frightful tragedy which had shocked the civilized world. 

He went down to the beach, and stepped upon the bridge. Now, no floralwedding decorations wreathed the arches. All was bare and bleak beneaththe last October sky. 

He crossed the bridge and entered on the grounds of the castle. All herewas sear under the late autumnal frosts. He did not approach the castlewalls. He would not disturb the servants at this hour. He walked aboutthe grounds until he heard the clock in Malcolm's Old Tower strike ten. Then he turned his steps toward the hamlet. 

Just before he reached the bridge, he overtook the tall, dark figure of aman, clothed in a long, close overcoat, in shape not unlike a priest'swalking habit. The man tottered and stumbled as he walked, so that theduke was soon abreast to him. And then he discovered the wanderer to beJohn Potts, valet to the late Sir Lemuel Levison. 

The young Duke of Hereward shrunk from this man. He could not bringhimself to speak with one whom he could not, in his own mind, clear fromsuspicion. 

He passed the valet, walking quickly, and gaining the bridge. 

Then he heard footsteps rapidly following him, and the voice of theex-valet excitedly calling after him:

"My Lord Arondelle! oh! I beg pardon! Your grace! Your grace! For thelove of Heaven, let me speak to you!"

Thus adjured, the Duke of Hereward paused, and permitted the ex-valet tocome up beside him. 

The wretched man was out of breath, pale, panting, trembling, ready tofaint. He tottered toward the bulwarks of the bridge, grasped them, andleaned on them for support. 

"What do you want of me, Potts?" inquired the duke. 

"Oh, your grace! only to speak to you!" gasped the man. 

"What can you have to say to me?" sternly demanded the duke. 

"_This_, your grace!" said the man, suddenly springing forward andfalling on his knees at the feet of the duke. "_This_ I have to say, your grace! Although the Court has not cleared me, I am innocent of mymaster's blood! I am! I am! I am! as the Heaven above us hears andknows! Oh! say you believe me, my lord duke!" cried the poor wretch, wringing his hands. 

"Your words and manner are very impressive; nevertheless, I cannot placeconfidence in them, " said the duke, coldly. 

"Oh, my lord! my lord! Oh, my lord! my lord!" groaned the valet, liftingboth his hands to heaven, as if in appeal from a great injustice. 

The duke was moved. 

"If you _are_ guiltless, why should you care whether I, or any otherfallible mortal, should consider you guilty?" he inquired. 

"Oh, " cried the man, clasping his hands with the energy ofdespair--"because _every_ body thinks me guilty! _No_ onebelieves me innocent, though I am guiltless of my master's blood, so helpme Heaven!"

"The circumstances, though not enough to convict you in a court of law, where every doubt must go in favor of the accused, were still strongenough to lay you under suspicion, and open to a second arrest and trialfor your life, should new evidence turn up, " quietly replied the duke. 

"I know it! I know it, your grace. But no new evidence against me canturn up! Lord grant that evidence in my favor might do so! But thatcannot happen either. The circumstances that accused, but could notconvict, nor acquit me, leave me still under the ban! Yes! under the banI must remain! But do not _you_, my lord duke, believe me guilty ofmy master's death! Guilty of much I am! Guilty of neglect of duty, butnot of my master's death! The Heavens that hear me know it! Oh, pray, pray try to believe it, my lord duke!" pleaded the wretch, stillkneeling, still lifting his clasped hands in an agony of appeal. 

"Get upon your feet, Potts. Never kneel to any man. To do so is todegrade yourself and the man to whom you kneel. Get up, before I speakanother word to you, " said the duke. 

The miserable creature struggled to his feet and stood leaning againstthe bulwarks of the bridge, for support. 

"Now, then, if you are not guilty, if your conscience acquits you in thesight of Heaven of all complicity in your late master's death, why shouldyou feel and show such extreme distress--distress that has worn yourframe to a skeleton, and stricken your life with old age?" gravelydemanded the duke. 

"Why?--oh, your grace! I loved my master as a son his father! He was morelike a father than a master to me. And he was cut off suddenly by abloody death! In the midst of my grief for his loss I was arrested andaccused of murdering him--my beloved master. I have seen the gallowslooming before me for the last three months. I have been shut in prison, with no companions but my own awful thoughts. I have been put on trialfor my life. And though the jury could not convict me, it would notacquit me! though I am set at large for the present, I am subject tore-arrest and trial for death, if new evidence, however false, shouldarise against me. Meanwhile, no one believes me innocent. All believe meguilty. No one will ever speak to me. They made the inn too hot to holdme. My life is ruined--my heart is broken! Is not all that enough, lordduke, to have worn my body to a skeleton and turned my hair gray, withoutremorse of conscience?" impetuously demanded the man. 

"No, Potts, it is not. Nothing but remorse, it seems to me, could soreduce a man, " gravely replied the duke. 

"Oh, your grace! you still believe me guilty of my good master's murder!"passionately exclaimed the man. "Ah, Heaven! what will become of me? Ishall die unless I can have the stay of _some_ one's faith in me!"

"Potts, " said the duke, in a softened tone, "I do not now think that youhad any active or conscious share in the foul murder of Sir LemuelLevison. But not the less do I see that you are suffering from remorse. _You are still keeping something back from me!_" he added, verysolemnly. 

The valet groaned, but made no answer. 

"That is the reason why I have no confidence in you, " said his grace. 

The valet wrung his gaunt hands, but continued silent. 

"Now I do not ask you to confide in me; but I will give you thiswarning--so long as you hold in your bosom a secret which, if revealed, would bring the real criminal to justice, so long you will yourselfremain the object of suspicion from others and the victim of remorsein yourself. Now, Potts, I must leave you; for I must get to Lone in timeto catch the London express. Good-night, " said the duke, as he movedaway. 

"One moment more, oh, my lord duke! for the love of Heaven! One moment todo a piece of justice, " pleaded the ex-valet, tottering after the youngnobleman. 

"Well, well, what is it now?" inquired the latter, pausing and turningback. 

"That poor, misguided girl, Rose Cameron, " said the valet. 

"Well, what of _her_, man?" impatiently demanded the young nobleman. 

"Listen, my lord duke! You saw her committed to prison on the charge ofperjury. "

"A charge that she was self-convicted of. "

"My lord duke, she was not guilty of perjury!" sighed the valet. 

"What! What is that you say?" quickly demanded the duke. 

"I say, Rose Cameron, poor misguided girl that she was, did not, however, perjure herself--_intentionally_ I mean, " repeated John Potts. 

"Is she _mad_, then? The victim of a monomania?" gravely inquiredthe duke, fixing his eyes upon the troubled face of the valet. 

"No, your grace, she was never more in her right senses. "

"What do you mean? Do you _dare_--"

"My lord duke, I dare nothing. I never was a daring man; if I had been, the daring would have been taken out of me by the troubles of this lastquarter of a year! But, my lord duke, I am right. Rose Cameron did notintentionally perjure herself, neither is she mad. Rose Cameron believesin her heart every word of the statement she made under oath in the opencourt this morning. "

While the man thus spoke, the duke looked fixedly at him in perfectsilence, in the forlorn hope of hearing some solution to the enigma. 

"Rose Cameron was deceived, my lord duke--grossly, cruelly, baselydeceived--not in one respect only, but in many. She was, first of all, deceived into the idea of being the wife of a gentleman of high rank, when, in fact she is nobody's wife at all. Next she was deceived intobecoming an accomplice in a robbery and murder, of which she was asignorant and as innocent as--as _myself_. She could not have beenmore so!"

"Who was her deceiver?" sternly demanded the duke. 

"I beg pardon. I know no more than your grace! I only presumed to speakabout it, so as to explain the strange conduct of that poor girl, andclear her of intentional penury in your sight, " said the valet, meekly. 

"Potts, you know much more than you are willing to divulge. You have, however, unwittingly given me a clew that I shall take care to follow up. Once more let me warn you to get rid of sinful secrets, and amend yourlife, if you wish to be at peace. Good-night. "

So saying, the duke walked rapidly away to make up for the time lost intalking with the ex-valet. 

It was after eleven o'clock when he reached the Arondelle Arms, yet thelittle hostel gave no signs of closing. The windows were all still ablazewith light, and the bar and the tap-room were uproarious with fun. Evidently the Clan Scott had been drinking the health of the duke andduchess until they had become--

 "Glorious!O'er all the ills of life victorious!"

The duke slipped in at the private entrance and gained his own apartment, where he found his valet engaged in packing his valise. 

He sent the man out to pay the tavern bill. 

In a few minutes Kerr returned, accompanied by the landlord, who broughtthe receipt, and inquired if his grace would have a carriage. 

"No, " the duke said; as the distance was short, he preferred to walk tothe station. 

In a few moments he left the inn, followed by his valet carrying hisvalise. 

They caught the train in good time, having just secured their ticketswhen the warning shriek of the engine was heard, and it thundered up tothe station and stopped. 

The duke, followed by his servant, entered the coupe he had secured forthe journey. 

Three nights of sleeplessness, anxiety and fatigue had prostrated thevital forces of the young nobleman, and so, no sooner had the trainstarted, than he sat himself comfortably back among his cushions, and, being now in a great measure relieved from suspense, he fell into adeep and dreamless sleep. This sleep continued almost unbroken throughthe night, and was only slightly disturbed by the bustle of arrival whenthe train reached a large city on its route. He awoke when it arrived atPeterborough; but fell asleep again, and slept through the long twilightof that first day of November. 

CHAPTER XXVI. 

OFF THE TRACK. 

It was eight o'clock in the morning of a dark and cloudy day, when theduke was finally aroused by the noise and confusion attending the arrivalof the Great Northern Express train at King's Cross Station, London. 

He shook himself wide awake, adjusted his wrap, and sprang out of hiscoupe, while yet his servant was but just bestirring himself. 

The first man he met in the station was Detective Setter. 

"_How_ is she?" eagerly inquired the traveller, hastening to meetthe officer. 

"She is perfectly well, and expresses herself as not only willing, butanxious to see your grace, " replied the detective. 

"_Not only willing!_ that is a strange phrase, too! But I presume Ishall understand it all when I see her. _Where_ is she?" demandedthe duke. 

"At the house on Westminster Road. The address _was_ Westminster, and not Blackfriars Road. "

"At the house on Westminster Road! Did you find her there?"

"I did your grace. "

"But why, in the name of propriety, and good sense, does she not returnhome?"

"Your grace, she is at home, " said the perplexed detective. 

"Just now you told me that she was at the house on Westminster Road!"said the bewildered duke. 

"Beg pardon, your grace, but the house on Westminster Road _is_ herhome. She has no other that I know of. "

The duke stared at the detective a moment, and then hastily demanded:

"Who _are_ you talking of?"

"Beg pardon again, your grace, but I am afraid there is somemisunderstanding. "

"_Who_ are you talking about?"

"I am talking of the woman who came to the duchess just before shedisappeared, " answered the detective. 

"Good Heaven!" exclaimed the duke, with such a look of deepdisappointment that the detective hastened to deprecate his displeasureby saying:

"I am very sorry, your grace, that there should have been anymisapprehension. "

"You idiot!" were the words that arose spontaneously to the duke's lips;but they were not uttered. The "princely Hereward" habitually governedhimself. 

"Why did you not tell me in your telegram _who_ was found?" hedemanded. 

"I certainly thought that your grace would have understood. In thetelegram dispatched at nine o'clock yesterday morning, I told your gracethat I had a clew to the woman who had called at Elmthorpe House onTuesday. In the telegram sent at three in the afternoon, I said--'She isfound. ' I certainly thought your grace would understand that the woman towhom I had gained the clew was found. I grieve to know how much mistakenI was, " sighed Mr. Setter. 

"Ah! that accounts for everything. I never received that first telegram. "

"Your grace never received it?"

"Certainly not. "

"Then my messenger was false to his trust. I was so indiscreet as to sendit to the office by a ticket porter, believing the fellow would do hisduty faithfully, after having been paid in advance. The more fool I. I amcertainly old enough to have known better!" said the detective, with amortified air. 

"Well Mr. Setter, it is useless to regret that mistake now. Be so good asto call a cab. We will go at once to Westminster Road and see this Mrs. Brown. What information has she given you?"

"None whatever, except this, which we knew before--that she visited thebride on the afternoon of the wedding day. She declines to tell _me_the nature of her business with the duchess; but says that she willexplain it to you; she further denies all knowledge of the present abodeof the duchess. "

"Then we must lose no time in going to the woman, " said the duke. 

As he spoke, the cab which had been signalled by the detective drove up, and the cabman jumped down and opened the door. 

The duke entered it and sat down on the back cushions. 

His grace's servant, Kerr, came up to the window for orders. 

"Take my luggage home to Elmthorpe House. Give my respects to LadyBelgrade, and say that I will join her ladyship this afternoon, " said theduke. 

The servant touched his hat and withdrew. 

"To Number ----, Westminster Road, " ordered Mr. Setter, as he mounted tothe box-seat beside the cabman. 

The latter started his horses at a good rate of speed, so that a drive ofabout forty minutes brought them to their destination. 

The detective jumped down and opened the door, saying, "Excuse me, your grace; but, I think, perhaps I ought to go in first toensure you an interview with the woman?"

"By all means go in first, officer. I will remain here in the cab untilyou return to summon me, " answered the duke. 

Detective Setter went up to the door and knocked, and then waited a fewseconds until the door was opened, and he was admitted by an unseen hand. 

A few minutes elapsed, and then detective Setter reappeared, and came upto the cab and said:

"She will see you at once, early as it is, your grace, I do not know whatin the world possesses the old woman; but she is chuckling in the mostinsane manner in the anticipation of meeting you 'face to face, ' as shecalls it. "

"Well, we shall soon see, " said the duke, as, with a resigned air, hefollowed Mr. Setter into the house. 

The detective led him up stairs to the gaudy parlor which had once beenRose Cameron's sitting-room. 

There was no one present; but the detective handed a chair to the duke, and begged him to sit down and wait for Mrs. Brown's appearance. 

The duke threw himself into the chair, and gazed around him upon thegarish scene, until a chamber door opened, and Mrs. Brown, in herSunday's best suit, sailed in. The duke arose. 

Mrs. Brown came on toward him, courtesying stiffly, and saying:

"Good morning to you, Mr. Scott! It is a many months since I have had thepleasure of seeing you in this house. "

The duke was not so much amazed at this greeting as he might have been, had he not heard the astounding testimony of Rose Cameron. So he answeredquietly:

"I do not think, madam, that you ever 'had the pleasure' of seeing me 'inthis house' or, in fact, anywhere else. I have never seen _you_ inmy life before. "

"Oh! oh! oh! here to the man! He would brazen it out to my very face!"exclaimed Mrs. Brown. 

The duke started and flushed crimson as he stared at the woman. 

"Oh, I am not afeard of you! Deuce a bit am I afeard of you! You mayglare till your eyes drop out, but you'll not scare me! And you may bethe Markiss of Arondelle and the Duke of Hereward, too, for aughtI know, or care either! But you were just plain Mr. John Scott to me, andalso to that poor, wronged lass whom you have betrayed into prison, ifnot unto death! And now, Mr. John Scott, as you wished to see me (andI can guess why you wished to see me, ) and as I have no objection to seeyou, besides having something of importance to tell you, perhaps you willsend that man off, " said Mrs. Brown pointing to the detective. 

"No. I prefer that Mr. Setter should stay here, and be a witness to allthat passes between us, " answered the duke. 

"All right. It is no business of mine, and no _shame_ of mine. OnlyI thought as you mightn't like a stranger to hear all your secrets, andI wish to spare your feelings, " said the woman. 

"I beg you will not consider my feelings in the least, madam, " answeredthe duke, with a slight smile of amusement; "and I hope you will allowMr. Setter to remain, " he added. 

"Oh, in course! _I_ have no objection, if _you_ have none. "

"Pray go on and say what you have to say, " urged the duke. 

"Then, first of all, I have to tell you that I know why you have comehere. You have come to inquire about Miss Salome Levison, the greatbanker's heiress. "

"You are speaking of the Duchess of Hereward, madam, " interrupted theduke, in a stern voice. 

"No, I'm not. I am speaking of Miss Salome Levison. She is not theDuchess of Hereward. I don't know but one Duchess of Hereward, and _heryou are ashamed to own_, " spitefully added Mrs. Brown. 

"You are a woman, aged and insane, and therefore entitled to our utmostindulgence, " said the duke, putting the strongest control upon himself. "But tell me now, what was your business with the Lady of Lone, upon whomyou called at Elmthorpe House on Tuesday afternoon?"

"I went from your true wife, whom you had betrayed into prison, to yourfalse wife, to let her know what you were, and to tell her that there wasbut one step between herself and ruin!"

"Good Heaven! you did that!" exclaimed the duke, utterly thrown off hisguard. 

"Yes, I did! And I showed the young lady your real wife's marriage lines, all regularly signed and witnessed by the rector of St. Margaret's andthe sexton, and the pew-opener! I did! And there were letters in your ownhandwriting, and photographs, the very print of you, which I took alongwith the marriage lines, to prove my words when I told her that you hadbeen married for over a year, and had lived in my house with your wifeall that time!"

"Heaven may forgive you for that great wrong, woman; but I never can!And--the lady believed you?"

"Of course she did! How could she help it, when she saw all the proofs?It almost killed her. Indeed, and I think it _did_ quite craze her!But she saw her duty, and she had the courage to do it! She knew as sheought to leave you, before the false marriage could go any further. Soshe left you. I do really respect her for it!"

"In the name of Heaven, _where_ did she go? Tell me that! Tell mewhere to find her, and I may be able to pardon the great wrong you havedone us under some insane error, " said the husband of the lost wife, striving to control his indignation. 

"Indeed, then, " exclaimed Mrs. Brown, defiantly, "I am not asking anypardon at all from you, Mr. Scott. It ain't likely as I'll want pardonfrom Heaven for doing my duty, much less from _you_, Mr. John Scott. Oh, yes! I know you are called the Duke of Hereward; and no doubt you arethe Duke of Hereward; but I knew you as Mr. John Scott, and nobody else;and I knew a deal too much of you as _him_. But as to wanting yourpardon--that's a good one!"

"Will you be good enough to tell me where my wife, the Duchess ofHereward, has gone?" demanded the duke, putting a strong curb upon hisanger. 

"_You_ know where _she_ is well enough. _She_ is in the _trap_ you setfor her!" spitefully answered the woman. 

In truth, the duke needed all his powers of self-control to enable him toreply calmly:

"I ask you to tell me where is the Lady of Lone, to whom you went onTuesday afternoon, with a story which has driven her from her home, anddriven her, perhaps, to madness, or to death. I charge you to tell me, where is she?"

"Ah! where is Miss Salome Levison, the heiress of Lone, you ask! Exactly!That is what you would give a great deal to know, wouldn't you! You wantto follow and join her, and live with her abroad, because you have got awife living in England. You're a noble duke, so you are! Well, if_this_ is what the nobility are a coming to, the sooner themRepublicans have it all their own way the better, I say!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, throwing herself back in her chair and folding her arms. 

Detective Setter here joined the Duke of Hereward, and deferentially drewhim away to the other end of the room, and whispered:

"I beg your grace not to remain here, subjected to the insolence of thismad woman, whose every second word is treason or blasphemy, or worse, ifanything can be worse. Leave me to deal with her. A very little more, andI shall arrest her on the grave charge of conspiracy. "

"No, Setter, do nothing of the sort. Use no violence; utter no threats. _Now_, if ever--here, if anywhere--is a crisis, at which we must benot only 'wise as serpents, but _harmless_ as doves, ' if we wouldgain any information from this woman, " answered Salome's husband, as hewalked back and rejoined Mrs. Brown. 

"Will you tell me, _on any terms_, where the Lady of Lone is to befound?" he inquired. 

"Humph! I like that! Aren't you a sharp? You _can't_ call her theduchess, and you _won't_ call her Miss Levison, so you call her theLady of Lone, anyway!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, with a chuckling laugh. 

"But, will you, _for any price_, tell me where she has gone?"repeated the duke. 

"As to where Miss Salome Levison has gone, I would not tell you to saveyour life, even if I could. I could not tell you, even if I would. I lefther sitting in her bed-chamber at Elmthorpe House, on that Tuesdayafternoon after her false marriage. She was sitting clothed in her deepmourning travelling suit, as she had put on again for her father directlythe wedding breakfast was over. She looked the very image of sorrow anddespair. She did not tell me where she was going. I don't believe sheeven knew herself. There, that's all that I have got to tell you, even ifyou had the power to put me on the rack, as you used to have in the badold times!" exclaimed Mrs. Brown, once more folding her arms and settlingherself in her chair. 

The Duke of Hereward walked toward the detective officer. 

"There is nothing more to be learned from the woman, at present, Setter. We have already gained much, however, in the knowledge of the basecalumny that drove the duchess from her home. It is a relief to beassured that she has not fallen among London thieves. She has probablygone abroad. You must inquire, discreetly, at the London Bridge RailwayStations, for a young lady, in deep mourning, travelling alone, whobought a first-class ticket, on Tuesday evening. There, Setter! Thereis a mere outline of instructions. You will fill it up as your discretionand experience may suggest, " concluded the duke, as he drew on hisgloves. 

"I would suggest, your grace, that we go to St. Margaret's Old Church, where this strange marriage, in which they try to compromise you, is saidto have taken place, and which is close by, " said the detective. 

"By all means, let us go there and look at the register, " assented theduke. 

They took leave of Mrs. Brown, and left the house. 

Five minutes drive took them to Old St. Margaret's. 

They were fortunate as to the time. The daily morning service was justover, and the curate who had officiated was still in the chancel. 

The Duke of Hereward went in, and requested the young clergyman to favorhim with a sight of the parish register. 

The curate complied by inviting the two visitors to walk into the vestry. 

He then placed two chairs at the green table, requested them to beseated, and laid before them the brass-bound volume recording the births, marriages and deaths of this populous, old parish. 

The Duke of Hereward turned over the ponderous leaves until he came tothe page he sought. 

And there he found, duly registered, signed and witnessed, the marriage, by special license, of Archibald-Alexander-John Scott and Rose Cameron, both of Lone, Scotland. 

"The mystery deepens, " said the duke as he pointed to the register. 

"It is incomprehensible, " answered the detective. 

"That is my name, " added the duke. 

"Some imposter must have assumed it, " suggested the officer. 

"Then the imposter, in taking my name, must have also taken my face andform, voice and manner, for though, upon my soul, I never married RoseCameron, there are two honest women who are ready to swear that I did!"whispered the duke, with a humorous twinkle in his eyes; for there weremoments when the absurdity of the situation overcame its gravity. 

The duke then thanked the curate for his courtesy and left the church, attended by the detective. 

"Where shall I tell the cabman to drive?" inquired Setter, as he held thedoor open after his employer had entered the cab. 

"To Elmthorpe House, Kensington. And then, get in here, with me, if youplease, Mr. Setter. I have something to say to you, " answered his grace. 

The detective gave the order and entered the cab. 

The duke then made many suggestions, drawn from his own intimateknowledge of the tastes and habits of the duchess, to assist thedetective in his search. 

"You may safely leave the whole affair in my hands, sir. I will act withso much discretion that no one in London shall suspect that the Duchessof Hereward is missing. For the rest, I have no doubt that we shall soonfind out the retreat of her grace. A young lady, dressed in elegant deepmourning, and travelling unattended, would be sure to have attractedattention and aroused curiosity, even in the confusion of a crowdedrailway station. We are safe to trace her, your grace, " said DetectiveSetter, confidently. 

CHAPTER XXVII. 

IN THE CONVENT. 

Salome was tenderly nursed by the nuns during the nine days in which herfever raged with unabated violence. 

At the end of that time, having spent all its force, the fever went off, leaving her weak as a child, in mind as well as in body. 

As soon as she was convalescent the abbess had her carefully removed fromthe infirmary in which she had lain ill, to a spacious chamber, withwindows overlooking the convent garden--a gloomy outlook now, however, with its seared grass and withered foliage, shivering under the drearyNovember sky. 

The room was very clean and very scantily furnished; the walls werewhitewashed and the floor was painted gray. The two windows were shadedwith plain white linen; the cot bedstead, which stood against the wallopposite the windows, was covered with a coarse, white, dimity spread. 

Between the windows stood a small table, covered with a white cloth, andfurnished with a white, earthen-ware basin and ewer. On each side of thistable sat two wooden chairs, painted gray. 

In one corner of the room stood a little altar, draped with white linen, and adorned with a crucifix, surrounded with small pictures of saints andangels. 

In the opposite corner stood a small, porcelain stove, which barelyserved to temper the coldness of the air. 

There were few articles of comfort, and none of luxury, in the room--astrip of gray carpet, laid down beside the bed, an easy-chair with soft, padded back, arms, and seat, covered with white dimity, drawn up tothe window nearest the stove, and a footstool of gray tapestry on thefloor before it. These comforts were allowed to none but invalids. 

The abbess came in to see her every day. 

One morning Salome said to her visitor:

"Mother, I have left this affair with the Duke of Hereward incomplete. I must complete it, that I may have peace. "

"I do not understand you, my child, " said the abbess, in some uneasiness. 

"I have left him as in duty bound. I must write to him to let him know_why_ I left him; but I must not let him know the place of myretreat. I think I heard you say that our father-director was going toRome this week?"

"Yes, my child. "

"Then I will write to the Duke of Hereward for the last time, and bid himan eternal farewell. I will not date my letter from any place; but I willgive it to the father-director that he may post it from Rome. You shallread my letter before I close it, dear mother. And now, on these terms, will you let me have writing materials?"

"Certainly, my child. I will send them to you; or rather I will bringthem, " answered the meek lady-superior, as she arose and left the room. 

In a very few minutes she returned with the required articles. 

Salome wrote her letter, and then submitted it to the perusal of theabbess, who accorded it her full approval. 

"Now, dear mother, if the father-director will take that with him andpost it from Rome, all will be over between the Duke of Hereward andmyself! We shall be dead to each other, " said Salome, as the abbess tookthe letter and left the room. 

Then the invalid sank back, exhausted, in her easy-chair. 

In this easy-chair by the window, with her feet upon the footstool, Salome sat day after day of her convalescence; sometimes for hourstogether, with her hands clasped upon her lap, and her eyes fixed uponthe floor, in a sort of stupor; sometimes with her sad gaze turned uponthe sear garden, as she murmured to herself:

"Withered like my life!"

Some one among the nuns was always with her; but she took no notice ofher companion, seeming quite unconscious of the sister's presence. 

The abbess had taken care to have books of devotion laid upon her littletable, but Salome never opened one of them. 

Apathy, lethargy, like a moral death, had fallen upon her. 

The story of her sorrows, known only to the abbess, to whom she hadconfided it on the eve of her illness, was never alluded to. 

Salome seemed to have buried it in silence. The abbess feared to raise itfrom the dead. 

Not one in the convent suspected the real circumstances of the case. 

All the sisterhood knew Miss Salome Levison, the young English heiress, who had been educated within their walls; all knew that in leaving theconvent, three years before she had declared her intention to return atthe end of three years and take the vail. She had returned, according toher word, and no one was surprised. Her sickness they considered purelyaccidental. They had no knowledge of her marriage. She was to them stillMiss Salome Levison, who had once been their pupil, and was now soon tobe their sister. 

No newspapers were taken in at the convent, or the nuns might have seenrepeated notices of her approaching marriage before it took place, aswell as a long account of the ceremony and the breakfast, after they hadcome off. 

The abbess tried many gentle expedients to arouse Salome from her moraltorpor, but all her efforts were fruitless. 

Salome had once been an enthusiast in music, and a very accomplishedperformer on several instruments. Her favorite had always been the harp, and next to that the guitar. 

She was not yet strong enough to play on the former, but she might verywell manage the latter. 

So the abbess caused a light and elegant little guitar to be placed inher room. 

Salome never even noticed it; but sat with her eyes fixed on her claspedhands that lay on her lap. 

So November and a good part of December passed, with very little change. 

The abbess, whose rule was absolute in her own house, had most solemnlywarned the whole sisterhood that they were not to speak of "MissLevison's" presence in the convent to any visitor, or pupil, or any otherperson whatever, or to write of it to any correspondent. The nuns hadobeyed their abbess so well, that not a whisper of Salome's presence inthe house had been heard outside its walls. 

At length Christmas drew near. 

The academy was closed for the season, and the pupils all went home tospend their holidays. 

After the departure of their young charges, the sisterhood were very busyin making preparations to celebrate the joyous anniversary of our Lord'sbirth. 

There were so many delightful little duties to be done; the chapel to bedecorated with evergreens and exotics; the shrines of the saints to bedecked; extra dainties to be made for the sick in the Infirmary; presentsto be got up for the aged men and women of the "Home" attached to theconvent; entertaining books to be selected and inscribed with the namesof the boys and girls of their Orphan Asylum; doll-babies to be dressedand toys to be chosen for the infants of their Foundling; and, finally, a great Christmas-tree to be mounted and decorated for the delight of thewhole community within their walls. 

The sisterhood took so much pleasure in all these preparations forChristmas, that it occurred to the abbess she might be able so far tointerest her unhappy guest in the work as to arouse her from that fearfullethargy which seemed to be destroying both her mind and body. 

Salome Levison, while she had been a pupil in the convent, had neverperformed any services for the charities of the community except bygiving liberally from her ample means. 

Gladly would she have ministered in person to the needs of old age, illness, or infancy; but for her to have done so would have been againstthe rules of the establishment. The pupils of the academy were notpermitted to hold any intercourse whatever with the inmates of thecharitable institutions of the convent. This was a concession to theprudence of parents, who feared all manner of contaminations from anycommunication between their children and such _miserables_. 

The convent was so planned as to effect a complete separation between theacademy and the asylums. 

The buildings were erected around a hollow square. They measured ahundred feet on each side, and arose to a height of four stories. 

In the centre of the front, or northern, face, stood the chapel, abeautiful little Gothic temple, surmounted by a steeple and a gildedcross; on each hand, in a line with the chapel, stood the buildingscontaining the cloisters, dormitories, and refectories of the nuns andnovices. 

On the east front stood the Foundling for abandoned infants; the Asylumfor orphan boys and girls, and the Home for aged men and women. 

On the south end were the offices, kitchens, laundries, store-houses, gas-house, and so forth, for the whole establishment. 

Finally, on the west front, farthest removed from the asylums, were theacademy buildings, containing school and class-rooms, dormitories andrefectory for the accommodation of pupils. 

It was in these west buildings that Salome had lived and learned duringthe years she had spent at the Convent of St. Rosalie. She had neverentered any other part of the establishment except the chapel, and on thenorth front, which was reached by a long passage running with an anglefrom the school-hall to the chapel aisle. 

The square courtyard within the enclosure of these buildings was pavedwith gray flag-stones, and adorned in the centre by a marble fountain. But no footstep ever crossed it except that of some lay sisteroccasionally sent from the cloisters to the office, on some householderrand. So no opportunity was afforded of making the courtyard a placeof meeting between the "young ladies" of the academy and the poor littlechildren of the asylums. 

The academy opened from its front upon its own gardens, lawns, shrubberies, and other pleasure-grounds, the resort of its pupils duringtheir hours of recreation. 

Thus Salome Levison, with all her school-mates, had been completely cutoff from all intercourse with the objects of the convent's charity duringthe whole period of her residence at the academy, which, indeed, coveredthe greater portion of her young life. 

Now, however, since her return to the convent, she had been domiciliatedin the nun's house on the right of the chapel, and possessed, if shepleased to exercise it, the freedom of the establishment. 

On the Saturday before Christmas (which would also come on Saturday thatyear) the abbess went into the room occupied by her invalid guest. 

Salome was seated in the white easy-chair beside the window, and near theporcelain stove. She was dressed in a deep mourning wrapper of blackbombazine, and an inside handkerchief and undersleeves of white linen. Her pallid face and plain hair, and the severe, funereal black and whiteof her surroundings, made a very ghastly picture altogether. 

The Sister Francoise sat there in attendance on her. 

The mother-superior dismissed the nun, took her vacated seat, and lookedin the face of her guest. 

Salome seemed utterly unconscious of the superior's presence. She satwith her hands clasped upon her lap and her eyes fixed upon the floor. 

"Salome, my daughter, how is it with you?" softly inquired the abbess, taking one of the limp, thin hands within her own, and tenderly pressingit. 

"I am the queen of sorrow, crowned and frozen on my desert throne, "murmured the girl, in a trance-like abstraction. 

"Salome, my child!" said the mother-superior, gazing anxiously into herstony face, whose eyes had never moved from their fixed stare; "Salome, my dear daughter, look at me. "

"'I am the star of sorrow, pale and lonely in the wintry sky. '"

"My poor girl, what do you mean?"

"I read that somewhere, long ago, --oh, so long ago, when I was a happychild, and yet I wept then for that solitary mourner as I am not able toweep now for myself, though it suits me just as much, " murmured Salome, in the same trance-like manner, still staring on the floor, as shecontinued:

"Yes, just as much, just as much, for--

"Never was lament begunBy any mourner under sunThat e'en it ended fit but one!"

"Salome, look at me, speak to me, my dear daughter, " said the abbess, tenderly pressing her hand, and seeking to catch her fixed and staringeyes. 

Salome slowly raised those woeful eyes to the lady's face, and asked:

"Mother, good mother, did you ever know any one in all your life soheavily stricken as I am?"

The abbess put her arms around the young girl and drew her head down uponher own pitying bosom, as she replied:

"Have I ever known one so heavily stricken as you? My child, I cannottell. 'The heart knoweth its _own_ bitterness, ' and one cannot weighthe grief of another. Salome, you have been heavily smitten; but so havemany others. Daughter! I never do speak of my own sorrows. They are past, and 'they come not back again. ' But I think it might do you good to hearof them now. Child! like _you_, I never knew a mother's love; butthere were three beings in the world whom I loved, as _you_ love, with inordinate and idolatrous affection. They were my noble father, myonly brother, and my affianced husband. Salome, in the Revolution of '48, my father was assassinated in the streets of Paris, as yours was in hischamber at Lone. My brother, true as steel to his sovereign, wasguillotined as a traitor to the Republican party. Last, and hardest tobear, my affianced lover--he on whom my soul was stayed in all mytroubles, as if any one weak mortal could be a lasting stay to anotherin her utmost need--my affianced lover, false to me as yours to you, wasshot and killed in a duel by the lover, or husband, of a woman, for whomhe had left his promised bride! Daughter, did I ever know any one who wasso heavily stricken as yourself?" gravely inquired the abbess, laying herhand upon the bowed head of her guest. 

"Oh, yes, good mother, you have, " murmured the weeping girl, in a voicefull of tears. "Your fate has been very like my own--you, like me, weremotherless from your infancy; you, like me, spent your childhood andyouth in this very convent school. Your father, like mine, met his deathat the hands of an assassin; your lover, false as mine, abandoned you fora guilty love. Ah! your sorrows have been very like mine, only muchheavier and harder to bear. " And Salome drew the caressing hands of theabbess to her lips and kissed them over and over again, as she repeated, "Oh, yes, good mother, much heavier and harder to bear than mine. "

"I do not know that, my daughter; but I do know, if I had set myself downa grieving egotist, to brood over my own individual troubles, in a worldfull of troubles, needing ministrations, I should have lost my reason, ifnot my soul. "

"But you came back to your convent, as I have come, for refuge, " saidSalome. 

"Yes, I came here to give my life to the Lord; not in idle, selfishprayers and meditations for my own soul's sake; no, but in an active, useful life of work. And I have found deep peace, deep joy. So will you, my beloved child, if you take the same way. But you must begin byshutting the doors of your soul against the thoughts of your sorrow, andespecially by banishing the image of your false and guilty lover everytime it presents itself to your mind. "

"Oh, mother! mother! I loved him so! I loved him so!" cried Salome, bursting into a paroxysm of sobs and tears, the first tears she had beenable to shed over her awful sorrows. 

The abbess was glad to see them; they broke up the fatal apathy as astorm disperses malaria. She gathered the weeping girl to her bosom, andlet her sob and cry there to her heart's content. 

When the gust of grief had spent itself, Salome lifted her head and driedher eyes, murmuring:

"Yes, I loved him! I loved him! but it is past! it is past! I must forgethim, henceforth and forever!"

"Yes, daughter, you must forget him, for to remember him would be agrievous sin. And you must forgive him, though he meditated against youthe deepest wrong, " said the abbess, solemnly. 

"I will try to forgive the wrong-doer and forget the wrong, but oh!mother, mother, it will be very hard to overlive it! Oh, I hope, I hope, if it be Heaven's will, that I shall not have to live very long, " saidSalome, with a heavy sigh. 

"That is the way I felt in the first bitterness of my sorrow: but thefeeling passed away in duty-doing. And now, although I know that in thenext life every need and aspiration of the soul will be fulfilled, yet Ifind such peace and joy here, that I am willing, yes and glad, to live inthis world as long as my Lord has any work for me to do in his vineyard. "

"Tell me what I ought to do, and I will try to do it, " said Salome, withanother deep sigh; for her very breathing was sighing now. 

"You know that this is Saturday, the last Saturday before Christmas, "said the abbess. 

"Is it? I did not know, I have taken no note of time. "

"And to-morrow is Sunday, the last Sunday before Christmas. "

"Yes, of course. "

"Daughter, you have not been to chapel once since your arrival among us. "

"Ah, no! I came from the infirmary here, and I have not left this room togo anywhere since!" sighed Salome. 

"That is not because you are not able to do so, but because you are notwilling. You have allowed yourself to sink into a sinful and dangerouslethargy of mind and body in which you have brooded morbidly over yourafflictions. You must do so no longer. You must rouse yourself from thismoment. You must go with us to-night to vespers. To-morrow morning youwill attend high mass. A fellow-countryman of yours, Father F----, an Oratorian priest from Norwood, England, will preach. He will do yougood. Since the days of St. John, the beloved disciple, no wiser, moreloving, or more eloquent soul ever spoke to sinners, " said the abbess. 

"But--coming from England!--If he should recognize me!" exclaimed Salome. 

"Why, do you know him?"

"Oh, no, not at all; but then there are sometimes people with whom wehave no sort of acquaintance, who yet know us by sight from seeing us inpublic places, or meeting us on public occasions. "

"That is very true, my child; but you need have no fear of beingrecognized by the officiating priest to-morrow, whoever he may be, foryou will sit with us behind the screen. "

"Thanks, dear mother; I will go with you this very evening. "

"You are a good and obedient child. Receive my benediction, " said themother-superior, rising. 

Salome bent her head, and the abbess solemnly blessed her, and thenwithdrew from the room. 

CHAPTER XXVIII. 

THE SOUL'S STRUGGLE. 

That same evening, while the vesper bells were ringing, Salome dressedherself, and, leaning on the arm of the mother-superior headed theprocession of the sisterhood as they marched to the chapel and took theirseats in the recess behind the screen, which was so cunningly devised, that, while it afforded the nuns a full view of the altar, the priests, the interior of the pews and the whole congregation, it effectuallyconcealed the forms and faces of the sisterhood seated within it. 

Father Francois, the confessor of the convent, officiated at the altar. 

A rustic congregation of the faithful filled the pews in the body ofthe church. They came from farm-houses and villages in the immediateneighborhood of the convent. 

The vesper hymn was raised by the nuns. 

Salome joined in singing it. She had a rich, sweet, clear soprano voice. 

Many were the heads in the rustic assemblage that turned to listen to thenew singer in the nuns' choir. 

Salome saw them, and shrank back as if she herself could have been seen, though she was quite invisible to them, for the screen, which wastransparent to her eyes, was impenetrable to theirs. She remembered this, at length, and recovered her composure. 

The sweet vesper service soothed her soul, and when it was over, and thebenediction was given, the "peace that passeth all understanding"descended upon her troubled spirit. 

She left the chapel, leaning on the mother-superior's arm. 

When she reached her room door she kissed the lady's hand in bidding hergood-night. 

"This has done you good, my daughter, " said the abbess, gently. 

"It has done me good. Thanks for your wise counsel, holy mother. I willfollow it still. I will go again tomorrow. Bless me, my mother, " saidSalome, bowing her head before the abbess, who blessed her again, andthen softly withdrew. 

Salome entered her room and retired to rest, and slept more calmly thanshe had done for many days and nights. 

She arose on Sunday morning refreshed; but it seemed as if her stonyapathy had passed off, only to leave her more keenly sensitive to hercause of grief; for as she dressed herself, a flood of tender memoriesoverflowed her soul, and she threw herself, weeping freely, on her cot. 

In this condition she was found by the abbess, who was pleased to see herweep, knowing that the keenness of sorrow is much softened by tears. 

She sat down in silence by the cot, and waited until the paroxysm waspast. 

"Good mother, I could not help it, " said Salome, with a last convulsivesob, as she wiped her eyes, and arose. 

"Nor did I wish you to do so. Thank the Lord for the gift of tears. Haveyou had breakfast, my daughter?"

"Yes, dear mother. Sister Francoise brought it to me before I was up. This is the last time I will allow myself such an indulgence. To-morrowmorning, if you will permit me, I will join you in the refectory. "

"I am rejoiced to hear you say so my child. Your recovery depends muchupon yourself. Every exertion that you make helps it forward. And now Icame to tell you that in ten minutes we shall go on to the chapel. Willyou be ready to accompany us?"

"Yes, dear mother, I will come on and join you almost immediately, " saidSalome standing up and shaking down her black robe into shape. 

The abbess softly slipped out of the room and left the guest to completeher toilet. 

In a few minutes Salome passed out and joined the procession of nuns tothe chapel. 

As soon as they were seated in the screened choir, Salome looked throughthe screen, to see if the English priest was at the altar. He was notthere yet; but the body of the little chapel was filled with an expectantcrowd of small country gentry, farmers and laborers with their families, all drawn together by the fame of the great Oratorian. 

Presently the procession entered--six boys, in white surplices, precedinga pale, thin, intellectual-looking young man in priestly robes. 

The priest took his place before the altar, the boys kneeling on hisright and left, and the solemn celebration of the high mass was begun. 

The nuns sang well within their screened choir; but the new soprano voicethat sang the solos, and rose elastic, sweet and clear, soaring to theheavens in the _Gloria in Excelsis_, seemed to carry all theworshipers with it. 

"Who is she?" inquired one of another, in hushed whispers, when thedivine anthem had sunk into silence. 

"Who is she?"

No one in the congregation could tell; but many surmised that she must besome young postulant of St. Rosalie, just beginning, or about to begin, her novitiate. 

At length the pale priest passed into the pulpit, and, amid a breathlesssilence of expectancy, gave out his text:

"GOD IS LOVE. "

A truth revealed to us by the Divine Saviour, and confirmed to our heartsby the teachings of His Holy Spirit. 

The preacher spoke of the divine love, "never enough believed, or known, or asked, " yet the source of all our life, light and joy; he spoke ofhuman love, a derivative from the divine, in all its manifestations offamily affection, social friendship, charity to the needy, forgivenessof enemies. 

And while he spoke of love, "the greatest good in the world, " his toneswere full, sweet, deep and tender, his pale face radiant, his manneraffectionate, persuasive, winning. 

He was listened to with rapt attention, and even when he had brought hissermon to a close, and his eloquent voice had ceased, his hearers still, for a few moments, sat motionless under the spell he had wrought uponthem. 

As soon as the benediction had been pronounced, the abbess arose from herseat in the choir, drew the arm of her still feeble guest within her own, and, followed by her nuns, walking slowly in pairs, left the choir. 

She took Salome to the door of her room in perfect silence, and wouldhave left her there but that the girl stopped her by saying:

"Holy mother, I wish to speak to you, if you can give me a few minutes, before we go to the refectory. "

"Surely, my daughter, " answered the abbess, kindly, as she followed herguest into the chamber. 

"Sit down in the easy-chair, good mother, " said Salome, drawing the soft, white-cushioned seat toward her. 

"No, sit you there, poor child, " answered the abbess, taking her guestkindly and seating her in the easy-chair. "I shall be well enough here, "she added, as she sat down on one of the painted, wooden seats. "Now, tell me what you wish to say, daughter, " she concluded. 

"Dear mother, I have been very deeply interested in Father F. Thismorning. "

"You should be interested in the message only, not in the messenger, mychild, " gravely replied the elder lady. 

"In the message alone I believe I was most concerned; but the message wasmost eloquently delivered by the messenger, " said Salome, as her palecheeks flushed. 

"Well, my daughter, go on in what you were about to say. "

"Holy mother, that message, so earnestly spoken, has moved me to greaterdiligence in what I have purposed to do. You know that I have intended totake the vail in this convent, and devote my life and my fortune togood works. "

"Yes, my child, I know that such has been your pious purpose. What then?"

"I wish to use all diligence in carrying out that purpose. I wish toenter upon my novitiate immediately. "

"My good daughter, far be it from me to throw any stumbling-block in theway of such praise-worthy intentions; but the strict rules of our orderrequire that a postulant should remain in the convent twelve calendarmonths, to test her vocation, before she is suffered to bind herself byany vows, " said the abbess, very gravely. 

"As if _my_ vocation had not been sufficiently tested, " sighedSalome. 

"It may have been so, my daughter. This probation may not be necessary inyour case, yet we can make no exception to our rules even in your favor. You will, therefore, if you wish, remain with us for one year, unfetteredby any vows. At the end of this year of probation, if you shall stilldesire to do so, you may be permitted to take the white vail and commenceyour novitiate. In the meantime you need not, and ought not, to be idle. You may be as zealous and diligent in good works while a postulant as youpossibly could be as a white-vailed novice or a black-vailed nun. "

"Show me how I may be so, holy mother, and I will bless you, " exclaimedSalome. 

"I will very gladly be your guide, my child. Listen, Salome. Hitherto, you have been very charitable in giving alms. You have given liberally ofyour means; but you have never yet given your personal services to thepoor and needy. That was not our Lord's way, whose servants we are. Hegave alms, indeed, and he performed miracles to supply them, as in thecase of the loaves and fishes; but most of all, better than all, He gaveHis personal ministrations; He taught the ignorant; He anointed the eyesof the blind; _He laid His hands on the leper_; He shrank from nopersonal contact with disease, however loathsome; distress, howeverignominious; nor must we, His children, do so. We must give our personalservices to the poor. "

"Tell me what to do, and how to do it, good mother, and I will gladlyobey your instructions. Tell me, for I am so very ignorant. "

"To-morrow, the Monday before Christmas, you may go with me the roundsof our asylums and schools, and see for yourself destitute old age, destitute childhood and abandoned infancy; and you may choose your workamong these poor, needy, helpless ones, " said the abbess, gravely. 

"And are laborers wanted in that vineyard, mother?"

"Always. "

"Then here am I, for one, poor one. I am longing to go to work. "

"At first your work shall be a very bright and pleasant labor, dearchild. This is the joyous week of preparation for the glad, Christmasfestival. This week we are all, young and old, engaged in the delightfulrecreations of charity. Our Lord Himself, who, in His Divine benignity, blessed the marriage feast of Cana with a miracle, smiles on ourrecreations of charity, which with us just now consist in the preparationof Christmas gifts to gladden the hearts of our poor these Christmastimes. To-morrow, if you please, I will take you to our work-rooms, whereyou may choose your own task. "

"Oh, how willingly I will do that!" said Salome, earnestly. 

A bell had been ringing for a few moments; and so the abbess arose andsaid:

"That is the dinner-bell. You promised to join us in the refectory, andI think it is best you should do so, my daughter. "

"I will follow your counsels in everything, holy mother, " answeredSalome, sweetly, as she arose and put her hand on the offered arm of herfriend. 

The abbess led her protegee down a long passage and deep flights ofstairs to the refectory, where, at each side of a very long table, running down the length of the room, stood about fifty nuns waiting fortheir mother-superior. 

The abbess gave her guest a seat next to her own, then crossed herselfand sat down. 

The nuns all made the sign of the cross upon their breasts, and seatedthemselves at the table. 

This was the first occasion upon which Salome sat down at the nuns'table; but it was not the last, for from this day she regularly appearedthere, and, though she was given to frequent and violent fits of weeping, her health and spirits steadily improved under the regimen of the abbess. 

On Monday morning the lady-superior took Salome through all the asylumson the east side of the convent. 

They went first into the aged men's home, where, in a large, clean, well-warmed and well-lighted hall, furnished with arm-chairs, tables, andmany plain and cheap conveniences, were gathered about thirty gray-hairedor bald-headed patriarchs, whose ages ranged from seventy to a hundredyears. Yet not one of them was idle. They were all engaged in plaitingchip-mats, baskets, hampers and other useful articles that could be madeout of reeds or cane. The oldest man among them, a centenarian, wasemployed in plaiting straw for hats. 

"They look very happy and busy, " said Salome, after she had responded totheir respectful nods and smiles of welcome. 

"Yes, and they nearly half pay expenses by their handicrafts. Even they, aged and infirm as they are, can half support themselves if they haveonly shelter, protection and guidance. "

"And there seems to be no sick among them, " said Salome. 

"Ah, yes, " answered the abbess, gravely, "there are five in the infirmaryconnected with this home; but we will not go there now. Let us pass on tothe aged women's home. "

They entered the next house, where, in a large, warm, light room, plainlyfurnished, about twenty old women, from sixty to ninety years of age, were collected. They were neatly dressed in gray stuff gowns, whiteaprons, white kerchiefs, and white Normandy caps. And all were busy--someknitting, some sewing, some tatting. 

They bowed and smiled a welcome to the visitor, who responded in the samemanner. 

"These, also, half support themselves by their work, " said the abbess;"but the proportion of sick among them is greater than among the men. There are ten in the infirmary. "

They went next to the orphan boys' asylum, where fifty male children ofages from three to twelve years were lodged, fed, clothed, and educated. 

"What becomes of these when they leave here?" inquired Salome. 

"We send them out as apprentices to learn trades; and we find homes forthem, " answered the abbess. 

"Can you always find good homes and masters for them?"

"Yes, always. We do it through the secular clergy. Now let us go into thegirls' asylum, " said the abbess, leading the way to the next institution. 

The orphan girls' asylum was, in many respects, similar to the boys'home. 

"Do you wish to know what becomes of these, when they leave here?"inquired the abbess, anticipating the question of her companion. "I willtell you. The greater number of them are sent out to service as cooks, chambermaids, seamstresses, or nursery governesses. Some few, who showunusual intelligence, are educated for teachers. If any one among theirnumber evinces talent for any particular art, she is trained in that art. My child, we have sent out more than one artist from our orphan girls'asylum, " said the abbess. 

"How much good you do!" exclaimed Salome. 

"Let us go into the Foundling, " said the mother-superior, leading the wayto the last house of the eastern row of buildings. 

Ah! here was a sight sorrowful enough to make the "angels weep!"

The abbess led her companion into a long room, clean, warm, light andairy, with about thirty narrow little cots, arranged in two rows againstthe walls, fifteen on each side, with a long passage between them. About half a dozen of these cots were empty. On the others lay abouttwenty-four of the most pitiable of all our Lord's poor--young infantsabandoned by their unnatural parents. All these were under twelve monthsold, and were pale, thin, and famished-looking. Some were sleeping, andseemingly, ah! so aged and care-worn in their sleep; some were claspingnursery-bottles in their skeleton hands, and sucking away for dear life;one little miserable was wailing in restless pain, and sending itsanguished eyes around in appealing looks for relief. 

Four women of the sisterhood were on duty here, and each one sat with apining infant on her lap, while there was no one to attend to the wantsof that wailing little sufferer on the bed. 

"Oh, merciful Father in Heaven! what a sight!" cried Salome, overcomewith compassionate sorrow. 

"Yes, it is piteous! most piteous!" said the mother-superior, in amournful tone. "We do the very best we can for these poor, desertedbabes; but young infants, bereft of their mother's milk, which is theirlife, and of their mother's tender love and intuitive care, suffer morethan any of us can estimate, and are almost sure to perish, out of_this_ life, at least. With all our care and pains, more thantwo-thirds of them die. "

"Is there no help for this?" sadly inquired the visitor. 

"No help within ourselves. But the peasant women in our neighborhood haveChristian spirits and tender hearts. When any one among them loses hersucking child, she comes to us and asks for one of our motherless babes. We select the most needing of them and give it to her, and the nursechild has then a chance for its life; but even then, if it lives, it isbecause some other child has died and made room for it. "

"Oh, it is piteous! it is piteous, beyond all words to express! Destitutechildhood, destitute old age, are both sorrowful enough, Heaven knows!But they have power to make their sufferings known, and to ask for help!_But destitute infancy!_ Oh! look here! look here! Can anything onearth be so pathetic as this?

"They are so innocent; they have not brought their evils on themselves. They are so helpless! They have not even words to tell their pain, or askfor relief! Mother! You said that I might choose my work! I have chosenit. It is here. And I begin it from this moment, " said Salome. 

And she threw off her hat and cloak, and drew her gloves and cast themall on a chair, and went and took up the wailing infant from the cot. 

The abbess sat down and watched her. 

She soothed the baby's plaints upon her bosom as she walked it, up anddown the floor, singing a sweet, nursery song in a low and tender voice, until it fell asleep. Then she came and laid it sleeping on its cot. 

"My dear daughter, " said the abbess, gravely, "before you select thisfield of duty, I must warn you that it is, and it _must needs_ be, of all charitable administrations, the most laborious and trying. "

"It may be so; but it is also the most divine, " said Salome, with agrave, sweet smile. "Listen, dear mother. I know not how it is, but--withall its pathos--the sphere of this room is heavenly. And while I heldthat baby to my bosom and soothed it to sleep, its little, soft formseemed to draw all the fever and soreness from my own aching heart aswell. Here is my earthly work, dear mother! Nay, rather, here is myheavenly mission and consolation. Leave me here. "

The mother-superior took the votaress at her word, and left her then andthere. 

In the course of the same day a small closet, communicating with theinfants' dormitory, was fitted up as a sleeping berth for Salome, and herfew personal effects were conveyed from the convent and arranged withinher new dwelling. 

Salome had not mistaken her vocation. To serve these forsaken andsuffering children was to her a labor of love; to relieve them, a workof joy. 

She never left her charge, except to go to chapel, or to her meals, whichshe took at the nuns' table, in their refectory. 

On Christmas Eve, as she returned from dinner, Sister Francoise invitedher to look into the work-room and see the Christmas presents in processof preparation. 

To please the kind sister, she followed her into a long hall, furnishedwith little tables, at each of which sat two or three of the nuns atwork. 

As Salome, with her conductor, walked down the room, she saw that on onetable was a pile of children's illustrated books of great variety to suitlittle ones, from three years old to thirteen. The two nuns seated at thetable were busy writing in the books the names of those for whom theywere intended. 

Another table was piled with woolen scarfs, socks, gloves, and night-capsfor the aged men and women, which the two nuns seated there were employedin rolling up into separate little parcels, and labeling with the namesof the intended recipients. 

Still another, and a longer table, was bright and gay with party-coloredscraps of silk, satin, velvet, ribbon, muslin, lace and linen, with whichhalf a dozen young nuns seated there were cheerfully engaged in makingdresses for a basket full of dolls, for the Christmas gifts to theinfants. 

The blooming young nun Felecitie presided at this table. Seeing Salomeapproach with Sister Francoise, she accosted her:

"Our holy mother told us that you would come in and help us dress thesedolls. "

"And so I would have done, only I found some living and suffering dollsto dress and feed, " said Salome, smiling. 

"Yes, I know, the babies of the Foundling. Well, we are dressing thesedolls for your babies, " said the smiling sister. 

"But do you suppose my tiny little ones will care for dolls?" inquiredSalome. 

"Be sure they will; from six months old, up, boys or girls, sick or well, babies will love dolls. I have seen a sick baby hug her doll, just as Ihave seen a sick mother clasp her child, " answered the sister. 

"These are the recreations of charity the holy mother told me of, " saidSalome, as she passed out of the work-room and went back to her ownsphere of duty. 

On Christmas morning after matins, the Christmas gifts were distributedin every one of the asylums, and every inmate was made happy by anappropriate present. 

At ten o'clock high mass was celebrated in the chapel of the convent, andall the sisterhood assembled in their screened choir. 

Three priests in their sacerdotal robes, and a dozen boys in whitesurplices, were expected to serve at the altar. The chapel was profuselydecorated with holly, and the shrines were dressed with flowers. The pewswere filled with a congregation of a rather better social position thanusually assembled there in the convent chapel. 

The services had not yet commenced. Salome bent forward with all theinterest and curiosity of a recluse, to look, for a moment, upon thestrangers. 

She gave but one glance through the screen, and then suddenly, with a lowcry, she sank back upon her seat. 

"What is the matter, my daughter? Are you ill?" inquired themother-superior, in a whisper. 

Salome lifted up a face ashen pale with dismay, and gasped:

"I have seen him! I have seen him! He is there--there in the congregationbelow!"

"Who?" inquired the abbess, in vague alarm. 

"My husband?--yet, no; oh, Heaven! not my husband, but the Duke ofHereward!"

CHAPTER XXIX. 

THE STRANGER IN THE CHAPEL. 

"The Duke of Hereward in the congregation?" echoed the abbess, with atroubled look. 

"Yes, there in the middle aisle, in the third pew from the altar, "replied Salome, in trembling tones. 

"No matter. _You_ have nothing to fear, my daughter; you will beprotected. _He_ has everything to fear; he is a felon before thelaw, and he may be prosecuted. Compose yourself, my child, and give yourmind to heavenly subjects. See, the priest is coming in, " murmured theabbess, who immediately crossed herself, and lowered her eyes indevotion. 

Salome, though trembling in every limb, and feeling faint, almost tofalling, followed the mother-superior's example, and tried to concentrateher mind in worship. 

The solemn procession of the service entered the chancel--the priestsin their sacerdotal vestments, the boys in their white robes. Theofficiating priest took his station before the altar, with his assistantson each side. And the impressive celebration of the high mass commenced. 

But, ah! Salome could not confine her attention to the service! Her eyes, guard them carefully as she might, would wander from her missal towardthe stalwart form and stately head of the stranger in that third pewfront; her thoughts would wander back to the past, forth to the future, or, if they stayed upon the present at all, it was but in connection withthat stranger. 

Father F----, the great English priest, preached the sermon, from thetext: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace, good will tomen. " He preached with all the force, fervor and eloquence inspired bythe Divine words, and he was heard with rapt attention by all thecloistered nuns and all the common congregation--by all within the soundof his voice, perhaps, except one--the most sorrowful one on that gladday. Salome tried in vain to follow the golden thread of his discourse. 

But how little she was able to do, may be known from the deep sigh ofrelief she heaved when it was all over. 

As soon as the benediction was pronounced, the nuns arose to leave theirscreened choir, and the congregation got up to go out from the chapel. 

Salome lingered behind the sisterhood, and watched the handsome strangerin the third pew front--a stranger to every one present except herself. 

He also lingered behind all his companions, and turned and lookedintently up into the screened choir. 

Salome saw his full face for the first time since his appearancethere--and she saw that it was deadly, ghastly pale, with white lips andglassy eyes. He gazed into the screened choir as into vacancy. 

Salome knew that he could see nothing there, yet she shrank back andstood in the deepest shadow, until she saw him pick up his hat and glidefrom the chapel, the last man that went out. 

"Ah, what could have changed him so?" she thought--"love, fear, remorse--what?"

He had nothing to fear from her. If no one should take vengeance on himuntil she should do so, then would he go unpunished to his grave, and hissin would never have found him out in this world. Nay, sooner than tohave hurt him in life, liberty, honor, or estate, she, herself, wouldhave borne the penalty of all his crimes. Yet of those crimes what anunspeakable horror she had, though for the criminal what an unutterablepity--what an undying love. 

While she stood there, gazing through the choir-screen upon the spotwhence the stranger had disappeared, her bosom, torn by these conflictingpassions of horror, pity, love, she felt a soft touch on her shoulder, and turning, saw the mother-superior at her side. 

"My daughter, why do you loiter here?" she tenderly inquired. 

Salome's pale face flushed, as she replied:

"Oh, mother, I was watching him until he left the church. "

"My daughter, it was a deadly sin to do so!" gravely replied the abbess. 

"He could not see me, mother, " sighed Salome, in a tremulous voice. 

"That was well. Come now to your own room, daughter, and do not trembleso. You have nothing to fear, except from your own weak and sinfulnature, " said the abbess, as she drew the girl's arm within her ownand led her from the choir. 

"Am I so weak and sinful, mother?" inquired Salome, after a silence whichhad lasted until the two had reached the door of the Infants' Asylum, where Salome now lodged. 

"As every human being is! and especially as every woman is in all affairsof the heart, " gravely returned the abbess. 

"Can you spare me a few minutes, mother? Will you come in and let metalk to you a little while? Have you time? I want to talk to you. Oh!I wish we had mother-confessors for women--for girls, I mean, instead offather-confessors. Can you come in and let me talk to you, mother, fora little while?"

"Surely, daughter, " said the abbess, gently as with her own hand sheopened the door and led her votaress into the room. 

Salome offered the one chair to the lady-superior, and then took thefoot-stool at her feet, and laid her head upon her knees. 

"Now speak to me freely, child. Tell me what you wish and how I can helpyou, " said the abbess, kindly. 

"Oh, mother! mother! I wish to be rid of the sin of loving him, for Ilove him still. In spite of all, I love him still!" exclaimed Salome, breaking down in a passion of tears and sobs. 

The abbess laid her hands upon the bowed young head, and kept them so insilence until the storm of grief had passed. Then she said:

"Child you must fast and pray, and so combat the 'inordinate and sinfulaffections of the flesh. ' Bethink you what you do in suffering them. Youmake an idol of that monster of iniquity who was an accomplice in themurder of your father--"

Salome uttered a low cry, and hid her face in her hands. The abbess wenton steadily, almost pitilessly:

"A man who, having already a living wife, of whom he had grown tired andashamed, married you, and so would have ruined you in soul and body. "

Salome groaned deeply, and then suddenly broke forth in passionateexclamations:

"I know it! I know it? I know it from the evidence of my own senses, noless than from the testimony of others! I _know_ it, but I cannot _feelit_, mother! I cannot feel it? My _mind_ adjudges him _guilty_; my _mindcondemns_ him upon unquestionable proof; but my _heart_ holds him_guiltless_; in the face of all the proofs, my _heart acquits_ him! I_know_ him to be a criminal; but I _feel_ him to be one of the greatest, best and noblest of mankind! In spite of all I have heard and seen withmy own ears and eyes, corroborated by the testimony of others--in spiteof everything past, I _feel_, I _feel_ that if he should now come andtake my hand in his, and whisper to me, I should believe all that hemight tell me, and go with him whithersoever he might choose to lead me!Mother, _save me from myself_!"

The abbess laid her hands again upon the throbbing head that lay on herlap, as she answered, mournfully:

"Said I not that you have nothing to fear except from your weak andsinful self. Child, you have nothing else on earth to dread. You are tobe protected from yourself alone. "

"And from _him_! Oh, mother, keep the great temptation from me!"

"He shall be kept from you, if, indeed, he should presume to seek youhere, " said the abbess. 

"He will seek me, mother! He came to seek me, and for nothing else. Hehas by some means found out my retreat, and he has come to seek me! Besure that he will present himself here to-morrow, if not to-day. "

"In that case, we shall know how to deal with him, even though he is theDuke of Hereward; for he has, and can have, no lawful claim on you. Sofar from that, he is in deadly danger from you. He is liable toprosecution by you; for you are not his wife; you are only a lady whom heentrapped by a felonious marriage ceremony, and sought to ruin. It isamazing, " added the abbess, reflectively, "that a nobleman of his exaltedrank and illustrious fame should have stooped _so_ low as to stainhis honor with so deep a crime, and to risk the infamy and destructionits discovery must have brought upon him. "

"It is amazing and incredible! That is why, in the face of the evidenceof my own eyes and ears, the testimony of other eye and ear witnesses, and of my own certain knowledge, based upon proof as sure as ever formedthe foundation of any knowledge, I still feel in my heart of heart thathe is guiltless, stainless, noble, pure and true as the prince ofnoblemen should be, " sighed Salome, adding word upon word of eulogy, asif she could not say enough. 

"In the face of all positive proof, and of the convictions of yourjudgment, your _heart_ tells you that this criminal is innocent, "said the abbess, incisively. 

"In the face of all, my heart assures me that he is pure, true, andnoble!" exclaimed Salome. 

"Do you believe your heart?" gravely inquired the elder lady. 

"No; for is it not written: 'The heart is deceitful, and desperatelywicked. ' No, I do not believe my weak and sinful heart, which I knowwould betray me into the hands of my lover, if I should be so unfortunateas to meet him. "

"You shall not meet him; you shall be saved from him, " answered theabbess. 

At that moment a bell was heard to ring throughout the building. 

"That calls us to the refectory--to our happy Christmas festival. Come, my daughter, " said the lady, rising. 

"I cannot go! Oh, indeed I cannot go, mother. I am utterly unnerved bywhat has happened. I hope you will pardon and excuse me, " pleaded Salome. 

"What! Will you not join us at our Christmas feast?" kindly persisted theabbess. 

"Indeed, it is impossible! I will rest on my cot for a few minutes, andthen I will go and take my poor little Marie Perdue on my bosom and rockher to sleep. I hear her fretting now; and when I hush her cries, shealso soothes my heartache. "

"I will send you something; and I will come to you, before vespers, " saidthe abbess, kindly, as she glided away from the room. 

Salome lay alone on the cot, with closed eyes and folded hands, prayingfor light to see her duty and strength to do it. 

She expected, in answer to her earnest prayers, that scales should fallfrom her eyes, and impressions pass from her heart, and that she shouldsee her love in monstrous shape and colors, and be able to thrust himfrom her heart. Instead of which, she saw him purer, truer, nobler, thanever before. With this perception came a sweet, strange peace and trustwhich she could not comprehend, and did not wish to cast off. 

She arose and went into the infants' dormitory, and took up the youngestand feeblest of the babes--the one which, on her very first visit, had soappealed to her sympathies, and which she had adopted as her own. 

This child, like many others in the asylum, had no known story. 

A few days before Christmas, late in the evening, a bell had been rung atthe main door of the Infants' Asylum. 

The portress who answered it found there a basket containing an infant afew weeks old. It was cleanly dressed and warmly wrapped up in flannel;but it had no scrap of writing, no name, nor mark upon its clothing bywhich it might ever be identified. 

The portress took it into the dormitory, where it was tenderly receivedand cared for by the sisters on duty there. 

The case was too common a one to excite more than a passing interest. 

On the next day after the arrival of the infant, it happened that themother-superior brought Salome there on her first visit, when the miseryof the motherless and forsaken infant so moved the sympathies of theyoung lady that she immediately took it to her own bosom. 

Subsequently, since she had devoted herself to the care of these desertedbabies, she took an especial interest in this youngest and most helplessof their number. 

She named it Marie Perdue, and stood godmother at its baptism. 

It lay in her arms often during the day, and slept at her bosom duringthe night. It had grown to know its nurse, and to recognize her presenceand caresses by those soft, low sounds, half cooing and half complaining, with which very young babes first try to utter their emotions or theirwants. 

Now, as she took little Marie Perdue from the cot, the child greeted herwith sweet smiles and soft coos, and nestled lovingly to her bosom. Andpeace deepened in Salome's heart. 

She sat down in a low nursing-chair, fed the child with warm milk andwater until it was satisfied, and then rocked it and sang to it in a low, melodious voice, until it fell asleep. 

She was still rocking and singing when the rosy-cheeked and cheery youngSister Felecitie came in. 

"Our holy mother was going to send your dinner in here, Miss Levison; butI think it must be so dismal to eat one's dinner alone on Christmas day, so I pleaded to be allowed to plead with _you_ that you will comeand dine with us young sisters at the second table, which is just asgood as the first, I assure you, only it is served an hour later. Willyou come? Say yes!" urged the merry and kind-hearted girl. 

"I will come, thank you; though I did too moodily decline the invitationof the abbess, " said Salome, rising and placing her sleeping charge uponits little cot. 

"Now! what did I tell you about the children and the dolls! Look there!"gleefully exclaimed Sister Felecitie, pointing to a row of cots whereabout a dozen infants lay asleep, clasping their dolls tightly. 

"Yes, the tiny mimic mothers really do love their doll babies, " Salomeconfessed with a smile. 

As they went out of the dormitory they passed into the children'sday-room, where about twenty infants, from one to two years old, were atplay--some sitting on mats or creeping on all fours, because they couldnot yet stand; some walking around chairs and holding on to supportthemselves; and some running here and there, in full possession of theuse of their limbs. 

All rejoiced in the possession of little dolls. 

"Look at them!" exclaimed Sister Felecitie, gleefully. 

"We tried the least little ones with other toys: but, bless you, nothingelse pleases them so well as dolls. We once tried the little yearlingswith rattles, which we thought, it being noisy nuisances, would pleasethem better; but save us! If any one doubts the doctrine of original sinand total depravity, they should have seen the three year-old babiesfling down their rattles in a passion and go for the other babies' dolls, to seize and take them by force and violence; and the corresponding rageand resistance of the latter. "

"All that was very natural, " said Salome, with a smile. 

"Oh, yes, natural, and perhaps something else too, beginning with a 'd. 'They call children 'little angels. ' Yes. I know they are, when they aresound asleep, " exclaimed the sister, laughing. 

"If they are not angels, they have angels with them. I feel they have, for when I am in their sphere, I possess my soul in peace. "

As the young lady said this, the children noticed her presence for thefirst time, and all who could walk ran to her, clustered around her andthrust their dolls upon her, for inspection and approval. 

All this Salome bestowed freely with many caresses and gentle, playfulwords. 

Then the children sitting on the mats reached out their dolls atarm's-length, and screamed to have them noticed. 

Salome made her way to these little sitters, while all the otherchildren, clinging to her skirt, attended her, impeding her progress. 

It was a great confusion. 

The merry little sister laughed aloud. 

"Now!" she said, gayly. "You are in their sphere, do you possess yoursoul in peace?"

"Something even better. My soul goes out to them, delighting in theirinnocent delight!" answered Salome. 

And after she had patted their heads and praised their dolls, and pleasedthem all with loving notice, she followed her conductress from thechildren's play-room through the long rectangular passage that led to thenun's refectory. 

The sisterhood, abstemious nearly all the days of the year, feasted oncertain high holidays. 

The Christmas dinner, laid for the young nuns in the refectory, wouldhave satisfied the most fastidious epicure. But I doubt if any epicurecould have enjoyed it half as well as did these abstemious young women, whose appetites were only let loose on certain high days and holidays. 

Salome wondered at herself, who but two hours before had given way to astorm of passionate sobs and tears, yet now felt a strange peace of mindthat enabled her to enter sincerely into the happiness of those aroundher. 

In the afternoon, the convent was visited by a large number of benevolentpeople in the neighborhood, who brought their Christmas offerings to thepoor and needy of the house. 

These visitors were shown through all the various departments of charity, and left their offerings in each before they went away. 

"I do wish _one_ thing, " said little Sister Felecitie, as shelingered near Salome, after the departure of the visitors. 

"What do you wish, dear?" inquired the latter. 

"Why, then, that the good people who give to our poor, whatever else theygive, would _always_ give the children dolls and the old people tobacco. The children _never_ can have _too many_ dolls, nor the old people_enough_ tobacco. "

"But is not the use of tobacco a vicious habit?"

"I _hope_ not. It makes the poor old souls so happy. "

CHAPTER XXX. 

THE HAUNTER. 

The vesper bell called them to the chapel, and the conversation ceased. 

Salome joined the procession and entered the choir. 

As soon as she had taken her seat she looked through the screen upon thecongregation assembled in the public part of the church. A great dreadseized her that she should see again the man whose presence had sodisturbed her in the morning. 

Heaven! he was there!--not where he sat before, but in one of the endpews, facing the choir, so that she had a full view of his ghastly faceand glassy eyes. 

A sudden superstitious fear fell upon her. She almost thought the figurewas his ghost, or was some optical illusion conjured up by her ownimagination. 

She wished to test its reality by the eyes of another. She wished towhisper to the abbess, and point him out, and ask her if she, too, sawhim; but she dared not do this. The vesper hymn was pealing forth fromthe choir, and all the sisterhood, except herself, were singing. 

She was their soprano, and she had to join them. She began first in atremulous voice, but soon the spell of the music took hold of her, andcarried her away, far, far above all earthly thoughts and cares, and shesang, as her hearers afterward declared, "like a seraph. "

At the end of the service she whispered to the abbess, calling herattention to the pallid stranger in the end pew; but when both turnedto look, the man had vanished!

"Mother, I do not know whether that ghostly figure was a real man, afterall!" whispered Salome, in an awe-stricken tone. 

"My good child, what do you mean?" inquired the abbess, uneasily. 

"Mother, I feel as if I were haunted!" said Salome, with a shudder. 

"Come! your nerves have been overtasked. You must have a composingdraught, and go to bed, " said the superior, decisively. 

"It may be that I am nervous and excitable, and that I have conjured upthis image in my brain--such a ghastly, ghostly image, mother! It couldnot have been real, though I thought nothing else this morning than thatit was real. But this evening--oh! madam, if you had seen it, with itsblanched face and glazed eyes, like a sceptre risen from the grave!"

"I have not seen the man yet, either this morning or this evening, " saidthe elder lady, as she drew the younger's arm within her own. 

"No, you have never seen him. I have no one's eyes but my own to test thematter. You have never seen him, and that is another reason why I thinkof the man as ghostly or unreal, " whispered Salome. 

They were now in the long passage leading from the chapel to the cells. 

"I will take you again to your own little room in the Infants' Asylum, "murmured the lady, as she turned with her protegee into the rectangularpassage leading to the asylums. 

She took Salome to the door of the house, gave her a benediction, andleft her. 

"Out there I have trouble, here I shall have peace, " muttered the youngwoman, as she entered the children's dormitory, where every tiny cot wasnow occupied by a little, sleeping child. 

Salome prepared to retire, and in a few moments she also was at rest, with her little Marie Perdue in her arms. 

Christmas had come on Saturday that year. The next day being Sunday, there was another high mass to be celebrated in the chapel. 

Salome, as usual, joined the nuns' procession to the choir, where thesisterhood, as was their custom, took their seats some few minutes beforethe entrance of the priest and his attendants. 

With a heart almost pausing in its pulsations, Salome bent forward topeer through the screen upon the congregation, to see if by any chancethe Duke of Hereward (or his ghost) sat among them. 

With a half-suppressed cry, she recognized his form, seated in theopposite corner of the church, from the spot he had last occupied. 

"He shifts his place every time he appears, " she said to herself. 

And now, being determined that other eyes should see him as well as herown, she touched the abbess' arm and whispered:

"Pray look before the priest enters. There is the Duke of Hereward (orhis ghost) sitting quite alone in the corner pew, on the left hand sideof the altar. Do you see him now?"

The abbess followed the direction with her eyes, and answered:

"No, I do not see any one there. "

"Why, he is sitting alone in the left hand corner pew. Surely, you mustsee him now?" said Salome, bending forward to look again at the stranger. 

The next instant she sank back in her seat, nearly fainting. 

The pew was empty!

"There is really no one there, my child. Your eyes have deceived you, "murmured the abbess, gently. 

"He was there a moment since, but he has vanished! Oh! mother, what isthe meaning of this?" gasped the girl, turning pale as death. 

"The meaning is that your nervous system is shattered, and you are thevictim of optical illusions. Or else--if there was a man really in thatpew--he may have passed out through that little corner door leadingto the vestry. But hush! here comes the priest, " said the abbess, as theprocession entered the chancel, preceded by the solemn notes of theorgan. 

Since "Miss Levison" was obliged to keep her place in the choir, it waswell that she was an enthusiast in music, and thus able to lose all senseof care and trouble in the exercise of her divine art. 

But for the music she would scarcely have got through the morningservice. 

And very much relieved she felt when the benediction was at lengthpronounced, and she was at liberty to leave the chapel. 

"Oh, madam, this mystery is killing me! I have seen, or fancied I haveseen, the Duke of Hereward in the church three times; yet no one else hasbeen able to see him! If it was the duke, he has come here for somefixed purpose. He has, probably, by means of those expert Londondetectives, traced me out, and discovered my residence under this sacredroof. He has followed me here to give me trouble!" said Salome, as soonshe found herself alone with the superior. 

"My child, " said the lady, "I must reiterate that _you_ havenothing--_he_ has everything to fear! I do not know, of course, foreven you are not sure that you have really seen him. If you have, he isin this immediate neighborhood. If he is, why, then, the fact must beknown to nearly every one outside the convent walls. The Duke of Herewardis not a man whose presence could be ignored. To-morrow, therefore, Iwill cause inquiries to be made, and we shall be sure to find out whetherhe is really here or not. "

"Thanks, good mother, thanks. It will be a great relief to have thisquestion decided in any way, " said Salome, gratefully. 

The mother-superior smiled, gave the benediction, and retired. 

At vespers that evening, Salome looked all over the church in anxiousfear of seeing the form that haunted her imagination; but her "ghost" didnot appear, and, after all, she scarcely knew whether she was relieved ordisturbed by his absence. 

The next day, Monday, the abbess set diligent inquiries on foot todiscover whether the Duke of Hereward, or any other stranger of any nameor title whatever, had been seen in the neighborhood of St. Rosalie'sfor many days. Winter was not the season for strangers there. 

After this, the Duke of Hereward (or his ghost) was seen no more in thechapel. 

Every time Salome accompanied the sisterhood to the chapel, she peeredthrough the choir-screen, in much anxiety as to whether she should seethe duke, or his apparition, among the congregation below; but shenever saw him there again, nor could she decide, in the conflict betweenher love and her sense of duty, whether she most desired or deplored hisabsence. 

So the days passed into weeks, and nothing more was heard or seen of theDuke of Hereward. 

The Christmas holidays came to an end after Twelth-Day; the pupilsreturned to the school, and the academy buildings grew gay with theexuberance of young life. 

Salome, who, during many years of her childhood and youth, had sharedthis bright and cheery school-life, now saw nothing of it. 

The academy buildings, as has been explained before this, were situatedon the opposite side of the court-yard from the asylums and entirely cutoff from communication with them. 

Salome, devoted to her duties in the Infants' Asylum, was more completelysecluded from the world than even the cloistered nuns themselves; for thenuns were the teachers of the academy, and in daily communication withtheir pupils and frequent correspondence with their patrons, saw andheard much of the busy life without. 

So the weeks passed slowly into months, and the winter into spring, yetnothing more was seen or heard of the Duke of Hereward. 

Salome lost the habit of looking for him, and gradually recovered hertranquility. In the work to which she had consecrated herself--the careof helpless and destitute infancy--she grew almost happy. 

Already she seemed as dead to the world as though the "black vail" hadfallen like a pall over her head. No newspapers ever drifted into theasylum, nor did any visitor come to bring intelligence of the good orevil of the life beyond the convent walls. 

Her year of probation was passing away. At its close she would take thewhite vail and enter upon the second stage of her chosen vocation--heryear of novitiate--at the end of which she would assume the black vailof the cloistered nun, which would seal her fate. 

She knew that before taking that final step she must make somedisposition of that vast inheritance which, in her flight from her home, she had left without one word of explanation or instruction. She wasassured that her fortune was in the hands of honest men, and there shewas content to leave it for the present. She had in her possession abouta thousand pounds in money and several thousand pounds in diamonds--amplemeans for self-support and alms-giving. 

And so she was satisfied for the present to leave her financial affairsas they were, until the time should come when it would be absolutelynecessary for her to give attention to them. 

Meanwhile, had she forgotten him who had once been the idol of herworship?

Ah, no! however diligently her eyes, her hands, her feet were employed inthe service of the little children she loved so tenderly, her thoughtswere with him. She loved him still! It seemed to her at once the sin andthe curse of her life that she loved him still. She prayed daily to bedelivered from "inordinate and sinful affections, " but in this caseprayer seemed of little use; for the more she prayed the more she lovedand trusted him. It was a mystery she could not make out. 

So the spring bloomed into summer, and the world outside became sodisturbed and turbulent with "wars and rumors of wars, " that its tumultwas heard even within the peaceful convent sanctuary. 

The news of the abdication of Her Most Catholic Majesty, Isabella II ofSpain, fell like a thunderbolt upon the little community of the faithfulin the convent; and nowhere, in the political conclaves of Prussia or ofFrance, was the Spanish succession discussed with more intensity ofinterest than among the simple sisterhood of St. Rosalie. 

Who would now fill the throne of the Western Caesars, left vacant by theabdication of their daughter, the Queen Isabella?

These were the topics which filled the minds and employed the tongues ofthe quiet nuns, whenever and wherever their rules permitted them toindulge in conversation. 

No sound of this disturbance however penetrated the peaceful sphere ofthe Infants' Asylum, which, indeed, seemed to be the innermost retreat, or the holy of holies in the sanctuary. 

Salome lived within it, the chief ministering angel, dispensing blessingsall around her, and growing daily into deeper peace, until one fatalmorning, when a great shock fell upon her. 

It was a beautiful, bright morning near the end of June, and the day inregular rotation on which the mother-superior of the convent made herofficial rounds of inspection in the Infants' Asylum. 

She arrived early, and, accompanied by Salome, went over every departmentof the asylum, from attic to cellar, from dormitory to recreationgrounds, and found all well, and approved and delighted in thewell-being. 

After her long walk she sat down to rest in the children's play-room, anddirected Salome to take a seat by her side. 

The room was full of little children. Not seated in orderly rows, as wehave too often seen in Infant Asylums on exhibition days; but movingabout everywhere as freely as their little limbs would carry them, andmaking quite as much noise as their health and well-being certainlyrequired. 

Among them was little Marie Perdue, now a bright, fair, blue-eyed cherubof seven months old, seated on a mat, and tossing about with screams ofdelight a number of small, gay-hued India-rubber balls. 

The abbess was watching the children with pleased attention, when one ofthe lay sisters entered and put a card in her hands, saying that thegentleman and lady were waiting at the porter's wicket, and desiredpermission to see the interior of the Infant Asylum. 

"Certainly, they are welcome, " said the abbess. "Go and tell SisterFrancoise to be their guide. "

The lay sister left the room, and the abbess gave her attention againto the children, making occasional remarks on their health, beauty, playfulness, and so forth, which were all sympathetically responded toby Salome, until they heard the sounds of approaching voices andfootsteps, and the visiting party, escorted by Sister Francoise. 

Then the abbess and her companion ceased speaking, and lowered their eyesto the floor until the strangers should pass them. 

But the strangers lingered on their way, noticing individual children forbeauty, or brightness, or some other trait which seemed to attract. 

The gentleman, speaking French with an English accent, asked questions intoo low a tone to reach the ears of the abbess and her companion; but thelady kept silence. 

At length, as the visitors drew nearer, they came upon little MariePerdue, sitting on her mat, engaged in tossing about her gay-coloredballs, and laughing with delight. 

"Whose child is that?" asked the gentleman, in a voice that thrilled tothe heart of Salome. 

She forgot herself, and looked up quickly, but the form of SisterFrancoise, standing, concealed the figure of the speaker, who seemedto be stooping over the child. 

"Ay! wha's bairn is it?" inquired another voice, that fell with ominousfamiliarity on her ear, as she turned her head a little and saw thefemale visitor, a tall, handsome blonde, with bold, blue eyes and acataraet of golden hair falling on her shoulders. 

Sister Francoise did not understand the language of the woman, and turnedwith a helpless and appealing look to the gentleman, who still speakingFrench with the slightly defective English accent, replied:

"Madame asks whose child is that?"

"Oh, pardon! We do not know, Monsieur. It was left at our doors on theeighteenth of December last, " replied Sister Francoise. 

"A very fine child! Its name?"

"Marie Perdue. "

"'Marie Perdue?' What? 'Marie Perdue?' What's 'Perdue?'" querulouslyinquired the tall, blonde beauty. 

"'Thrown away, ' 'lost, ' 'abandoned, '" answered the gentleman, in a lowvoice. 

As he spoke he stood up and turned around. 

Salome uttered a low, half-suppressed cry, and covered her face with bothhands. 

The abbess impulsively looked up to see what was the matter, and--echoedthe cry!

There was dead silence in the room for a minute, and then Salome liftedup her head and cautiously looked around. 

The visitors had gone, and the children, who with child-like curiosityhad suspended their play to gaze upon the strangers, were nowre-commencing their noise with renewed vehemence. 

Salome still trembling in every limb, turned toward her companion. 

The abbess sat with clasped hands, lowered eyelids, and face as pale asdeath. 

Salome, too much absorbed in her own emotion to notice the strangecondition of the abbess, touched her on the shoulder and eagerlywhispered:

"Mother, did you observe the visitors?"

"Yes, " breathed the lady, in a very low tone, without lifting hereyelids. 

"Did you notice--_the man_?" Salome continued. 

"I did, " murmured the abbess, in an almost inaudible voice, as shedevoutly made the sign of the cross. 

"Do you know who he was?"

"_I do. _"

"He was like our Christmas visitor in the chapel! He was the Duke ofHereward!"

"Nay, " said the abbess, in a stern solemn voice. "He was not the Duke ofHereward. He was one whom I had reckoned as numbered with the dead fulltwenty years ago!"

CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE ABBESS' STORY. 

"'Not the Duke of Hereward!'" echoed Salome, astonishment now overcomingevery other emotion in her bosom. 

The abbess bowed her head in grave assent. 

"'One whom you thought numbered with the dead, full twenty years ago?'"continued Salome, quoting the lady's own words, and gazing on her face. 

"Full twenty-five years ago, my daughter, or longer still, " murmured theabbess. 

"This man is young. He could not have been grown up to manhoodtwenty-five years ago. "

"He is well preserved, as the selfish and heartless are too apt to be;but he is not young. "

"And he is not the Duke of Hereward?"

"Most certainly not the Duke of Hereward. "

"Then in the name of all the holy saints, madam, _who_ is he?"demanded Salome, in ever increasing amazement. 

"He is the Count Waldemar de Volaski, once my betrothed husband, but whoforsook me, as I have told you, for another and a fairer woman, " gravelyreplied the abbess. 

"Once your betrothed husband, madam! Great Heaven! are you sure of this?"exclaimed Salome, in consternation. 

"Yes, sure of it, " answered the abbess, slowly bending her head. 

"But--pardon me--I thought that _he_ had been killed in a duel bythe lover of the woman whom he had won. "

"Even so thought I. The news of his falsehood and of his death at thehands of the wronged lover, came to me in my convent retreat at the sametime, and I heard no more of him from that day to this, when I have againseen him in the flesh. The saints defend us!"

"And you are absolutely certain that he was Count Waldemar?"

"I am absolutely certain. "

"Mother Genevieve, did you know the woman who was with him?"

"No, not at all. I never saw or heard of her before. She seems to belongto the _demi-monde_, for she dresses like a princess, and talks likea peasant. Let us not speak of her, " said the lady, coldly. 

"We _must_ speak of her, for I think I know who she is. "

"You recognize her, then?"

"I cannot say that I do; at least, not by her person. I never saw herface before; but I have heard her voice under circumstances that renderedit impossible for me ever to forget its tones; and from her voice Ibelieve her to be Rose Cameron, a Highland peasant girl of Ben Lone. "

"Stop!" exclaimed the mother-superior, suddenly raising her hand. "You donot mean to intimate that _she_ is the girl whom you overheardtalking with the young Duke of Hereward at midnight, under your balcony, on the night before the murder of Sir Lemuel Levison?"

"She is the very same woman, as he is the very same man, who _planned_, if they did not perpetrate the robbery--who _caused_, if they did notcommit, the murder; and their names are John Scott, Duke of Hereward, andRose Cameron. "

"My daughter, in regard to the girl you may be quite right; but inrespect to the man you are utterly wrong. "

"Should I not know my own betrothed husband?" demanded Salome, impatiently. 

"Should _I_ not know _mine_?" inquired the abbess, verypatiently. 

Salome made a gesture of desperate perplexity, and then there was asilent pause, during which the two women sat gazing in each other's facesin silent wonder. 

Suddenly Salome started up in wild excitement and began pacing the narrowcell with rapid steps, exclaiming:

"There have been strange cases of counterparts in persons of this worldso exact as to have deceived the eyes of their most intimate friends. Ifthis should be a case in point! Great Heaven, if it should! If thisCount Waldemar de Volaski should be such a perfect counterpart of theDuke of Hereward as to have deceived even my eyes and ears! Oh, what joy!Oh, what rapture! What ecstacy to find 'the princely Hereward' asstainless in honor as he is noble in name; and this most unprincipledVolaski the real guilty party! But--the marriage certificate inHereward's own name! The letters to his so-called 'wife, ' Rose Cameron, in Hereward's own handwriting! Ah, no! there is no hope! not the faintestbeam of hope! And yet--"

She suddenly paused in her wild walk, and looked toward the abbess. 

That lady was still sitting on the stool, at the foot of the cot, withher hands folded on her lap, and her eyes cast down upon them as in deepthought or prayer. 

Salome sat down beside her, and inquired in a low tone:

"Mother Genevieve, was the Count Waldemar de Volaski ever in Scotland?Has he been there within the last twelve months?"

The lady lifted her eyes to the face of the inquirer, and slowly replied:

"My daughter, how should I know? Have I not said that, until this day, when I have seen him in the flesh standing in this room, I had believedhim to have been in purgatory for twenty-five years or more?"

"True! true!" sighed Salome. 

The abbess folded her hands, cast down her eyes, and resumed hermeditations or prayers. 

"You heard that he was killed in a duel, you say?" persevered Salome. 

"Yes; the news of his treachery, and the news of his death at the handsof the Duke of Hereward reached me at the same moment in this convent, where I was then passing the first year of mourning for my parents. Itwas that news which decided me to take the vail and devote my life andfortune to the service of the Lord, " said the lady, reverently bendingher head. 

Salome sat staring stonily as one petrified. She was absolutelyspeechless and motionless from amazement for the space of a minuteor more. Then suddenly recovering her powers, she exclaimed:

"Mother! Mother Genevieve! For Heaven's sake! Did I understand you? From_whose_ hand did you hear Count Waldemar received his death in aduel?"

"From the hand of the deeply injured husband, of course. "

"But--who was he? Who? You mentioned a name!" wildly exclaimed Salome. 

"Did I mention a name? Ah! what inadvertence! I never intended to letthat name slip out. I am very sorry to have done so. _Mea Culpa! MeaCulpa! Mea maxima culpa!_" muttered the abbess, bending her head andsmiting her bosom. 

"Mother Genevieve! Oh, do not trifle with me! _do_ not torture me!I heard a name! Did I hear aright? Oh, I hope I did not! What name didyou murmur? Tell me! tell me! WHO met Count Waldemar in aduel?" demanded Salome. 

"I have no choice but to tell you now, though I would willingly have keptthe fact from you. It _was_ the Duke of Hereward, the late duke ofcourse, the deeply-wronged lover of that fair woman, who met, and, as Iheard, killed Count Waldemar de Volaski. But there were wrongs on bothsides, deep, deadly wrongs on every side!" moaned the lady, clasping herhands convulsively and lowering her eyes. 

"The Duke of Hereward! Heaven of heavens! the Duke of Hereward! Yes!I heard aright the first time; but I could not believe my own ears! Thefather of my betrothed!" murmured Salome, sinking back in her seat. 

The abbess gravely bent her head. 

"What of the frail woman? She was not--oh! no, she _could not_ havebeen the mother of the present duke?"

"No, " murmured the abbess, in a low voice. 

"Mother Genevieve!" exclaimed Salome, suddenly, "will you tell me all youknow of this terrible story?"

"My daughter, my past is dead and buried these many years; so I wouldleave it until the last great day of the Resurrection. Nevertheless, asthe story of my life is interwoven with that of the princely line in whomyou feel so deep an interest, I will relate it. "

"Thanks, good mother, " said Salome, nestling to her side and preparingto listen. 

"Not here, and not now, my child, can I enter upon the long, sorrowful, shameful story--a story of pride, despotism and cruelty on one side; ofpassion, wilfulness and recklessness on the other; of selfishness, sinand ruin on all sides! Daughter, in almost every tale of sin andsuffering you will find that there has always been sin on _one_ sideand suffering on the _other_; but in this story _all_ sinneddeeply, all suffered fearfully!"

"Except yourself, sweet mother. You never sinned, " said Salome, takingthe thin, pale hand of the lady and pressing it to her lips. 

"_Mea culpa!_ I sin every hour of my life!" cried the abbess, crossing herself. 

"We all do; but you did not sin _there_, " said the girl. 

"I had no part--no active part, I mean--in that tale of guilt and woe. I was a pupil here in this convent then, waiting to be brought out andmarried to my betrothed. No, I had no part in that tragedy. "

"Except the passive part of suffering. "

"Ay, except the passive part of suffering; but hark, my child! the vesperbell is ringing; it calls us to our evening worship: let us go to thechoir, and there forget all our earthly cares and seek the peace ofHeaven, " said the pale lady, slowly rising from her seat. 

"When will you tell me the story, good mother?" pleaded Salome, in a lowand deprecating tone. 

"The vesper bell is ringing. The rules of the house must not be disturbedby your individual necessities. After the evening service comes theevening meal. Then, for me, my hour of rest in my cell; and for you, theduty of seeing your infant charge put to bed. When all these matters havebeen properly attended to, come to me in my cell. You will find me there. We shall be uninterrupted until the midnight mass; and in the interim Iwill tell you the story of a life that 'was lost, but is found, was dead, but is alive'--_Benedicite_, my daughter!" said the abbess, spreading her hands upon the bowed head of the girl, and solemnlyblessing her. 

Then she glided away. 

Salome soon followed her, and joined the procession of nuns to thechapel. 

As soon as she took her seat in the choir, she looked through the screenover the congregation below, to see if the strangers were in the chapel;but she saw them not. 

When the vesper service was over, she took her tea with the nuns in theirrefectory; and then returned to the play-room in the Infants' Asylum. 

The nurses were engaged in giving the little ones their supper, andputting them to bed. 

Salome took up her own little Marie Perdue, to undress her. 

As she divested the child of her little slip, something rolled out of itsbosom and dropped upon the floor. 

One of the nurses picked it up and handed it to Salome. 

It was a small, hard substance, wrapped in tissue paper. 

Salome unrolled it and found a ring, set with a large solitaire diamond. With a cry of surprise and pain, she recognized the jewel. It was herlate father's ring! While she gazed upon it in a trance of wonder, thepaper in which it had been wrapped, caught by a breeze from the openwindow, fluttered under her eyes. She saw that there was writing on thepaper, and she took it up and read it. 

"The ring must be sold for the benefit of the child and of the house thathas protected her. She must be educated to become a nun. "

There was no signature to this paper. 

Salome rolled it around the ring again, and put it in her bosom, then shesent one of the nurses to call Sister Francoise. 

When the old nun came into her presence, she inquired:

"Sister Francoise, you showed a lady and gentleman through the asylum, this afternoon; they came into this room; they stopped and noticed littleMarie Perdue particularly. Did they ask any questions or make any remarksconcerning her? I have an especial reason for asking. "

"Oh, yes, sister! they did ask many questions--when she came, how longshe had been, who took care of her, what was her name, and many more; andas I answered them to the best of my knowledge, I could not help seeingthat they knew more about the child than I did, " answered the nun, nodding her head. 

"Did the gentleman or lady give anything to the child?"

"Not that _I_ saw, which I thought unkind of them, considering allthe interest they showed in _words_; for, as I say of all the fineladies who come here and fondle the infants, what's the use of all thefondling if they never put a sou out, or a stitch in?"

"That will do, sister; I only wanted to know, " answered the young lady, as she determined to keep her own counsel, and confide the news of thesurreptitiously offered ring to the abbess only. 

When she had rocked her child to sleep, laid it on its little cot, andplaced two novices on duty to watch over the slumbers of the children, she left the dormitory by the rectangular passage that led to the nuns'house, and repaired at once to the cell occupied by the abbess. 

It was a plain little den, in no respect better than those tenanted byher humble nuns, twelve feet long, by nine broad, with bare walls, andbare floor, and a small grated window at the farther end, opposite thenarrow, grated door by which the cell was entered. It was furnishedpoorly with a narrow cot bed, a wooden stool, and a small stand, uponwhich lay the office-book of the abbess, and above which hung thecrucifix. 

As Salome entered the cell, the abbess arose from her knees and signedfor her visitor to be seated. 

Salome sat down on the foot of the cot, and the abbess drew the stool andplaced herself near. 

Then Salome saw the lady-superior was even paler and graver than usual;and anxious as the young lady felt to hear the abbess' story, she thoughtshe would give her more time to recover, and even assist her in doingso, by diverting her thoughts to the new incident of the ring, which sheproduced and laid upon the mother's lap, saying:

"That was found by me in the bosom of little Marie Perdue's dress. It wasdonated to the house, for the benefit of the child. Here is the scrap ofwriting in which it was rolled. "

The abbess silently took up the ring and the paper, and examined thefirst and read the last, saying:

"Such mysterious donations to the children are not uncommon, and aregenerally supposed to be offered by the unknown parents. This, however, is by far the most valuable present that has ever been made by any one tothe institution, and must be worth at least a thousand Napoleons. It wasmade by the visitors of this morning, I suppose?"

"Yes, madam, it was. "

"I see, I understand. Take charge of it, my daughter, until we candeliver it to the sister-treasurer, " directed the lady-superior, as shereplaced the ring in its wrapper and returned both to Salome. 

"But, mother, I wish myself to become the purchaser of this ring. I havea thousand pounds with me. I will give them for the ring. "

"My daughter!" exclaimed the abbess in surprise. "Why should you wish topossess this bauble? It can be of no use to you in the life you are aboutto enter, even if the rules of our order would permit you to retain it, which you know they would not. "

"Mother! it was my father's ring! It was a part of the property stolenfrom him on the night of his murder, " solemnly answered Salome. 

"Holy saints! can that be true?" exclaimed the abbess. 

"As true as truth. I know the ring well. He always wore it on his finger. Inside the setting is his monogram, 'L. L. , ' and his crest, a falcon, "answered Salome, once more unwrapping the ring and offering it to theinspection of the lady-superior. 

"I see! I see! It is so. Ah, Holy Virgin! that it should have beenoffered by Count Waldemar, or by him whom you overheard conspiring withhis female companion under the windows on the night of your father'smurder!" cried the abbess, covering her face with a fold of her blackvail. 

"Count Waldemar, or the duke of Hereward, I know not which, I know notwhom. Oh! mother, this mystery grows deeper, this confusion moreconfounded. "

"Take back your ring, my child, and keep it without price. It was yourfather's, and it is yours. We cannot receive stolen goods even as almsoffered to our orphans, " said the abbess, dropping her vail and returningthe jewel. 

"I will take it and keep it because it was my dear father's; but I willgive a full equivalent for its value. No one could object to that, " saidSalome, as she replaced the ring in her bosom. "And now, MotherGenevieve, will you tell me the promised story? It may possibly throwsome light even upon this dark mystery. "

The pale abbess bowed assent, and immediately began the narrative, which, for the Sake of convenience, we prefer to render in our own words. 

CHAPTER XXXII. 

THE DUKE'S DOUBLE. 

First it is necessary to revert to the history of the Scotts of Lone, Dukes of Hereward. 

He who married Salome Levison was the eighth of his princely line. Anyone turning to Burke's Peerage of the preceding year, might have readthis record of the late duke:

"Hereward, Duke of, (Archibald-Alexander-John Scott) Marquis of Arondelleand Avondale in the Peerage of England, Earl of Lone and Baron Scott inthe Peerage of Scotland; born, 1st of Jan. , 1800; succeeded his father asseventh duke, 1st Feb. , 1840; married, first, March 15th, 1843, Valerie, only daughter of Constantine, Baron de la Motte; divorced, Nov, 1st, 1844; married, secondly, July 15th, 1845, Lady Katherine-Augusta, eldestdaughter of the Earl of Banff, and has a son--Archibald-Alexander-John, Marquis of Arondelle, born 1st of May, 1846. "

A whole domestic tragedy is comprised in one line of this record:

"Married, first, March 15th, 1843, Valerie, only daughter of Constantine, Baron de la Motte; divorced, Nov. 1st, 1844. "

Now as to this poor, unhappy first wife:

Some few years before this first fatal marriage, the Baron de la Motte, one of the most illustrious French statesmen, was dispatched by hissovereign as Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary from theCourt of France to the Court of Russia. 

The baron, with his suite, proceeding to St. Petersburg, accompanied bythe baroness, a handsome Italian woman, and by their only child, Valerie, a beautiful brunette of only seventeen summers. 

Valerie de la Motte was first introduced to the world of fashion at agreat court ball, given by the Czar, in honor of the French Ambassador, in the Imperial Palace of Annitchkoff. 

On this occasion the dark, brilliant beauty of Mademoiselle de la Motte, inherited from her Italian mother, was the more admired from its rarityand its perfect contrast to the radiant fairness of the Russian blondes. Here Valerie de la Motte met, for the first time, Waldemar de Volaski, the second son of the Polish Count de Volaski, and a captain of the RoyalGuards, stationed at the palace. He was but twenty years of age, yet amodel of fair, manly beauty. He was even then called "the handsomest manin all the Russias. "

There was a Romeo and Juliet case of love at first sight between theyoung Russian officer and the youthful French heiress. 

During the first season, the beauty's hand was sought by some among themost princely of the nobles that surrounded the throne of the Czar; but, to the disappointment of her ambitious parents, she refused them everyone. 

Certainly the French father might have followed the custom of his classand country, and coerced his young daughter into the acceptance of anyhusband he might have chosen for her; but he did not feel disposed touse harsh measures with his only and idolized child; he rather preferredto exercise patience and forbearance toward her, until she should haveoutlived what he called her childish caprices. 

It was, however, no childish caprice that governed the conduct of Valeriede la Motte, but the unfortunate and fatal passion, inspired by thehandsome young captain of the Royal Guards, whom she had waltzed withabout a half a dozen times at the court balls. 

Waldemar de Volaski was indeed as beautiful as the youthful god, ApolloBelvidere, and in his radiant blonde complexion a perfect contrast to thedark, splendid style of the lovely brunette, Valerie de la Motte; but hewas only a younger son, with no hope or prospect of succession to hisfather's title or estates. 

He did not dare openly to seek the hand of Mademoiselle de la Motte, forhe knew that to do so would only be to have himself banished forever fromher presence, by her ambitious father; but, loving her with all thepassion of his heart, he sought secretly to win her love, and hesucceeded. 

It would seem strange that the carefully shielded daughter of the Frenchminister should have been exposed to courtship by the young captain ofthe Royal Guards; but love is fertile in devices, and full of expedients, and "laughs, " not only "at locksmiths, " but at all other obstacles to itssuccess. 

The willful young pair loved each other ardently from the first eveningof their meeting, and they could not endure to think of such apossibility as their separation. They found many opportunities, even inpublic, of carrying on their secret courtship. In the swimming turn ofthe waltz, hands clasped hands with more impassioned earnestness than theformula of the round dance required: in the casual meetings in thefashionable promenades of the beautiful summer gardens in AptekarskoiIsland--

"Eyes looked love to eyes that spake again. And all went merry as a marriage bell, "

so long as they could see each other every day. 

As the summer passed, the young captain, grown more confident, wroteardent love letters to his lady, which were surreptitiously slipped intoher hands at casual meetings, or conveyed to her by means of bribeddomestics; and these the willful beauty answered in the same spirit, as opportunity was offered her by the same means. But--

"A change came o'er the spirit of their dream. "

The French minister was recalled home by his sovereign, and only awaitedthe arrival of his successor to take an official leave of the Czar. 

About this time a letter from Volaski to Valerie was sent by thecaptain's faithful valet, and put in the hands of the lady's confidentialmaid, who secretly conveyed it to her mistress. This letter, which wasfiery enough to have set any ordinary post-bag in a blaze, declared, among other matters, that the lady's answer would decide the writer'sfate, for life or for death. 

Mademoiselle de la Motte sat down and wrote a reply which she sent by herconfidential maid, who placed it in the hands of the captain's faithfulvalet, to be secretly carried to his master. 

Whether the answer decided the fate of the lover for life or for death, it certainly controlled his action in an important matter. Immediately onits receipt he hastened to the Hotel de l'Etat Major, the headquarters ofthe army department, and solicited a month's leave of absence to visithis father's family. 

As it was the very first occasion upon which the young officer had askedsuch a favor, it was promptly granted him. 

Of course no one suspected that the cause of the young captain's actionhad been the announcement that the French minister had been recalled byhis government, and was about to return to Paris. 

The next day Waldemar de Volaski left St. Petersburg, ostensibly to visithis father's estates in Poland. 

And the next week the French minister, having presented his successor tothe Czar, and received his own conge, left the court and the city, andset out for France. 

The ministerial party travelled by the new railway from St. Petersburg toWarsaw, a distance of nearly seven hundred miles. 

At the capital of Poland they designed to stop a few days to rest thebaroness, whose health was suffering. 

One day while in that city the baroness, her daughter, and the lady'smaid, went out together, shopping for curiosities in the MarievilleBazaar, a square in the midst of the city, surrounded by many gayarcades. 

The square was full of visitors, and every arcade was crowded withcustomers. 

The baroness became somewhat interested in her purchases, and from momentto moment turned to consult her daughter, who seemed ever ready so assisther choice. 

At length, however, in speaking to Mademoiselle de la Motte, her motherfailed to receive an answer. 

Turning to rebuke the inattention of her daughter, the baronessdiscovered that Valerie was missing. 

Thinking only that she had got mixed up with the crowd, yet feeling verymuch annoyed thereat, Madam de la Motte called her maid and instituted asearch, only to find, with dismay, that Mademoiselle was nowhere in thesquare. 

Believing then that the young girl must have taken the extraordinaryand very reprehensible proceeding of returning to the hotel alone andresolving to give her daughter a severe reprimand for her imprudence, the baroness returned to their temporary home, only to learn thatMademoiselle de la Motte had not been seen there by any one since shehad left the house in company with her mother, attended by her maid. 

Fearing then that her daughter, in rashly attempting to return homealone, had lost herself in the streets of Warsaw, the baroness sentmessengers in every direction to seek for her and guide her back. 

Meanwhile the Baron de la Motte, who had been to inspect the fine galleryof paintings preserved in the old villa of Stanislaus Augustus, returnedto his hotel, and was informed by the now half distracted baroness of thedisappearance of their daughter. 

The Baron, struck with dismay, inquired into the circumstances of thecase, and was told of the shopping expedition to the Marieville Bazaar, where Valerie was first missed. 

"It was at her own earnest solicitation that I took her there, to pick upsome of the curiously carved jewelry and trinkets. First, she wished, inconsideration of my health, to go there attended only by her maid; but Iwould not allow any such indiscretion. I took her there myself, and evenwhile I was talking with her before one of the arcades, she vanished likea spirit! One moment she was there, the next moment she was gone! Welooked for her immediately, but found no trace of her. "

The baron replied not one word to this explanation, but took his hat andwalked out to join the search for the missing girl, while the baronessremained in her rooms, a prey to the most poignant anxiety. 

It was near midnight when the baron returned, looking full ten yearsolder than he did when he went forth. 

No trace of the missing girl had been found, and whether herdisappearance was a flight or an abduction no one could even conjecture. 

The condition of the agonized mother became critical; she could not bepersuaded to lie down, or to cease from her restless walking to and froin her chamber. 

At length, a physician was summoned, who administered a potent sedative, which conquered her nervous excitement, and laid her in a blessed sleepupon her bed. 

The next morning the search, which had not been quite abandoned evenduring the night, was renewed with great vigor, stimulated by the largerewards offered by the afflicted father for the recovery of his lostchild; but still no trace of Valerie de la Motte could be found, no newsof her be heard. 

And so, without any change a week passed away, and then, while thebaroness lay in extreme nervous prostration, hovering between life anddeath, and the baron crept about her bed like a man bowed down by theinfirmities of age, and all hope seemed gone, a letter arrived fromMademoiselle de la Motte to her parents. 

It was written from San Vito, a small mountain hamlet in the northernpart of Italy. By this letter she informed them that she was safe andhappy as the wife of Captain Waldemar de Volaski, who had long possessedher heart, and to whom she had just given her hand. She begged herfather and mother to pardon her for having sought her happiness in herown way, and assured them, notwithstanding her seemingly unfilialconduct, she still cherished the strongest sentiments of love and honortoward them both, and ever remained their dutiful and affectionatedaughter--VALERIE DE LA MOTTE DE VOLASKI. 

The mother, who under any other circumstances, would have beenoverwhelmed with mortification and sorrow at this _mesalliance_ ofher daughter, was now so glad to know that Valerie was alive in health, even though as the bride of a poor young captain of the Guards, that shethanked Heaven earnestly, and rejoiced exceedingly. 

But the baron who would as willingly have never heard of his lostdaughter, as that she had so degraded herself, left his wife'sbed-chamber abruptly, and went off to his smoking-room, where he couldvent his feelings by cursing and swearing to his heart's content. 

The next day the Baron de la Motte, breathing maledictions, set out forItaly, accompanied by the baroness, who had wonderfully rallied in healthand strength since she had received news of her missing daughter. 

The proud baroness was, in one respect, like the poor Hebrew mother ofthe Bible story. She preferred to give up her child to another claimantrather than lose that beloved child by death. 

The baron's party traveled day and night, without pause or rest, untilthey crossed the northern frontier of Italy, and halted at the littlehamlet of San Vito, at the foot of the Apennines. 

Here they found the fugitive pair living a sort of Arcadian life: andhere they learned the facts which they had not hitherto even suspected. 

Captain Waldemar de Volaski and Mademoiselle Valerie de la Motte hadloved each other from the first moment of their meeting at the ball givenin honor of the French minister, at the Imperial Palace of Annitchkoff, and had betrothed themselves to each other during the first month oftheir acquaintance. They had kept their betrothal a secret, only becausethey felt assured it would meet with the most violent opposition from theyoung lady's haughty parents; but they had carried on a constantepistolary correspondence through the instrumentality of the lover'svalet and the lady's maid; but they had not intended to take any decisivestep, until, at length, they were both startled by the recall home ofthe French minister. 

When the announcement of this event reached the ears of Waldemar deVolaski, he was filled with despair at the prospect of parting from hisbetrothed. 

He instantly dashed off a hasty letter to Valerie de la Motte, earnestlyentreating her to save his life, and his reason, and secure theirhappiness, by consenting to an immediate marriage. 

Mademoiselle de la Motte, closing her ears to the voice of conscience anddiscretion, and listening only to the pleadings of a reckless and fatalpassion, wrote a favorable answer. 

They knew that their plan would be exceedingly difficult of execution;but this did not deter them. 

They made their arrangements with more tact than could have been expectedof so youthful a pair of lovers. 

He obtained leave of absence and left St. Petersburg, as has been stated, upon the pretext of visiting his father's estate in Poland; but reallywith the intention of preceding the minister's party to Warsaw, where, hehad learned, they would break their journey and remain for a few days torecruit the strength of the baroness. 

There, disguised as a peasant, and concealed in the suburban cottageof a faithful retainer of his family, Waldemar de Volaski waited forthe arrival of the baron's party. 

Then, through the instrumentality of the lover's valet and the lady'smaid, a meeting was arranged between the imprudent young pair, at theMarieville Bazaar. 

There Mademoiselle de la Motte found her lover watching for her. 

Taking advantage of a few minutes during which her mother was engaged inthe examination of some curious malachite ornaments, Valerie de la Motteslipped into the thickest of the crowd, joined her lover, and escapedwith him to the suburban hut of the old retainer, where she changed herclothes, and from whence, in the disguise of a page, and carrying herfemale apparel in a small valise, she finally fled with him to Italy. 

They stopped at the little mountain hamlet of San Vito, where she resumedher proper dress, and where, by a lavish expenditure of money, and aliberal disbursement of fair words, Waldemar de Volaski prevailed ona priest to perform the marriage ceremony between himself and Valerie dela Motte. 

When this was done, the reckless pair took lodgings at a vine-dresser'scottage in the neighborhood of the hamlet, to spend their honeymoon, andwait for "coming events. "

The coming events came. The parents arrived, and found the lovers livingcarelessly and happily in their Arcadian home. Here the outraged andinfuriated father thundered into the ears of the newly-married pairthe terrible truth that their marriage was no marriage at all withouthis consent, but was utterly null and void in the law. 

At this astounding revelation, Valerie, overwhelmed with humiliation, fainted and fell, and was tenderly cared for by her mother; but thegallant captain very coolly replied that he knew the fact perfectly well, and had always known it, although Mademoiselle de la Motte had not evensuspected it; and he ventured to represent to the haughty baron, thattheir illegal marriage only required the sanction of his silentrecognition to render it perfectly legal, and that for his daughter'sown sake he was bound to give it such recognition. 

This aroused the baron to a perfect frenzy of rage. He charged Volaskiwith having traded in Mademoiselle de la Motte's affections and honor, from selfish and mercenary motives alone, and swore that such deep, calculating villainy should avail the villain nothing. He would notratify his daughter's marriage with such a caitiff, but would use hisparental power to tear her from her unlawful husband's arms, and immureher in the living tomb of an Italian convent. 

He finished by dashing his open hand with all his strength full into themouth of the bridegroom, inflicting a severe blow, and covering thehandsome face with blood. 

Valerie de la Motte, in a fainting condition, was placed in the cartof a vine-dresser, the only conveyance to be found, and carried to aneighboring nunnery, where she lay ill for several weeks, tenderly nursedby her sorrowful mother and by the compassionate nuns. 

The Baron de la Motte remained in the village, awaiting a challenge fromWaldemar de Volaski; but when a week had passed away without such anevent, the furious old Frenchman, bent upon his enemy's destruction, dispatched a defiance to Captain Volaski, couched in such insulting andexasperating language as compelled the young officer, much against hiswill, to accept it. 

They met to fight their duel in a secluded glade of the forest, lyingbetween the hamlet and the foot of the mountains. 

At the first fire, Volaski, who was resolved not to wound the father ofhis beloved Valerie, discharged his pistol in the air, but instantlyfell, shot through the lungs by the Baron de la Motte!

CHAPTER XXXIII. 

AFTER THE EARTHQUAKE. 

The Baron de la Motte, leaving Captain de Volaski stretched on theground, to be cared for by the seconds and the surgeon in attendance, went back to the hotel and made preparations to leave San Vito. 

Mademoiselle de la Motte, still very weak from recent illness, was placedin a carriage at the risk of her life, and compelled to commence thejourney back to France. 

Madame de la Motte, grieved with the grief and anxious for the health ofher daughter, dared not show the sufferer any pity or kindness. 

Monsieur de la Motte was no longer the tender and affectionate father hehad hitherto shown himself: for, in his bitter mortification and fierceresentment, his love seemed turned to hatred, his sympathy to antipathy. 

The attenuated form, the pale face, and the sunken eyes of his oncebeautiful child, failed to move his compassion for her. He told her withbrutal cruelty that he had slain her lover in the duel, and left him deadupon the ground; and that she must think no more of the villain who haddishonored her family. 

On arriving in Paris, the baron established his household in themagnificent Hotel de la Motte, in the most aristocratic quarter of thecity; and here began for Valerie a life that was a very purgatory onearth. 

At home, if her purgatory could be called her home, she was studiouslyand habitually treated with scorn and contempt, as a creature unworthy tobear the family name, or share the family honors; until at length thechild herself began to look upon her fault in the light her father wishedher to see it, and with such exaggerating eyes, withal, that she came tothink of herself as a dishonored criminal, unworthy even to live. Hergrief sank to horror, and her depression to despair. 

She was treated as an outcast in all respects but one, and this exceptionwas an additional cruelty; for she was introduced into the gay world offashion, and compelled to mix in all its festivities, at the same timebeing sternly warned that if this same world should suspect her fault, she would not be received in any drawing-room in Paris. 

Valerie was too broken-spirited to answer by telling the truth, that theworld and the world's favor had lost all attraction for her, who wouldwillingly have retired from it forever. 

Valerie was presented to society as Mademoiselle de la Motte, and nothingwas said of her stolen marriage with the young Russian officer. 

That season was perhaps the gayest Paris had ever known during thequiet reign of the citizen king and queen. Brilliant festivities inhonor of the Spanish marriages were the order of the days and nights. Representatives from every court in Europe were present, as specialmessengers of congratulation--or expostulation; for it will be rememberedthe Spanish marriages were not universally popular with the sovereigns ofEurope. 

Among the representatives of the English Court, present at the Tuileries, was the seventh Duke of Hereward, recently come into his titles andestates. 

It was at a ball at the Tuileries that Valerie de la Motte first met theDuke of Hereward, then a very handsome man of middle age, of accomplishedmind and courtly address. The beautiful, pale, grave brunette at onceinterested the English duke more than all the blooming and vivaciousbeauties at the French capital could do. At every ball, dinner, concert, play, or other place of amusement where Mademoiselle de la Motte appearedwith her parents, the Duke of Hereward sought her out; and the more hesaw of her, the more interested he became in her; and it must beconfessed that the conversation of this handsome and accomplished man ofmiddle age pleased the grave, sedate girl more than that of younger andgayer men could have done. 

The duke, on his part, was not slow to perceive his advantage, and hewould willingly have paid his addresses to Mademoiselle de la Motte inperson, and won her heart and hand for himself, before speaking to herfather on the subject; but as such a proceeding would not have been inaccordance with the customs of the country, no opportunity was allowedhim to do so; for whereas in England, or America, a suitor must win thefavor of his lady before he asks that of her parents, in France theprocess is precisely the reverse of all this, and the lover must have thesanction of the father or mother, or both, before he may dare to woo thedaughter; and this rule of etiquette holds good in all cases except inthose of stolen marriages, which are illegal and disreputable. 

It was not long, therefore, before the Duke or Hereward called at theHotel de la Motte, and requested a private interview with the baron, which was promptly and politely accorded. 

The duke then and there made known to the baron the state of hisaffections, and formally solicited the hand of Mademoiselle Valeriede la Motte in marriage. 

The "mad duke" was not then mad; he had not squandered his princelyfortune; his dukedom was one of the wealthiest as well as one of theoldest in the United Kingdom; the marriage he offered the baron'sdaughter was one of the most brilliant (under royalty) in Europe. 

The baron did not hesitate a moment, but promptly accepted the proposalsof the duke in behalf of his daughter. 

The Duke of Hereward hurried away, the happiest man in Europe. 

The Baron de la Motte went and informed his daughter that she mustprepare to receive the middle-aged suitor as her future husband. 

Now, Valerie, in a languid way, liked the Duke of Hereward better thanany one else in the whole world except her mother, but she did not likehim in the character of a husband. The idea of marriage even with him wasabhorrent to her. In her first surprise and dismay at the announcement ofthe duke's proposal for her hand, and her father's acceptance of thatproposal, she betrayed all the unconquerable antipathy she felt to thecontemplated marriage; but in vain she wept and pleaded to be left inpeace; to be left to die; to be sent to a convent; to be disposed of inany way rather than in marriage!

The baron was no longer a tender and compassionate father, but a ruthlessand implacable tyrant. 

Valerie's life had been a purgatory before, it was a hell now. She wascovered with reproach, contumely and threats by her father; she waslectured and mourned over by her mother; and when her mother at lengthtook sides with her father, in urging her to this marriage, the veryground seemed to have slidden from beneath her feet; she had not a friendin the world to whom to turn in her distress. 

Meanwhile the Duke of Hereward was impatiently awaiting the promisedsummons to the Hotel de la Motte to meet Mademoiselle Valerie as hisfuture wife. 

Valerie believed that her young lover-husband had been slain in the duelwith her father; and that she was free to bestow her hand, if she couldnot give her broken heart; she was worn out with the ignominiousreproaches heaped upon her by her father; by the tears and sighs lavishedupon her by her mother; by all the humiliation and degradations of herdaily life, and by the dreariness and desolation of her home. She longedfor peace and rest; she would gladly have sought them in a convent hadshe been permitted to do so, or in the grave, had she dared. 

I repeat that she did not dislike the Duke of Hereward; but on thecontrary, she liked him better than any one else in the world except hermother, and so it followed that at length she began to look upon amarriage with him as the only possible refuge from the horrors of herhome. 

What wonder, then, that, goaded and taunted by her father, implored byher mother, solicited by the handsome duke, believing her young lover tobe dead, slain by the hands of her father, longing to escape from thepersecutions of her family, prostrated in body and mind, broken in heartand in spirit, Valerie at last succumbed to the pressure brought to bearupon her, and accepted the refuge of the Duke of Hereward's love, although the very next moment, in honor of herself and him, shewould willingly have recalled her decision, if she could have done so. 

From the moment that her acceptance of the duke's proposal was announcedto her parents, the domestic sky cleared; her ruthless tyrant becameagain her tender father; her weeping mother brightened into smiles;she herself was once more the petted daughter of the house, and her lovershowed himself the proudest and happiest of men; and Valerie de la Mottewould have been at peace but for her consciousness of the secret thatthey were all keeping from the duke. 

"Mamma, he ought to be told, he is so good, so noble, so confiding. Ifeel like a wretch in deceiving him; he ought to be told of my faultbefore he commits himself by marrying me, " she pleaded with her mother. 

"Valerie, you frighten me half to death! Do not dream of such a folly astelling the duke anything about your mad imprudence in running away withthe young Russian! It would make a great and terrible scandal! Yourfather would kill you, I do believe! Besides, for that fault, committedwhile you were in our keeping and under our authority, you areaccountable only to me and to your father. Your betrothed husband hasnothing to do with it. No good would come of your telling it; no harm cancome of your keeping it. The wild partner of your imprudence is dead andburied, the saints be praised! and so he can never rise up to troubleyour peace. While you are here with us, and under our authority, you mustobey us, and hold your peace, and keep your secret, " said the baroness. 

"Come weal, come woe, my honor requires that this secret should be toldto the noble and confiding gentleman who is about to make me his wife, "murmured Valerie. 

"Your honor, Mademoiselle, is in the keeping of your father, until, bygiving you in marriage, he passes it into the keeping of your husband. You are not to concern yourself about it. If your father should deem thatyour 'honor' demands your secret to be confided to your betrothedhusband, he will divulge it to him: if he does not divulge it, then restassured honor does not require him to do so. Now let us hear no moreabout it. "

Valerie sighed and yielded, but she was not satisfied. 

The betrothal was immediately announced to the world, and the marriage, which soon followed, was celebrated in the church of Notre Dame with thegreatest _eclat_. 

Directly after the wedding the duke took his bride on a long tour, extending over Europe and into Asia; and after an absence of severalmonths, carried her to England, and settled down for the autumn on hisEnglish patrimonial estate, Hereward Hold, (for Castle Lone was then aruin and Inch Lone a wilderness, which no one had yet dreamed ofrebuilding and restoring. )

The youthful duchess, in her quiet English home, was like Louise laValliere in the Convent of St. Cyr, "not joyous, but content. "

She tried to make her noble husband happy, by fulfilling all the dutiesof a wife--_except one_. She knew a wife should have no secrets fromher husband, yet, in her fear of disturbing the sweet domestic peace, inwhich her wearied spirit rested, she kept from him the secret of herfirst wild marriage. 

At the meeting of Parliament in February, the Duke of Hereward took hisbeautiful young wife to London, and established her in their magnificenttown-house--Hereward House, Kensington. 

At the first Royal drawing-room at Buckingham Palace, the young duchesswas presented to the queen, and soon after she commenced her career as awoman of fashion by giving a grand ball at Hereward House. 

The Duke of Hereward was very fond and very proud of his lovely youngbride, whose beauty soon became the theme of London clubs--thoughinvidious critics insisted that she was much too pale and grave ever tobecome a reigning belle. 

Yes, she was very pale and grave; peaceful, not happy. 

Scarcely twelve months had passed since she had been cruelly torn fromthe idolized young husband of her youth and thrown into a convent, wherethe only news that she heard of him was, that he had been killed in aduel with her ruthless father. She had mourned for him in secret, withouthope and without sympathy, and before the first year of her widowhood hadpassed--a widowhood she had been sternly forbidden by her father eitherto bewail or even to acknowledge--she had been driven by a series ofunprecedented persecutions to give her hand where she could not give herbroken heart, and to go to the altar with a deadly secret on herconscience, if not with a lie on her lips!

Now her persecutions had ceased, indeed; but not her sorrows. Her homewas quiet and honored, her middle-aged husband was kind and considerate, and she loved him with filial affection and reverence; but she could notforget the husband of her youth, slain by her father; his memory was atender sorrow cherished in the depths of her heart, the only livingsentiment there, for it seemed dead to all else. 

"If he were a living lover, " she whispered to herself, "I should be boundby every consideration of honor and duty to cast him out of my heart--ifI could! But for my dead boy, my husband, slain in the flower of hisyouth for my sake, I may cherish remembrance and sorrow. "

Thus, it is no wonder that she moved through the splendor of her firstLondon season, a beautiful, pale, grave Melpomene. 

But the splendor of that season was soon to be dimmed. 

News came by telegraph to the Duke of Hereward, announcing the suddendeath of the Baron de la Motte, of apoplexy, in Paris. 

Now much has been said and written about the ingratitude of children; butquite as much might be said of their indestructible affection. The Baronde la Motte had shown himself a very cruel father to his only child; hehad shot down her young husband in a duel; yet, notwithstanding all that, Valerie was wild with grief at the news of his sudden death. Shewondered, poor child, if she herself had not had some hand in bringingit on by all the trouble she had given him, although that trouble hadpassed away now more than twelve months since; and the late baron wasknown to have been a man of full habit and excitable temperament, and, withal, a heavy feeder and hard drinker--a very fit subject for apoplexyto strike down at any moment. 

The Duke and Duchess of Hereward hastened to Paris, where they found theremains of the baron laid in state in the great saloon of the Hotel de laMotte, and the widowed baroness prostrated by grief, and confined to herbed. 

The duke and duchess remained until after the funeral, when the will ofthe late baron was read. It was then discovered for the first time thathis daughter, Valerie, was not nearly the wealthy heiress she wassupposed to be. 

All the late baron's landed estates went to the male heir-at-law, a youngofficer in the Chasseurs d' Afrique, then in Algiers. All his personalproperty, consisting of bank and railroad stocks, after a deduction as aprovision for his widow, was bequeathed to his only daughter Valerie, Duchess of Hereward. But this property was so inconsiderable, that, without other means, it would scarcely have sufficed for the respectablesupport of the mother and daughter. 

After the settlement of the late baron's affairs, the duke and duchesswould have returned immediately to London but for the condition of thewidowed baroness' health. 

Madame de la Motte had for years been a delicate invalid, and she hadexperienced, in the sudden death of her husband, a severe shock, fromwhich she could not rally; so that, within a few weeks after the baron'sremains had been laid in the family vault, she passed away, and hers werelaid by his side. 

Valerie was even more prostrated with sorrow by the loss of her motherthan she had been by that of her father. 

The duke, to distract her grief, telegraphed to New Haven, where hisyacht, the _Sea-Bird_, was lying to have her brought over to meethim at Dieppe, took his duchess down to that little seaport and embarkedwith her for a voyage to Norway. 

The season was most favorable for such a northerly voyage. They sailed onthe first of July, and spent three months cruising about the coasts ofNorway, Iceland, and down to the Western Isles. They returned about thefirst of October. 

The duke left his yacht at Dieppe, and, accompanied by the duchess, wentup to Paris, to attend to some business connected with the estate of thelate baron. 

As but a third of a year had passed since the death of her parents, andthe duchess had scarcely passed out of her first deep crape mourning, shewent very little into society. Nevertheless, she was constrained, at theduke's request, to accept one invitation. 

There was to be a diplomatic dinner given at the British Legation, atwhich the Prussian, Austrian and Russian ministers, with the higherofficers of their suites, were to be present. 

Valerie, living her recluse life in the city, did not know the names ofone of these ministers, nor, in the apathy of her grief, did she care toinquire. 

On the evening appointed for the entertainment, she went to the hotel ofthe British Legation, escorted by her husband. 

Dressed in her rich and elegant mourning of jet on crape, glimmeringlight on blackest darkness, and looking herself paler and fairer by itscontrast, she entered the grand drawing-room, leaning on the arm of herhusband. She heard their names announced:

"The Duke and Duchess of Hereward. "

Then she found herself in a room sparsely occupied by a very brilliantcompany, and stood--not, as she had expected to stand, amongstrangers--but in the midst of her own familiar friends, whom she hadknown in her girlhood at the court of St. Petersburg, or met, in herwomanhood, in the drawing-rooms of London. 

It was while she was still leaning on her husband's arm and receiving thecourteous salutations of her old friends, that their host, Lord C--n, approached with a gentleman. 

Valerie looked up and saw standing before her the young husband of hergirlish love!

CHAPTER XXXIV. 

RISEN FROM THE GRAVE. 

Waldemar de Volaski, left as dead upon the duelling ground by hisantagonist, the Baron de la Motte, was tenderly lifted by his second andthe surgeon in attendance, laid upon a stretcher, and conveyed to theinfirmary of a neighboring monastery, where he was charitably received bythe brethren. 

When he was laid upon a bed, undressed, and examined, it was discoveredthat he was not dead, but only swooning from the loss of blood. 

When his wound was probed, it was found that the bullet had passed theright lobe of the lungs, and lodged in the flesh below the right shoulderblade. To extract it, under the circumstances, or to leave it there, seemed equally dangerous, threatening, on the one hand, inflammationand mortification, and, on the other, fatal hemorrhage. Therefore, thesurgeon in charge of the case sent off to the nearest town to summonother medical aid, and meanwhile kept up the strength of the patientby stimulants. In the consultation that ensued on the arrival of theother surgeons, it was decided that the extraction of the bullet would bedifficult and dangerous; but that in it lay the only chance of thepatient's life. 

On the next morning, therefore, Waldemar de Volaski was put under theinfluence of chloroform, and the operation was performed. His youth andvigorous constitution bore him safely through the trying ordeal, butcould not save him from the terrible irritative fever that set in andheld him in its fiery grasp for many days there after. 

He was well tended by the holy brotherhood, who sent to thevine-dresser's cottage for information concerning him, that they mightfind out who and where were his friends, and write and apprise them ofhis condition. 

But the vine-dresser could tell the monks no more than this--that theyoung man and young woman had come as strangers to the village, weremarried by the good Father Pietro in the church of San Vito, and hadcome to lodge in his cottage. The young pair had lived as merrily as twobirds in a bush until the sudden arrival of an illustrious and furioussignore, who tore the bride from the arms of her husband, and carried heroff to the convent of Santa Madelena. That was all the vine-dresser knew. 

The surgeon supplemented the vine-dresser's story with an account of theduel between the enraged baron and the young captain. 

The good Father Pietro was next interviewed, and gave the names of theimprudent young pair whom he had tied together, as Waldemar Peter deVolaski and Valerie Aimee de la Motte; but besides this, who theywere, or whence they came, he could not tell. 

Inquiries were made in the village of San Vito, which only resulted inthe information that the "illustrious" strangers had departed with theirdaughter no one knew whither. 

Meanwhile the unfortunate victim of the duel tossed and tumbled, fumedand raved in fever and delirium, that raged like fire for nine days, andthen left him utterly prostrated in mind and body. Many more days passedbefore he was able to answer questions, and weeks crept by before hecould give any coherent account of himself. 

His first sensible inquiry related to his bride. 

"Where is she? What have they done with her?" he demanded to know. 

"The illustrious signore has taken the signorita away with him, no oneknows whither, " answered the monk who was minding him. 

"I know--so he has taken her away?--I know where he has taken her, --toParis, " faltered the victim, and immediately fainted dead away, exhaustedby the effort of speaking these words. 

His next question, asked after the interval of a week, related to thelength of time he had been ill. 

"How long have I lain stretched upon this bed?" he asked. 

"The Signore Captain has been here four weeks, " answered his nurse. 

"Great Heaven! then I have exceeded my month's leave by two weeks! Ishall be court-martialed and degraded!" cried the patient, starting upin great excitement, and instantly swooning away from the reaction. 

In this manner the recovery of the wounded man became a matter ofdifficulty and delay; for as often as he rallied sufficiently to lookinto his affairs, their threatening aspect threw him back prostrated. 

He recovered, however, by slow degrees. 

As soon as he was able to sustain the continued exertion of talking, herequested one of the brothers on duty in the infirmary to write twoletters at his dictation. The first was addressed to the colonel of hisregiment, informing that officer of the long and severe illness ofCaptain de Volaski, and petitioning for the invalid an extended leave ofabsence. The other was to the Count de Volaski, apprising that noblemanof the condition of his son, and imploring him to hasten at once to thebedside of the patient. 

The next morning Waldemar de Volaski sat up in bed and asked forstationery, and wrote with his own weak and trembling hand a short letterto his youthful bride--telling her that he had been very ill, but was nowconvalescent, and that as soon as he should be able to travel he wouldhasten to Paris and claim his wife in the face of all the fathers, priests and judges in Paris, or in the world. He addressed her as hiswell beloved wife, signed himself her ever-devoted husband, and had thetemerity to direct his letter to Madame Waldemar de Volaski, Hotel de laMotte, Rue Faubourg St. Honore, Paris. 

The mail left St. Vito only twice a week, so that the three letters leftthe post office on the same day to their respective destinations; onewent to St. Petersburg, to the Colonel of the Royal Guards; one toWarsaw, to the Count de Volaski; and one to Paris, to Madame de Volaski. 

In the course of the next week the writer received answers from all threeletters. The first came from the colonel of his regiment, enclosing anextension of his leave of absence to three months; the second wasanswered in person by the Count de Volaski; the third was only anenvelope, enclosing his letter to Valerie, crossed with this line:

_"No such person to be found. "_

The meeting between the Count de Volaski and his reckless son was not inall respects a pleasant one. There was an explanation to be demanded bythe father a confession to be made by the son. The count was dividedbetween his anxiety for his son and indignation at that son's conduct. 

"You exposed more than your own life by the escapade, sir!" said theelder Volaski, "You abducted a minor, sir; for doing which you might havebeen prosecuted for felony, and sent to the gaol!--a fate so much worsethan your death in the duel would have been for the honor of your family, that, had you been consigned to it, I should have cursed the hour youwere born and blown my own brains out, in expiation of my share in yourexistence!"

The yet nervous invalid shuddered, and covered his face with his hands. 

"But even that was not the greatest calamity your rashness provoked! Youpresumed to carry off the French minister's daughter while they were yetin the dominions of the Czar! by doing which you might have caused a warbetween two great nations, and the sacrifice of a million of lives!"

"Sir, forbear! I have not yet recovered from the severe illnessconsequent upon my wound. Surely, I have suffered enough at the handsof the ruthless Baron de la Motte!" said Waldemar de Volaski. 

"The Baron de la Motte, being your enemy, is mine also; yet I cannot butadmit that he has dealt very leniently with the abductor of his daughterby merely shooting him through the lungs, and laying him on a bed ofrepentance, when he might have prosecuted him as a felon, and sent him topenal servitude!" said the count, severely. "But there, " he exclaimed, "Iwill say no more on that subject. As you say, you have suffered enoughalready to expiate your fault. You have nearly lost your life, and youhave quite lost your love; for, of course, you know that your foolingmarriage with a minor was no marriage at all, unless her father hadchosen to make it so by his recognition. And if you ever had a chance ofwinning the girl, you have lost it by your imprudence. You must try toget up your strength now, so as to go with me back to Warsaw. "

So saying, the count left the bedside of his son, and went into therefectory of the monastery, where a substantial repast had been preparedto regale the traveler. 

The young man wrote yet another letter to his love, enclosing it on thisoccasion in an envelope directed to the lady's maid, who had onceassisted the lovers in carrying on their correspondence; but as the maidhad been long discharged from the service of her mistress, it wasimpossible that the letter should have reached her. The lover wrote againand again without receiving an answer to letters which it is certain hislost bride never received. 

Captain de Volaski's three months' extended leave of absence had nearlyexpired before he was in a condition to travel; and even then he had togo by slow stages, riding only during the day and resting at night, untilthey reached Warsaw. 

He spent a week at his father's castle, watched and wept over by hismother, who had not a reproach for her son, nor anything to offer him buther sympathy and her services. Six months had now passed away since hisparting with his stolen bride; and it was the day before his expectedreturn to his regiment that a packet of newspapers arrived for him, forwarded from St. Petersburg. 

He tore the envelopes off them. They were English, French and Germanpapers. He threw all away except the French papers. He eagerly examinedthem, in the hope of seeing the name of the Baron de la Motte, andforming thereby some idea of the movements of the family, and thewhereabouts of Valerie. 

The first paper he took up was _Le Courier de Paris_, and the firstitem that caught his eye was this--

"MARRIED. --At the Church of Notre Dame, on Tuesday, March 1st, by theMost Venerable, the Archbishop of Paris, the Duke of Hereward, toValerie, only daughter of the Baron de la Motte. "

With the cry and spring of a panther robbed of its young, Volaski boundedto his feet. His rage and anguish were equal, and beyond all power ofarticulate or rational utterance. He strode up and down the floor likea maniac; he raved; he beat his breast, and tore his hair and beard; andfinally, he rushed into the parlor where his father and mother wereseated together over a quiet game of chess, and he dashed the paper downon the table before them, smote his hand upon the fatal marriage notice, and exclaimed in a voice of indescribable anguish:

"See! see! see! see!"

"It is just as I thought it would be, " said the count, as he calmlyread over the item, and passed it to his amazed wife. "The baron haswisely taken the first opportunity of marrying off his wilful girl--thebest thing he could have done for her. I am sure I am glad she is nodaughter-in-law of mine! She who could so lightly elope from her fathermight as lightly elope from her husband also. "

Waldemar made no reply, but stood looking the image of desolation, untilhis mother having read through the notice, and grasped the situation, arose and threw her arms around his neck, exclaiming in a burst ofsympathy:

"Oh, my son! my son! my son! my son! forget her! forget the heartlessjilt! she was unworthy of you!"

A burst of wild and bitter laughter answered this appeal and frightenedthe good lady half out of her wits. 

"Let him go back to his regiment and be a man among men, and not lose histime whimpering after a silly girl, who has not sense enough even to takecare of herself. The man to be most pitied is that husband of hers! Uponmy word and honor, I am sorry for that English duke! Yes, _that_ Iam!" said the count, heartily. 

The next day Waldemar de Volaski returned to his regiment at St. Petersburg. 

As his brother officers happily knew nothing of his elopement with theminister's daughter, and the duel that followed it; but supposed that hislong absence had been occasioned by a long illness, he escaped all thatexasperating chaff that might, under the circumstances, have halfmaddened him. 

He threw himself, for distraction, into all the wildest gayeties of theRussian capital, and led the life of a reckless young sinner, until hewas suddenly brought to his senses by a domestic calamity. He received atelegram announcing the sudden death of his father and his elder brother, both of whom were instantly killed by an accident on the St. Petersburgand Warsaw Railroad, while on their way to the Russian capital. 

Stricken with grief, and with the remorse which grief is sure to awakenin the heart of a wrong-doer not altogether hardened, Waldemar de Volaskihastened down to Warsaw to support his almost inconsolable mother throughthe horrors of that sudden bereavement and that double funeral. 

By the death of his father and elder brother, he became the CountVolaski, and the heir of all the family estates; and there were leftdependent on him his widowed mother and several younger brothers andsisters. 

At the earnest request of his mother he resigned his commission in theRoyal Guards, and went down to reside with the family on the estate, during their retirement for the year of mourning. 

Before that year was half over, however, the young Count de Volaskireceived a summons to the court of his sovereign. 

He obeyed it immediately by hurrying up to St. Petersburg. 

On his arrival, he presented himself at the Annitchkoff Palace to receivethe commands of the Czar, and he was appointed Secretary of Legation tothe new Russian Embassy about to proceed to Paris. 

To Paris! to the home of Valerie de la Motte! The order agitated him tothe profoundest depths of his being. He would have declined the honorabout to be thrust upon him, could he have done so with propriety; but hecould not, so there was no alternative but to kiss his sovereign's hand, express his sense of gratitude, and obey. 

The embassy left St. Petersburg for the French capital almostimmediately. 

On the arrival at Paris they were established in the splendid MaisonFrancoise in the Champs Elysees. 

As soon as he was at leisure, the Count de Volaski drove to the RueFaubourg St. Honore, and to the Hotel de la Motte. He found the houseshut up, and upon inquiry of a gend'arme, learned, with more surprisethan regret, that the Baron and Baroness de la Motte had both been deadfor some months; the baron, who was a free liver, had been suddenlystricken down by apoplexy, and the baroness, whose health had long beenfeeble, could not rally from the shock, but soon followed her husband. 

"And, --where is their daughter, Madame la Duchesse d'Hereward?"hesitatingly inquired the Count de Volaski. 

The gend'arme could not tell; he did not know; but supposed that she wasliving with her husband, Monsieur le Duc, on his estates in England. 

No, clearly the gend'arme did not know; for, in fact, the Duke andthe Duchess of Hereward were at that time living very quietly in theclosed-up house at which the count and the gend'arme stood gazing whilethey talked. 

Count de Volaski re-entered his carriage and returned to the MaisonFrancoise in time to attend the official reception of the embassy by thecitizen-king at the Tuileries. 

After the act of national and official etiquette, the embassy were freeto enter into the social festivities of the gayest capital in the world. 

Among other entertainments, a great diplomatic dinner was given at theEnglish Legation, then the magnificent Hotel Borghese, once the residenceof the beautiful Princess Pauline Bonaparte, but now the seat of theBritish Embassy. Among the invited guests were the Russian minister andhis Secretary of Legation, Count de Volaski. 

The count came late and found the splendid drawing-room honored with asmall, but brilliant, company of ladies and gentlemen, the former amongthe most celebrated beauties, the latter the most distinguished statesmenof Europe. 

Nearly every one in the room were strangers to the Russian count; but hisEnglish host, with sincere kindness and courtesy, took care to presenthim to all the most agreeable persons present. 

"And now, " whispered Lord C--n, in conclusion, "I have reserved the bestfor the last. Come and let me introduce you to the most interesting womanin Paris. "

Count de Volaski suffered himself to be conducted to the upper end of theroom, where a tall and elegant-looking woman, dressed in rich mourning, stood, leaning on the arm of a stately, middle-aged man. 

Her face was averted as they approached; but she turned her head and herecognized the beautiful, pale face and lovely dark eyes of his lostbride. 

And while the floor of the drawing-room seemed rocking with him, like thedeck of a tempest-tossed ship, he heard the words of his host whirlingthrough his brain:

"Madame, permit me to present to you Count de Volaski of St. Petersburg;Count, the Duchess of Hereward. "

CHAPTER XXXV. 

FACE TO FACE. 

"Madame, permit me to present to you Count de Volaski, of St. Petersburg--Count, the Duchess of Hereward, " said Lord C. , with old-timecourtesy and formality. 

The gentleman bowed low; the lady courtesied; nothing but the closecompression of his lips beneath the golden mustache, and the paler shadeon her pale cheeks, betrayed the "whirlwind of emotion" which sweptthrough both their hearts; and these indications of disturbance were tooslight to attract any attention. 

Neither spoke, neither dared to speak. It was as much as each could do tomaintain a conventional calmness through the terrible ordeal of such anintroduction. 

Lord C. , happily unconscious of anything wrong, did the very best thinghe could have done under the circumstances. Scarcely allowing the countand the duchess time to exchange their bow and courtesy, he turned to hercompanion and said:

"Duke, the Count de Volaski. Count, the Duke of Hereward. "

Both gentlemen bowed; but _one_, the count, quivered from head tofoot in the presence of his unconscious but successful rival. 

"By the way, Count, " said the duke, pleasantly, "the duchess, whenMademoiselle de la Motte, passed a year at the court of St. Petersburgwith her parents. It is a wonder that you have not met before. Although, indeed, you may have done so, " he added, as with an after-thought. 

"We have met before, " replied the Count de Volaski, in a low and measuredtone. 

"Of course! Of course! You are quite old friends, " said the duke, gayly. 

Fortunately, then a diversion was made. The heavy, purple satin curtainsvailing the arch between the drawing-rooms and dining saloon were drawnaside by invisible hands, and a very dignified and officer-lookingpersonage, in a powdered wig, clerical black suit, and gold chain, appeared, and with a low bow and with low tones, said:

"My lord and lady are served. "

"Count, will you take the duchess in to dinner?--Duke, Lady C. Will thankyou for your arm, " said the host, as, with a nod and a smile, he movedoff in search of that particular ambassadress whom custom, or etiquette, or policy, required him to escort to the dining-room. 

The Duke of Hereward with a polite wave of the hand, left his duchess inthe charge of her appointed attendant, and went to meet Lady C. , who wasadvancing toward him. 

Count Volaski bowed, and silently offered his arm to the young duchess. 

She did not take it; she could not; she stood as one paralyzed. 

He was stronger, firmer, calmer; perhaps because he really felt less thanshe did. He took her hand and drew it within his own, and led her to herplace in the little procession that was going to the dining-room. 

He placed her in her chair at the table, and took his seat at her side. 

Then the self-control of their order, the self-control instilled as avirtue by their education, and standing now in the place of all virtues, enabled them to maintain a superficial calmness that conducted themsafely through the trying ordeal of this dinner-table. 

Count de Volaski entered freely into the conversation of the guests. TheDuchess of Hereward spoke but little; hers was a passive self-control, not an active one; she could force herself to be, or seem, composed;she could not force herself to talk; but her deep mourning dress was agood excuse for her extreme quietness, which was naturally ascribed toher recent and double bereavement. 

The dinner was a long, long agony to her; the courses seemed almostendless in duration and numberless in succession; but at length thehostess arose and gave the signal for the ladies to retire and leavethe gentlemen to their wine and politics. 

The gentlemen all stood up while the ladies passed out to thedrawing-room. 

Valerie would willingly have gone off to hide herself in some bay-windowor other nook or corner of the vast drawing-room, and taken up a book ora piece of music as an excuse for her reserve; but as they passed throughthe curtained archway leading from the dining-saloon to the drawing-room, Lady C. , with the kindest intentions toward the supposed mourner, andwith the motherly grace for which her ladyship was noted, drew Valerie'sarm within her own and began a conversation, to draw her mind from thecontemplation of her bereavements. 

"What do you think of the young Russian count who brought you in todinner, my dear?" inquired Lady C. 

"I--he is a Pole, " answered Valerie, in a low voice. 

"Yes, I am aware that he is a Pole by birth; but he is a thorough Russianin politics and principles; has been in the service of the Czar since theage of fifteen. --Here, my love, sit beside me, " added her ladyship, asshe sank gracefully down upon a sofa and drew her young guest to herside. 

Valerie submitted in silence. 

"Oh, by the way, however, I think I heard some one say that you had metthe count at the court of St. Petersburg?" pursued Lady C. 

"I--have met him, " answered Valerie, in the same level tone. 

"I am boring you, I fear, with this young Russian, my dear, but--"

"Oh no, " softly interrupted Valerie. 

"I was about to explain that I feel some interest in him from the factthat he is betrothed to my niece--"

"Betrothed! Your niece!" exclaimed Valerie, surprised out of the apathyof her despair. 

"Yes, my love. Is there anything wonderful in that? It is a way thesecontinental people have of doing things, you see. The Count Waldemar andmy niece were betrothed to each other in their childhood. There is a verygreat attachment between them--at least on her part. The child seems tothink that there is but one man in the world and his name is Waldemar deVolaski. "

"But--I did not know--I thought--I did not think--the count had ever beenin England, " incoherently murmured Valerie. 

"Nor has he; but what has that to do with it?" smiled her ladyship. 

"Your niece--"

"Oh, I see! Because I am an Englishwoman my niece must be one, youthink. You are mistaken, dear; she is French. My sister Anne marrieda Frenchman, the Marquis de St. Cyr. They had two children--Alphouse, a colonel in the Chasseurs d'Afrique, now in Algiers; and Aimee, now inthe Convent of St. Rosalie. It was when the late Count de Volaski washere as the minister from Russia, that the acquaintance between the twofamilies commenced and ripened into intimacy and the intimacy intofriendship. Then Waldemar and Aimee were betrothed. "

"How many years ago was that?" faintly inquired Valerie. 

"Oh, about six--the young man was then about fifteen; the girl not morethan twelve. "

"They could not have known their own minds at that age, " murmuredValerie. 

"Oh, that was not at all necessary in a French betrothal, " laughed thelady; "but, however, Aimee, child as she was, certainly knew her mind. The love of her betrothed husband was, and is, the religion of her life. I presume that Count Waldemar is equally constant; and that he will nowpress for a speedy marriage. My brother-in-law is down on his estates inProvence, just now; but I shall write and ask his permission to withdrawAimee from her convent, in anticipation of her marriage, for of courseshe will be married from this house. "

"But--her mother?"

"Oh! I should have told you; her mother, my dear sister Anne, passedaway about a year after the betrothal of her daughter. The marquis tookher loss very much to heart, and has never married again. The motherlessgirl has passed her life in a convent; but I hope to have her out soon. Here, my love, is an album containing portraits of my sister andbrother-in-law and their children, taken at various times. You cannotmistake them, and they may interest you, " said Lady C. , taking aphotographic volume from a gilded stand near, and laying it upon herguest's lap. 

Valerie received it with a nod of thanks, and the lady glided away togive some of her attention to her other guests. 

"The young English duchess is lovely, but too sad, " said an embassadress, as the hostess joined her. 

"Ah! yes, poor child! lost her father and mother within a few weeks ofeach other, " answered Lady C. 

"But that was six months ago; she ought to have recovered somecheerfulness by this time, " remarked old Madame Bamboullet, who was awalking register of all the births, deaths and marriages of high lifein Paris for the last half century. 

"Well, you see she has not done so; but here come the gentlemen, "observed Lady C. , as a rather straggling procession from the dining-roomentered. 

The host, Lord C. , went up to the embassadress to whom it was his cue tobe most attentive. 

The Duke of Hereward sought out his hostess, and entered into a banteringconversation with her. 

Count Waldemar de Volaski came directly up to Valerie where she sat aloneon the sofa in a distant corner of the room. The little gilded standstood before her, and the photographic album lay open upon it. Her eyeswere fixed upon the album, and were not raised to see the new-comer; butthe sudden accession of pallor on her pale face betrayed her recognitionof him. 

He drew a chair so close to her sofa that only the little gilded standstood between them. His back was toward the company; his face toward her;his elbows, with unpardonable rudeness, were placed upon the stand, andhis hands supported his chin, as he stared into her pale face with itsdowncast eyes. 

"Valerie, " he said. 

She did not look up. 

"Valerie de Volaski!" he muttered. 

_"My wife!"_

She shuddered, but did not lift her eyes. 

She shrank into herself, as it were, and her eyes fell lower than before. 

"Is it thus we two meet at last?" he demanded, in low, stern, measuredtones, pitched to meet her ear alone. "Is it thus I find you, after allthat has passed between us, bearing the name and title of another manwho calls himself your husband, oh! shame of womanhood!"

"They told me our marriage was not legal, was not binding!" she pantedunder her breath. 

"It should have been religiously, sacredly binding up on you as it wasupon me, until we could have made it legal. It is amazing that you couldhave dreamed of marriage with another man!" muttered Volaski. 

"But they told me you were dead. They told me you were dead!" she gasped, as if she were in her own death throes. 

"Even if they had told you truly--even if I had been dead--dead by thehand of your father--could that circumstance have excused you for rushingwith such indecent haste to the altar with another man? It was but a poortribute to the memory of the husband of your choice (if he had been dead)to marry again within six months. "

"Oh, mercy! Oh, my heart! my heart! They forced me into that marriage, Waldemar! They forced me into that marriage! I was as helpless as aninfant in the hands of my father and my mother!" she panted, in a voicethat was the more heart-rending from half suppression. 

"Valerie! love! wife!" murmured Volaski, in low and tender tones, as heessayed to take her hand. 

But she snatched it from him hastily, gasping:

"Do not speak to me in that way! Do not call me love or wife!"

"No man on earth has a better right to speak to you in this way than Ihave. No _other_ man in the world has the right to call you love orwife but me! You _are_ my wife!" grimly answered the young count. 

"I am the wife of the Duke of Hereward. Oh, Heaven, that I were a corpseinstead!" gasped Valerie. 

"'The wife of the Duke of Hereward!' Have you then forgotten ourbetrothal at St. Petersburg? Our flight from Warsaw to St. Vito? Ourmarriage at the little chapel of Santa Maria? Our short, blissfulhoneymoon in the vine-dresser's cottage under the Apennines?" heinquired, bitterly. 

"I have forgotten nothing! Oh, Heaven! Oh, earth! Oh, Waldemar! thatI could die! that I could die!" she wailed in low, heartbroken tones. 

It was well for her that the corner sofa stood in the shade, far removedfrom the seats of the other guests in that long drawing-room. 

"Valerie! love! wife!" he murmured again. 

"Oh, Waldemar, if I were your wife, as I truly believed myself then tohave been, oh, why did you not defend and protect me from all the world, even from my father--even from myself? Oh, why did you suffer me to betorn from your protection, to be deceived with a false story of yourdeath, and forced into this marriage? Oh, Waldemar! if I were indeed andin truth your lawful wife, as I believed myself to be, why, oh why didyou permit all these evils to happen to me? Ah, what a position is mine!What a position! I cannot bear it! I will not bear it! I will not live!I will kill myself! I _ought_ to kill myself! It is the only way outof this!" she wailed, wringing her hands. 

"I will kill that Duke of Hereward!" hissed Volaski, through his clenchedteeth. 

"Hush! For mercy's sake, hush! Put away such thoughts from your heart!I, the only wrong-doer, should be the only victim! Whatever wrong hasbeen done, the Duke of Hereward has been blameless. He knew nothing ofmy former marriage; if he had, I do not believe he would have married me, even if I had been a princess. "

"He was deceived, then?" coldly inquired the count. 

"He was; but not willingly by me. I was forced to be silent about mymarriage. "

"You were 'forced' from my protection! 'forced' to conceal the fact ofyour marriage with me! and 'forced' to marry the Duke of Hereward underfalse colors. Could force on one side, and feebleness on the other, becarried any further than this?" muttered Volaski, between his teeth. 

"I knew how helpless, in the hands of my parents, I was, " wailed Valerie. 

"Well, you are a duchess! Do you love the Duke of Hereward?"

"Oh, mercy! what shall I say? He deserves all my love, honor, and duty!"

"Does he _get_ his deserts?" mockingly inquired Volaski. 

"Ah! wretch that I am, why do I live?--I give him honor and duty; butlove! _love is not mine to give!_" she murmured, in almost inaudibletones. 

Their conversation--if an interview so emotional, so full of "starts andflaws" could be called so--had been carried on in a very low tone, whilethe count turned over the leaves of the photographic album, as ifexamining the portraits, but really without seeing one. 

They were, however, so absorbed that neither perceived the approach of afootman until the man actually set down a small golden tray with twolittle porcelain cups of tea on the stand between them, and retired. 

Valerie looked up with a sudden shudder of terror. Had the company, orany one of their number, overheard any part of the fatal interview? No, the company were drinking tea, at the other end of the room. 

And now the Duke of Hereward, with a tea-cup in his hand, saunteredtoward them, saying, as he reached the stand:

"Lady C. Has just been telling me that you are showing the duchess someinteresting family pictures there--among the rest, those of your _bellefiancee_. When shall I congratulate you, Count?"

"Not yet; I will advise your grace of my marriage, " answered the count, gravely. 

"Something gone wrong in that direction, " thought the duke, but his goodhumor was invincible. 

"If you have no engagement for to-morrow evening, I hope you will comeand dine with us _en famille_, for we do not see much company, theduchess and myself. "

Valerie cast an imploring look on the count, silently praying him todecline the invitation; but Volaski did not understand the meaning ofthe look, or did not care to do so, for he immediately accepted theinvitation in the following unequivocal terms:

"I have no engagement for to-morrow; and I shall be very happy to comeand dine with you. "

"So be it then, " said the duke, frankly. "Now, Valerie, my love, bid thecount good-evening. It is time to go. "

The young duchess arose wearily from the sofa, and slightly courtesiedher adieux. 

The count stood up and bowed with a profound reverence that seemedironical to her sensitive mind. 

The guests were now all taking leave of their host and hostess. 

The Duke and Duchess of Hereward were among the last to go. 

"I am very sorry that I brought you out this evening, love. Isaw--indeed, every one saw, and could not help seeing--that thisdinner-party has been a great trial to you. It will not bear an encore. You must have time to recover your cheerfulness, dearest, before you areagain brought into a large company, " said the duke, kindly, as soon asthey were seated together in their carriage. 

"Did people attribute my dullness to--to--to--, " began Valerie, by way ofsaying something, but her voice faltered and broke down. 

"To your recent double bereavement?--certainly they did, my love. Theyknew

 'No crowdsMake up for parents in their shrouds, '

and were not cruel enough to criticise your filial grief, my Valerie. "

"I am glad of that; but I am very sorry you have invited the Count deVolaski to dinner to-morrow. "

"Oh, why?"

"Because I do not like company. "

"He is only one guest and will dine with us quietly. He will amuse you. "

"No, he will not; he will bore me. I wish you would write and put himoff. "

"Impossible, my dear Valerie! What earthly excuse could I make for suchan unpardonable piece of rudeness?"

"Tell him that I am ill, out of spirits, anything you like so that youtell him not to come. "

"My dearest one, you certainly are ill and out of spirits, and verymorbid besides. So much the more reason why you should be gently arousedand amused. Dinner parties weary and distress you; but the count's visitwill relieve and amuse you. "

"Oh! I _do_ think I _ought_ to know what is good for me andwhat I want better than any one else, " exclaimed Valerie, speakingimpatiently to the duke for the first time during their married life. 

"But you don't, love; that is all. The count is coming to dine with usto-morrow. That is settled. Now, here we are at home, " said the duke, as the carriage rolled through the massive archway and entered thecourt-yard of the magnificent Hotel de la Motte. 

CHAPTER XXXVI. 

A GATHERING STORM. 

After a night of sleeplessness and anguish, Valerie arose to a day ofduplicity and terror. 

The anticipation of the evening was intolerable to her; the prospect ofsitting down at her own table between the Duke of Hereward and the Countde Volaski overwhelmed her with a sense of horror and loathing. 

Faint, pale, and trembling, she descended to the breakfast-room, whereshe found the duke already awaiting her. 

Shocked at her aspect, he hastened to meet her and lead her to aneasy-chair on the right of the breakfast-table. 

"You are not able to be out of your bed, Valerie. You should not haveattempted to rise, " he said, as he carefully seated her. 

"I told you last night that I was very ill, " she answered coldly, as shesank wearily back on the cushion. 

"That infernal dinner party! It has prostrated you quite. I am sogrieved; I will not suffer you to be so severely tried again!" said theduke, vehemently. 

"And you will write this morning and put off the count's visit, " pleadedValerie. 

"No, my dear, I cannot, " answered the duke, regretfully. 

"Then I cannot come down to dinner. That is all, " she said, sullenlyclosing her eyes. 

"I shall be sorry for that; but we must do the best we can without youfor the count, having been invited, must be permitted to come. "

She languidly drew up to the table, and touched the bell that summonedthe footman with the breakfast-tray. 

When it was placed upon the table, she poured out two cups of coffee, handed one to the duke, and took the other herself. 

When she had drained it, she arose, excused herself, and went back to herown room. 

She closed and locked the door, and threw herself upon the bed, groaning:

"Oh! how could Waldemar accept that invitation? How can he bear to sitdown with me at the Duke of Hereward's table? Has he no delicacy? Nopity? Ah, mercy, what a state is mine! And yet I was not to blame for_this_! I have not deserved it! I have not deserved it! One of usthree must die; I, or Waldemar, or the Duke of Hereward; and I am theone; for, _I hate myself_ for the position I am in! I _hate, _LOATHE and utterly ABHOR myself! I do. I do. I wish thelightning would strike me dead! dead, before I have to meet one of themagain!" she moaned, rolling and grovelling on the bed. 

There came a soft rap at the door, followed by the kind voice of theduke, saying:

"Valerie, Valerie, my love! How are you? Do you want anything? May I comein?"

"No! I want rest! I do not want you!" she answered, so sharply as toastonish the duke, who spoke again however, deprecatingly and soothingly. 

"Is there anything that I can do for you outside, then, my dear?"

"You can go away and let me alone, or you can stand there chatteringuntil you drive me crazy!" she answered, ungratefully. 

"Good morning, my love; I will not trouble you again soon, " muttered theduke, as he walked away from the duchess' door. 

"I never knew such a change as this that has come over her. She is ascross as a catamount! There may be a cause for it. There may--I will sendfor a physician, " he added, as he went down stairs. 

Valerie kept her room all day. 

Count de Volaski came to dinner at eight o'clock and was received by theduke alone. 

He smiled grimly when his host apologized for the absence of the duchess, by explaining the delicate condition of her health since the death of herparents, and the injury she had received from the fatigue and excitementof the dinner-party on the preceding evening. 

The duke and the count dined _tete-a-tete_, and sat long over theirwine, although they drank but little. After dinner they played chesstogether all the evening, and then parted, apparently the best of friendson both sides, really good friends on the duke's. 

The next morning a letter was handed Valerie, while she sat at breakfastwith the duke. 

She recognized the handwriting of Count de Volaski, and put it in herpocket to read when she was alone. 

The duke was not suspicious or inquisitive. He asked no questions. 

As soon as the duchess found herself alone in her chamber, she locked thedoor to keep out intruders, and sat down and opened the letter. 

Its contents were sufficiently startling. They were as follows:

"RUSSIAN LEGATION, RUE ST. HONORE. 

"VALERIE: You avoid me in vain! You cannot shake me off. Iaccepted the duke's invitation to dinner last evening for the sake ofseeing you again, and for the chance of having a final explanation withyou; but you kept away from the dinner. Such expedients will not availyou. 

"I write now to assure you that I must and will see you, to make anarrangement with you. I write openly, at the risk of having this letterfall into the hands of the duke; for I do not care if it does so fall. I would just as willingly say to him what I now say to you. I am quitewilling to provoke a crisis. The present state of things maddens me. Iwonder it does not _kill_ you! When you married the Duke of Herewardwithin six months after my supposed death by the hands of your father, you acted cruelly, but not criminally; now that you know I am living, youmust also know that every hour you continue to live under the roof of theDuke of Hereward you are a criminal. I do not require you to come to_me_. I do not wish to live with you again, although I love you;but I _do_ require you to leave the Duke of Hereward and go away byyourself. I know you now, Valerie. You are as weak as water. You cannotgo to the noble gentleman who has been so deeply deceived by you and yourparents and tell him the secret that you have kept from him so long. Youhave not the moral courage to do so. But you can leave him. It is toarrange for your flight and for your future safety that I now demand and_insist_ upon a private interview with you. 

"Write to me at the _poste-restante_, and tell me when and where Ican see you alone. Should you refuse to grant me this interview, I willmyself go to the Duke of Hereward and tell him the whole story. He maynot resent your former marriage; but he will never forgive you, living, or your parents in their graves, for the deception that has beenpracticed upon him. I will wait twenty-four hours for your answer, andthen if I fail to receive it, or fail to get a favorable one, I shallcome immediately to the Hotel de la Motte and seek an explanation withthe duke. I shall direct this letter by the name and title you now bear, so as to prevent mistakes; but it is the last time I shall so addressyou. And I sign myself, for all eternity, "Your true husband, WALDEMAR DE VOLASKI. "

Valerie read the cruel letter to its close, then dropped it on her lap, and sank back in her chair, helpless, breathless, almost lifeless. Minutes crept into hours, and still she sat there in the same position, without motion, thought, or feeling--stricken, spell-bound, entranced. 

She was aroused at length by a rap at her chamber-door. 

She started, shuddering, to her feet, and spasm after spasm shook hergalvanized frame, as she picked up her letter, found a match, drew it, set fire to the paper, threw it, blazing, down upon the marble hearth, and watched it until it was consumed to a little heap of light ashes. 

"There! That can never fall into the Duke of Hereward's hands_now_!" she said with a bitter laugh. 

Meanwhile the rapping continued. 

"Well! well! well! well! Can't you be patient!" she exclaimed, very_im_patiently, as she tottered tremblingly across the room andopened the door. 

Her dressing-maid, Mademoiselle Desiree, was there. 

"_Pardonnez moi, madame_; but you ordered me to come to dress youfor a drive at twelve. The clock has just struck, madame, " said the girldeprecatingly. 

Valerie put her hand to her head in a bewildered way, and stared at thespeaker a full minute before she could recollect herself sufficiently toreply. 

"Yes--yes--yes--yes--I believe so. You can come in. "

The girl entered and stood waiting for orders. Receiving none, sheventured to inquire:

"What dress shall madame wear?"

"My--my writing desk! Bring it here to me, " answered the lady, as shesank into a chair, and drew a little ivory stand before her. 

"I wonder if madame indulges in absinthe in the morning?" was the secretthought of the discreet Mademoiselle Desiree, as she brought the elegantlittle malachite writing-desk, and placed it before her mistress. 

Valerie opened it, took out a piece of note-paper and wrote:

"I cannot write much. I am stricken. I am dying. I hope you are rightin what you say. Come here tomorrow at twelve, noon. I will give you theinterview you seek. "

 * * * * *

This note was without date, address or signature, or any word to guide astrange reader to its true meaning. She put it into a sealed envelope, and directed it to _Count de Volaski, Poste Restante_. 

Then she sat back in her chair, exhausted from the slight exertion. 

The maid watched her mistress for a little while, and then said:

"Pardon, madame; but it is half-past twelve. "

"Yes! I must dress, " said Valerie rising. 

"What costume will madame wear?"

"Any. It does not signify. "

The maid indulged in an imperceptible shrug of her shoulders, and laidout an elegant black rep silk, heavily trimmed with black crape and jet, with mantle, bonnet and vail to match. 

"White or black gloves, madame?"

"Black, of course. It is not a wedding reception. "

"Pardon, madame, " said the girl; and she added the black gloves to thecostume. 

Valerie was soon dressed, and then the maid said:

"The carriage waits, madame. "

Valerie took the note she had prepared and went down stairs, entered herbarouche, and ordered the coachman to drive to the British Legation, Hotel Borghese, Rue Faubourg St. Honore. 

When the carriage rolled through the archway into the courtyard, and drewup before the magnificent palace, interesting from having been built forand occupied by the beautiful Princess Pauline Bonaparte, Valeriealighted and handed her letter to the footman, with directions to goand post it while she was making her call. 

The man knocked at the door for his mistress, and then hurried away to doher errand. 

It was the conventional "dinner call" that brought Valerie to the HotelBorghese. 

An English footman admitted the visitor, conducted her to the privatedrawing-room of Lady C. , and announced her. 

Several other ladies, whom Valerie had met at the dinner party, werethere on the same duty as herself. 

Lady C. Advanced from among them to receive the new comer, kissed her onboth cheeks, inquired affectionately after her health and then made hersit down in the most comfortable of the easy-chairs at hand. 

After courteously saluting the ladies present, Valerie subsided into adull silence, from which she could not arouse herself; but her voice wasnot missed, since every visitor seemed anxious to talk rather thanlisten, and therefore kept up a chattering that would have carried offthe palm in a contest with a village sewing-circle or aviary full ofexcited magpies. 

Valerie, the last to enter, was also the first to rise, but Lady C. Detained her by a slight signal, and she sat down again, and relapsedinto dullness and silence. 

One by one the visitors arose and took leave, chattering to the verylast. 

As soon as the two ladies were left alone together, Lady C. TookValerie's hand, and gazing earnestly in her face, said:

"What is the matter with you, my child? You look pale and ill. AlthoughI am so glad to see you, under any circumstances, I am half inclined toscold you for coming out at all. "

For a moment Valerie felt inclined to open her oppressed and sufferingheart to this sweet, matronly friend, and tell her the whole, bittertruth, and seek her wise counsel; but again the want of moral courage, which had always been so fatal to her welfare, sealed her lips. 

"Well, " said Lady C. , after a short pause for that answer that nevercame, "I will not press the question. 'The heart knoweth its ownbitterness. '"

"Yes, " murmured Valerie, in a very low voice. Then, not to seemindifferent or unsocial, and also, if the truth must be told of her, to gratify a gnawing curiosity, she inquired:

"How goes the expected marriage of your niece, madame?"

"I cannot tell you dear. I have been daily expecting some communicationon the subject from de Volaski: but as yet he has made none. After comingto Paris for the purpose, (for of course his office in the embassy is amere sinecure and a plausible excuse, ) he betrays the bashfulness of agirl in pressing his suit; but some men, some of the best and purest ofmen, are just that way--in love affairs as shy women, " said her ladyship. 

Valerie smiled bitterly. She thought she understood the reason why theCount de Volaski was in no hurry to press the suit for marriage with adreaming girl, to whom he had been arbitrarily contracted when he was aboy of fifteen, and she a child of twelve. 

"I shall, however, write again to her father. I will not have my sister'sdaughter wasting her youth in a convent, while waiting for a tardysuitor. "

Valerie smiled again, and then arose to take her leave. 

Lady C. Kissed her affectionately, and promised soon to visit her at theHotel de la Motte. 

"But--how long will you remain there?" inquired her ladyship. 

"I do not know. Until some business connected with my father's will shallbe arranged, I think. We are there on sufferance only. My cousin, Louis, the present baron, wrote from Algiers, very kindly asking us to occupythe Hotel de la Motte at any time when business or pleasure should callus to Paris. The house was the home of my childhood, and I prefer to livein it as long as I may. The duke, though he would rather live at the'_Trois Freres_, ' yields to my whim, and so we occupy the Hotel dela Motte, but I do not know for how long a time. "

"Until you leave Paris, I presume?"

"Yes, probably, " answered Valerie, as with another kiss, she took leaveof her kind friend. 

"Shall I ever see her sweet face, hear her sweet voice again?" murmuredthe young duchess, as she passed out to her carriage. 

"You posted my letter?" she inquired of the footman who opened thecarriage-door. 

"Yes, your grace. "

"That will do. Home. "

The footman repeated the order to the coachman, who drove back to theHotel de la Motte. 

As Valerie entered her morning-room after laying off her bonnet andwrappings, she found the Duke of Hereward there, reading the papers. 

He arose and placed a chair for her, saying kindly:

"I hope your drive has done you good, dear; if it has not been so long asto fatigue you. "

"I have only been to the Hotel Borghese to call on Lady C. , " repliedValerie, sinking into the chair and leaning back. 

"Now that I look well at you, I see that you are tired. A very littleexertion seems to fatigue you now, Valerie. I do not understand yourcondition. It makes me anxious. I have asked Velpeau to call and see you. He will look in this afternoon. "

"Thanks, you are very kind--too kind to me, as fretful and miserable asI am, " replied Valerie, with a momentary compunction--only a momentaryone, for the deep fear, horror and despair which had seized her soulleft her little sensibility to comparative trifles. 

"My poor child, " said the duke, looking compassionately on her pale, wornface, "do you not know that I can make all allowance for you? You aresuffering very much. I hope Velpeau will be able to do something for you. You know he stands at the head of the medical profession in Paris, whichis as much as to say, in the world. "

"Yes, I know, " said Valerie, indifferently. Then, with suddenearnestness, she exclaimed: "I wish _you_ would do something forme. "

"Why, my poor girl, I would do anything in the world for you. Tell mewhat you want me to do. "

"I know you cannot leave Paris now, and so you cannot, yourself, takeme to England; but I wish to go there; I wish you to send me there toHereward Hold, where we passed so many peaceful months. "

"To send you there _alone_, Valerie?" inquired the duke, in surprise. 

"No, but with my personal attendants, and with any discreet old lady youmay choose to appoint as my companion, if, like an old Spanish husband, you think your young wife may require watching when she is out of yoursight, " she added, with a relapse into her irritable mood. 

"Valerie! you wrong me and yourself by such a thought, " said the duke, gravely. 

"I know I do, and I know I am a wretch! but I want to go to England. I want to get away from everybody, and be by myself. You promised to dowhat I wanted done. That is what I want done. "

"Do you wish 'to get away' from _me_, Valerie?"

"Yes, from you and from _everybody_, except from my servants, whoare not my companions, and therefore don't bore me. "

"It must be as I thought, " said the duke to himself; "all thiseccentricity, this nervous irritability has a natural cause, and notan alarming one, and it must be humored. "

"Will you keep your promise?" she testily inquired. 

"Certainly, my dear child. Anything to please you. You will see Velpeauthis afternoon. If after consulting him you still think it necessary toleave Paris for Hereward Hold, I will send you there under properprotection. By the by, you succeed very well in getting away from yourfriends I think. The Count de Volaski called here while you were awaythis forenoon. He seemed disappointed in not seeing you. He looks ill. I never saw a man change so within the last few days. I should not wonderif he were on the very verge of a bad fever. I wish you had seen him. Hewas quite a friend of yours in St. Petersburg, I believe. "

"I used to see him every day in the public assemblies to which we werealways going. I wish you wouldn't talk about him, " gasped Valerie, witha nervous shudder, as she arose and left the room. 

"What a little misanthrope she has grown to be; but it is only atemporary affliction. She will get over it in a few weeks, " said theduke to himself, as he resumed the reading of his newspaper. 

The next day Valerie arose at her usual hour, and breakfasted_tete-a-tete_ with the duke. She knew that this day must decide herfate, and she tried to nerve herself to bear all that it might bring her, even as the frailest women sometimes brace themselves to bear torture anddeath. 

At eleven in the forenoon, the duke left the house to go to the Hotel deVille to keep an appointment that would detain him until three in theafternoon. 

Valerie knew all about this appointment, and had therefore fixed the hourof noon as the safest time for her interview with the count. 

Twelve o'clock, therefore, found her dressed in her deepest mourning, andseated in her private drawing-room, awaiting the advent of her mostdreaded visitor, Waldemar de Volaski. 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 

A SENTENCE OF BANISHMENT. 

Valerie, in an agony of terror, waited for her expected visitor. 

Did she love him, then?

Ah, no! Horror at the position in which she found herself so filled hersoul as to leave no room for any softer emotion. She loved no one in theworld, not even herself; she wished for nothing on earth but death, andonly her religious faith, or her superstitious fears, restrained her fromlaying sacrilegious hands upon her own life. 

While watching for her dreaded guest she bitterly communed with herself. 

"No one ever really loved me, " she moaned. "Every one connected with meloved only himself, or herself, and sacrificed me. My father and mymother cared only for themselves and their own ambitions, and so theyimmolated me, their only child, to their gratification; my suitors lovedonly themselves and their passions, and immolated me! And I--I love noone and hate myself! hate the creature they have all combined to make me!If it were not for that which comes after death I would not exist an hourlonger--I would die!"

As she muttered this the little ormolu clock on the mantlepiece strucktwelve. 

"The hour has come. He will be here in another moment! Oh, why couldhe not leave me in peace? Oh, what shall I do?" she exclaimed, in herexcitement rising from her seat and beginning to pace up and down theroom with wild, disordered steps. 

Sometimes she stopped to listen, but without hearing any sound that mightherald the approach of a visitor; then resumed her wild and purposelesswalk, until the clock struck the quarter, when she suddenly threw herselfdown in the chair, muttering:

"Fifteen minutes late! I do not want to see him! But since he is to come, I wish he had come, and this was all over. "

Another quarter of an hour passed, and her visitor had not arrived. 

Again in her anxiety she arose and began to walk the floor and to lookout occasionally at a window which commanded the approach to the house. 

No one, however, was in sight. 

She sat down again, muttering:

"This seems an intentional affront, an insult. He treats me with noconsideration. Well, perhaps I deserve none. Oh! I wish I knew to whom myduty is due! I wish I had some one of whom I dared to ask counsel! Icertainly did wed Waldemar. I certainly did believe him to be my lawfulhusband, and _then_ my duty was clearly due to him. But my parentscame and tore me away from him, and told me that my marriage was notlawful, and that Waldemar de Volaski was not my husband. Then they tookme to Paris, and told me that I must forget the very existence of mylover. Still, I should never have dreamed of another marriage whileI thought Waldemar lived; for I loved him with all my heart, and onlywished to live until I should be of an age to contract a legal marriagewith him, with whom I had already made a sacramental one. But they toldme that Waldemar was _dead_, slain by the hand of my father! andthey bade me keep the secret of my first marriage, and to contract asecond one with the Duke of Hereward! Oh, if I had but known thatWaldemar still lived, the tortures of the Inquisition should not haveforced me into this second marriage! But believing Waldemar to be dead, I suffered myself to be persecuted, worried and _weakened_ into thismarriage! Oh! that I had been strong enough to bear the miseries of myhome; to resist the forces brought to bear against me! Oh, that I hadbeen brave enough to tell the whole truth of my marriage with Waldemar deVolaski to the Duke of Hereward before he had committed his honor to mykeeping by making me his wife! That course would have saved me then withless of suffering than I have to bear now. But I weakly permitted myselfto be forced, with this secret on my conscience, into a marriage withthe Duke of Hereward. And now I dare not tell him the truth! And now myfirst husband has come back and hates me for my inconstancy, and mysecond husband knows nothing about it! Now to whom do I rightly belong!To whom do I owe duty? To Waldemar? To the duke? Who knows? Not I! Onething only is clear to me, that I must not live with either of them asa wife, henceforth! Heaven forgive those who forced me into thisposition, for I fear that I never can do so!"

While these wild and bitter thoughts were passing through her torturedmind the clock struck one and startled her from her reverie. 

"Ah! something has prevented his coming, " she said to herself, as sheonce more looked out of the window. Then she relapsed into her sadreverie. 

"I can never, never be happy in this world again--never! But if I onlyknew my duty I would do it. I don't know it. I only know that I must goclear away from both these--" She shuddered and left the sentenceincomplete even in her thoughts. 

Just then a footman entered with a note upon a little silver tray. 

She took it languidly, but all her languor vanished as she recognized thehandwriting of Waldemar de Volaski. 

"Who brought this?" she inquired of the servant. 

"Un garcon from the Hotel de Russe, madame. "

"Is he waiting for an answer?"

"Oui, madame. "

She had asked these questions partly to procrastinate the opening of thenote she dreaded to read. Now slowly and sadly she drew it from itsenvelope, unfolded and read:

"HOTEL DE RUSSE, Tuesday Morning. 

"UNFAITHFUL WIFE--An engagement at the Tuileries, for the veryhour you named, prevents me from meeting you at your appointed time. Write by the messenger who brings this, and tell me when you can see me. 

"Your wronged husband, VOLASKI. "

While reading this, she shivered as with an ague. When she had finishedshe crushed it up in her hand and put it in her pocket with the intentionof destroying it on the first opportunity. 

Then she went to a little ornamental writing-desk that stood in thecorner of the room, and took a pencil and a sheet of note paper and wrotethese words, without date or signature:

"I was ready to see you this noon. I cannot at this instant tell at whathour I can be certain to be alone; but will find out and let you know inthe course of this day. "

She placed this note in an envelope, sealed it with a plain seal, andsent it down by the footman to Count Waldemar's messenger. 

Then she hurried up to her own bedchamber, rang for her maid, changed herdress for a white wrapper, and threw herself down, exhausted, upon alounge. 

She was almost fainting. 

"This must be something like death! Oh, if it were only death!" shesighed, as she closed her eyes. 

An hour later she was found here by the Duke of Hereward, who showed nosurprise at finding her reclining there, but only said that DoctorVelpeau was below stairs and would like to see her. 

"Let him come up, then, " coldly answered Valerie. 

And the duke himself went to conduct the physician to his patient. 

He left them together for an hour, at the end of which Doctor Velpeaucame down and reported to the anxious husband that his wife was notseriously out of health that her malady was more of the mind than thebody, and that amusement and society would be her best medicines. 

"Just what I cannot prevail on her to take, " said the duke, with animpatient shrug. "She will go nowhere, will see nobody; but shuts herselfup and mopes. Now, to-day, I have received intelligence concerning therather intricately embarrassed affairs of the late Baron de la Motte, which will oblige me to start for Algiers, for a personal interview withhis heir-at-law, an officer in the Chasseurs d'Afrique, who cannot getleave of absence to come to me. Now the question is, Doctor, shall I takethe duchess with me, or leave her here? Is she well enough to be left, orstrong enough to travel?"

"Both! She is both. I assure you she is not at all ill in body. Put thequestion to herself. If she should be willing to go, take her. The tripwill do her good. If she prefers to stay, leave her. She is in no dangerof illness or death. "

"But I should be gone, probably, a fortnight. Could I, with safety toherself, take her so far away, for so long a time, from the best medicaladvice? or could I, on the other hand, leave her here for so distant abourne and so long an absence?"

"With perfect safety; barring, of course, the human possibilities towhich even the most fortunate, the most healthful and the best-guardedamong us are more or less subject. But again I counsel you to leave it tothe duchess, whether she shall remain here or accompany you to Algiers. She is equally fit for either plan, " said the great physician, as he drewon his gloves. 

"I will take the duchess with me, if she will go. If not, I will leavehere under your charge, Doctor, " said the duke. 

"Much honored, I am sure, in attending her grace, " replied the Frenchphysician, with the extravagant politeness of his countrymen. 

As soon as Doctor Velpeau had gone, the Duke of Hereward went up stairsto see his wife, and, sitting by the lounge on which she still reclined, he told her of the urgent business that required his immediate departurefor Algiers. 

"Algiers! Why, that is in Africa! another quarter of the globe! a long, long way off!" she exclaimed, starting up with an eagerness that the dukemistook for alarm and distress. 

"Oh, no, dear, it is not. It only _sounds_ so. It is about eighthundred miles nearly due south of Paris. We go by train to Marseilles ina few hours, and by steamer to Algiers in a couple of days. You will gowith me, dear. The change will do you good, " said the duke, gayly. 

"I! Oh, no, I could not think of such a thing! Pray, pray, do not ask meto do so!" exclaimed Valerie, in a tone of such genuine terror that theduke hastened to say:

"Certainly not, if you do not wish it, my love. I should be happier tohave you with me, and I think the trip would benefit your health, but--"

"Did that horrid doctor advise you to take me to Algiers?" testilyinterrupted the young duchess. 

"He said the change would do you good if you should like to go; but nototherwise. He said that you should be left to decide for yourself. "

"Then he has quite as much judgment as the world gives him credit for, and that is not the case with every one. "

"Now you are left to your own choice, to go or not to go. "

"Then I choose not to go, most decidedly. "

"Very well, " said the duke, with a disappointed air; "then there is noneed that I should delay my departure for another day. I shall leave forMarseilles by the night's express, Valerie. "

"As you please, " she wearily replied. 

"I may be gone a fortnight, Valerie, and I may not be gone more than tendays; the length of my absence will depend upon contingencies; but Ishall hurry back with all possible dispatch. "

"Yes, I am sure you will, " she answered, because she did not know whatelse to say. 

"And I will write to you every day. "

"Thank you. "

"Will you write to me every day?"

"Certainly, if you wish me to do so. "

"Of course I wish you to do so, my love, " said the duke, as he stoopedand pressed his lips on the pale cheek of his "wayward child, " as hesometimes called her. 

He then left the room to give orders to his valet and groom to pack upand be ready to attend him on his journey. 

As soon as she found herself alone, Valerie arose, slipped on adressing-gown, sat down to her writing-desk, and wrote the followingnote, as usual, without name, date, or signature:

"Come to me at noon to-morrow; or, if you cannot do so, write andfix your own hour, any time will suit me equally well, or rather, _ill_. "

She put this note in an envelope, sealed it, and directed it to MonsieurLe Count de Volaski, Russian Embassy. 

Then she rang for her maid, and sent her out to post the letter. 

Valerie made an effort to dress for dinner that evening, and dined withthe duke for the last time--yes, for the very last time in this world. 

After the Duke had risen from the table and pressed a parting kiss uponher lips before leaving her to enter the carriage that was to take him tothe railway station, she never saw his face again--nay more--though shehonored and revered him, she never even wished or intended to see himagain. 

She witnessed his departure with tearful eyes, yet with a sense ofinfinite relief. _One of them was gone!_ Oh, how she wished thatthe other would go also!

She loved neither of them. She had lost the power of loving. Her love, byher awful position, was frightened into its death-throes. All she desiredto do, was to get away from them both, and like a haunted hare, orwounded bird, creep into some safe hiding-place to die in peace. 

She retired early that evening, and, for the first time for several days, slept in peace. 

The next day she arose, and, contrary to her custom in the morning, dressed herself to receive company. 

She waited all the forenoon in expectation of receiving a note from theCount de Volaski, either accepting her appointment or arranging anotherone; but when the clock struck the hour of noon without her having heardfrom him, she naturally concluded that he meant to answer her note inperson, by coming at the hour named. So she went down into the smalldrawing-room to be ready to receive him. 

She was right in her conclusions; for she had scarcely been seated fiveminutes when a footman entered and presented the count's card. 

"Show the gentleman up, " she said in a voice that she vainly tried torender steady. 

A few minutes passed, the door opened, and Count de Volaski entered theroom. 

She arose to receive him, but did not advance a single step to meet him. 

He came on, and bowed low--much lower than any ceremony required. 

She bent her head, and silently pointed to a chair at a short distance. 

He sat down. 

Up to this time not a word had passed between them. 

A monk and a nun, who keep their vows, could not have met more coldlythan this pair who had once plighted their hands and hearts in marriagebefore the altar of the Church of St. Marie. 

Valerie was the first to speak. 

"Well, you insisted upon this interview. Now you have it. What do youwant of me?"

"I want you to leave the Duke of Hereward, " he answered, sternly. 

"You are right, so far. But the Duke of Hereward has saved me the troubleof taking the initiative step. He has left me. I shall never see him, more. "

"How! What!" exclaimed de Volaski, starting up. 

"The Duke of Hereward left for Algiers last night. I shall not remainhere to receive him when he returns. "

"You told him, then, and he has left you? Good!"

"No, I have not told him; he knows nothing--not even that he has left meforever. Business of a financial nature connected with his duties asexecutor of my father's estates, takes him to Algiers for a few weeks. During his absence I shall make arrangements for leaving this houseforever. "

"Valerie, where will you go?" he inquired, in a more softened tone. 

"I do not know--_not with you that is certain_. You were quite rightwhen you said that I could not live with either--that a single life wasthe only possible one for me. I feel that it is so, and I hope that itwill be a short one. "

"Valerie, do not say so. You are very young yet. The duke is an elderlyman; he will die and leave you free. "

"I shall not be free _while_ EITHER of _you live_! norcan I build any hope in life _on death_! Oh! I have been cruellywronged, and I am very miserable, but I am not selfish or wicked, Waldemar. "

"How soon do you propose to leave this house?"

"I do not know. I only know that I must go before the duke's return. "

"What should hinder your going at once?"

"I must make some provision for the miserable remnant of life left me. I must collect and sell my jewels and my shawls and laces, and invest themoney in some safe place, where it will bring me interest enough to livecheaply in some remote country neighborhood. Wretched as I am, soon as Ihope to die, I do not wish to be dependant on _you_, Waldemar. "

"No, nor do I wish anything but independence and honor for _you_, Valerie. But you must let me assist you in realizing capital from yourpersonal property, and in making other necessary arrangements for yourremoval. You cannot do this for yourself. You are more ignorant of theworld than a child. So you must let me see you safely through this trial. You have no alternative, Valerie. You have no one else to consult withbut me, and you may confide in me, for I will endeavor to forget that Iever called you wife, and will treat you with the reverential tendernessdue to a dear sister. When I once have seen you safely lodged in a secureretreat, I will leave you there, never to intrude upon you again. "

"Thanks! thanks! that is the kindest course you could pursue toward me. "

"You accept all my service then?"

"Yes, on the condition that I shall seem to you only as a sister. But, oh! Waldemar! you, who are so kind and considerate _now_, how couldyou have _ever_ written to me so cruelly--calling me an unfaithfulwife--calling yourself a wronged husband? I never was consciouslyunfaithful to any one in my life. I never voluntarily wronged anycreature since I was born. How could you have written so cruelly, Waldemar?"

"Forgive me, Valerie! I was crazed with the contemplation ofyou, --_you_ whom I considered as my own wife, living here asthe Duchess of Hereward. Only since I have learned that the duke isgone--and gone forever from you, have I come to my senses. Do youunderstand me, and do you forgive me?"

"Yes, both; but now, do not think me rude or unkind; but you must go. Itis not well that you should stay too long. "

"Good-morning, Valerie, " he said immediately preparing to obey her. 

She held out her hand. He took it, pressed it lightly, dropped it, turnedand left the room. 

After this day the Count de Volaski came daily to the Hotel de la Motteon some errand connected with the duchess' financial business. Theseinterviews were as coldly formal as the most severe etiquette would haverequired. 

Valerie received frequent letters from the Duke of Hereward, in whichhe spoke of the protracted business that still kept him an unwillingabsentee from her side; promised as speedy a return as possible;expressed great anxiety concerning her health, and besought her towrite often. 

She complied with his request: she wrote daily as she had promised to do, but she could not write deceitfully; she told him of her health, whichshe described as no better and no worse than it had been when he leftParis; she told him any little political news or rumor that happenedto be stirring, and any social gossip that she thought might interestor amuse him; but she deluded him by no expressions of affection ordevotion. 

The duke's absence, that was expected to last but two weeks, wasprolonged to six. 

Still Valerie delayed leaving the Hotel de la Motte. She shrank fromtaking the final step, until it should seem absolutely necessary. 

At length, after an absence of nearly seven weeks, the Duke of Herewardwrote to his young wife that he was about to return home, and wouldfollow his letter in twenty-four hours. 

This letter threw her into a state of excessive nervous excitement, andwhen her daily visitor entered her room a few hours after its reception, he found her in this condition. 

"Why, what is the matter, Valerie? What on earth has happened?" heinquired, in much anxiety. 

"The hour has come! I must go!" she answered, trembling. 

"Well, so much the better. You are ready to go. You have been ready forweeks past! Do not falter now that the time is at hand. "

"I do not falter in resolution, only in strength. "

"The sooner it is over the better. I will take you away this afternoon, if you wish. "

"Yes, yes, take me away as soon as possible!"

"Have you thought of where you would like to go first?"

"Yes! I have thought and decided! I want you to take me to Italy--to St. Vito, where we were married, and to the vine-dresser's cottage, in theApennines, where we passed the first days of our marriage, and thehappiest days of our lives. "

"It will be very sad for you there, " said Waldemar, compassionately. 

"Yes! I know it will be so without you! for of course I must live withoutyou! and though I do not love you as I used to do, because love hasperished out of my soul, still, I know, there in that place where wewere so happy in our honeymoon, I shall be always comparing the happydays that _were_ with the sorrowful days that _are_!"

"But still, if that is so, why do you go there?"

"Oh, Waldemar, it is the only place for me! I cannot go among entirestrangers. I am such a coward. I am afraid in my loneliness: I should bedriven to despair or to insanity, or worse than all, to the unpardonablesin of suicide! I dare not go among strangers, nor dare I go among peoplewho know me as the Duchess of Hereward, or knew me as Valerie de laMotte, for they would scorn and abhor me, and their company would be farworse than the very worst solitude. No! I must go to the vine-dresser'scottage in the Apennines. Good Beppo and Lena knew me only as your wifeand loved me dearly, and wept bitter tears when my father tore me awayfrom you. They will be glad to see poor Valerie again! And the goodFather Antonio, who married us! He loved us both! He will comfort andcounsel me. Yes, Waldemar! St. Vito is my City of Refuge, and thevinedresser's cottage my only possible home. Take me there and leaveme in peace. "

"I believe you are right, Valerie. By what train would you like to leaveParis? There is an express that starts at seven. Could you be ready forthat?"

"Yes! yes! thanks! I can be ready for that!"

"Shall you take your maid with you?"

"No. I shall pay her and discharge her with a present. "

"Then I shall have to secure only two seats. I will get a coupe, if it bepossible. "

"Anything you like! Go now, Waldemar!"

Count de Volaski pressed her hand and withdrew; but before leaving theroom he turned back and inquired:

"Shall I come here for you, or shall I meet you at the station?"

"Meet me at the station, of course! Spare my poor name as long as it canbe spared! In twenty-four hours it will be in everybody's mouth, and theworst that can be said of it will seem too good! And yet they will allbe wrong, and I shall not deserve their condemnation. "

Count de Volaski waved his hand, and hurried from the room and the house, for he had many hasty preparations to make for the sudden journey. 

As soon as he had gone Valerie set about making her final arrangements. She paid off her maid and discharged her with a handsome present, butwithout a word of explanation. She sent off her luggage to therailway-station, and ordered the carriage to take her to the same point. She took in her hand a small bag containing her money, jewels, and othersmall valuables, when she seated herself in her carriage and gave theorder to her coachman. And so she left her own magnificent home forever. 

The wondering servants, who had been too well trained even to look anycomment in their mistress' hearing, let loose their tongues as theywatched the carriage roll away. 

CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

THE STORM BURSTS. 

The Duke of Hereward arrived at home the next morning. When thefiacre that brought him from the railway station rolled through theporte-cochere into the court yard and drew up before the main entranceof the Hotel de la Motte, he sprang out with almost boyish eagerness, andran up the stairs, and rang and knocked with vehemence and impatience. 

The gray-haired porter opened the door. 

"How is the duchess, Leblanc? Has she risen? Send some one to let herknow that I have arrived, " he exclaimed, hurriedly. 

_"Helas!_ Monseigneur!" answered the venerable old servant, ina distressed tone. 

"What do you mean? Is the duchess ill? I got a letter from her yesterday, in which she said she was quite well. It met me at Marseilles. Shecontinues well. I hope? Why don't you speak?" impatiently demandedthe duke. 

"_Mille pardons_. Monseigneur; but madame has gone, " sadly repliedLeblanc. 

"What do you say?" exclaimed the duke, discrediting the evidence of hisown ears. 

"_Mille pardons_, Monsieur le Duc, Madame la Duchesse has gone. "

"Gone! the duchess gone!" exclaimed the duke, in amazement, not unmixedwith incredulity. 

"Oui; Monseigneur. "

"Gone! the duchess gone! Where?"

"_Miserable_ that I am, Monseigneur, I do not know. I cannot tell. Will Monsieur le Duc deign to consult the coachman who drove Madame laDuchesse in the carriage when she left the house last night, not toreturn. He can probably give Monseigneur some information, " respectfullysuggested the old porter. 

"Send Dubourg to me in the library, then, " said the duke, as he strodedown the hall, full of vague alarm, but far from suspecting the fataltruth. 

Soon the coachman came to him in the library, and in answer to hisquestions told how he had driven the duchess alone to the railway stationto catch the night express for Marseilles. 

"The night express for Marseilles! Then the foolish child was going tomeet me, and must have passed me on the road!" said the duke to himself, with a strange blending of flattered affection and anxious fears. 

"That will do, Dubourg. The duchess went down to the seaport to meet meon the steamer, and we have missed each other on the road. It is a pity, but it cannot be helped!" said the duke dismissing his coachman by a waveof his hand. 

The man bowed and retired. 

"Silly child, to go and do such an absurd and indiscreet thing as that!I would go down after her by the next train only I should be sure to passher on the road again; for she will hasten immediately back when shefinds that I have arrived at Marseilles and left for Paris, " said theduke to himself, as he rang for his valet and retired to his own room todress for breakfast. 

But there, on the bureau, he found a letter addressed to him in thehandwriting of Valerie. 

At the moment he picked it up his valet entered the room in answer to hisring. 

Some intuition warned the duke to send the man away while he should readhis letter. 

"Have a warm bath ready for me at nine o'clock, Dubois, and orderbreakfast at half-past, " he said. 

The man bowed and left the room. 

The duke dropped into a chair, and with a strange, vague foreboding ofevil, opened the letter. 

Well might he shrink from the dread perusal of the story--the story ofher cowardice and folly, and of his own humiliation and despair. 

It was Valerie's full confession, the revelation of her woeful history asit is known to the reader, with one single reservation--the name of herlover. 

The Duke of Hereward had wonderful powers of self-control. He read thefatal letter through to the bitter end. Then he folded it up carefully, and locked it up in a cabinet for safe-keeping. 

And when, fifteen minutes later, his valet came to tell him that it wasnine o'clock, and his bath was ready, no one could have guessed from hislooks that a storm had passed through his soul. 

He was rather pale, certainly; but that might well be explained by thefatigue of a long night's journey, and his gray mustache and beardconcealed the close compression of his lips. He went through his morningtoilet and his breakfast with apparently his usual composure. 

After breakfast, however, he instituted a cautious but closeinvestigation of the circumstances attending the flight of the duchess. 

The servants, having nothing to gain from concealment and nothing to fearfrom communication, spoke freely of the daily visits of the Count deVolaski, continued through the seven weeks of the duke's absence. 

Then the dreadful light of conviction burst full upon his startledintelligence. Count Waldemar de Volaski had been her acquaintance at theCourt of St. Petersburg! He it was, then, who had been the hero of herfoolish love story and mad marriage, before the duke had ever seen her. He it was who had been her constant visitor during the duke's absence. He it was who was the companion of her flight!

The duke did not believe Valerie's solemn declaration, that she leftParis only to isolate herself from every one and live a single, lonelylife. Valerie had deceived him once, by keeping a fatal secret from him, and he would not trust her now. He believed that she had gone away withthe Russian count to remain with him. The duke's rage and jealousy wereroused and burning against them both. 

He was determined to find out the place of their retreat, and to takeimmediate and signal vengeance. 

He put the case in the hands of the most expert detectives, withinstructions to use the utmost caution and secrecy in theirinvestigations. 

He permitted his first theory of the duchess' absence, made in good faithat the time it was first stated--that she had gone down to Marseilles tomeet him, and had missed him on the way--to prevail in the household, and penetrate through that medium to the world of Paris. 

He left the Hotel de la Motte, which he had only occupied in right of hiswife's family, and saying that he should not return until the arrival ofthe duchess, he took up his residence at "_Meurice's_. "

He shut himself up in his apartments, and never left them. He refused tosee all visitors except the detectives in his employment. Thus he escapedthe annoyance of having to answer questions and to make explanations. 

He had remained at "_Meurice's_" about five days, when Villeponte, the chief detective, came to him and told him that they had succeeded inmaking out the facts connected with the flight of the duchess. 

The duke, controlling all manifestations of excitement, directed theofficer to proceed with the story at once. 

Villeponte then related that on the Wednesday of the preceding week, madame, the Duchess of Hereward, had left Paris in company with Monsieurthe Count de Volaski; that they took a coupe on the evening express forMarseilles, traveling alone together without servants or attendants; thatthey were now domiciliated at a vine-dresser's cottage in the littlevillage of San Vito, at the foot of the Appenines. 

Having concluded his information, Monsieur Villeponte asked for furtherinstructions. 

The duke told the detective that he had no further orders to give; butthanked him for his zeal, congratulated him on his success, paid himliberally, and bowed him out. 

That evening the Duke of Hereward, unattended by groom or valet, took acoupe on the night express train for the south of France, and started forMarseilles, en route for Italy. 

On the evening of the third day after leaving Paris he reached hisdestination--the little hamlet of San Vito at the foot of the Appenines. 

He stopped at the small hotel. 

Coming alone and unattended, carrying a small valise in his hand, andlooking weary, dusty, and travel-stained, the Duke of Hereward was notintuitively recognized as a person of distinction, and therefore escapedthe overwhelming amount of attention usually lavished upon Englishtourists of rank and wealth by continental hosts. 

He was shown to a little room blinded by clustering vines, and there leftto his own devices. 

He ordered a bottle of the native wine, and sent for the landlord. 

The latter came promptly--a thin, little, old man, with a skin likeparchment, hair and beard like a black horse's mane, and eyes likeglowworms. 

He saluted the shabby stranger with courtesy, but without obsequiousness;for how should he know that the traveler was a duke?

"Pray sit down. I wish to ask you some questions, " said the Duke ofHereward, with a natural, courteous dignity that immediately modified thelandlord's estimate of his value. 

"Non, signor; but I will answer questions, " he declared, as he boweddeferentially, and remained standing. 

"Did a gentleman and lady arrive here about ten days ago!"

"Si, signor--a grand milord, and a beautiful miladi. But they have beenhere before, signor, about two years ago. "

"Ah! Where are they now?"

"At their old lodgings, signor--at the cottage of Beppo, thevine-dresser. The signor is a good friend of the young milord andmiladi?" questioned the landlord, deferentially, but very anxiously; forjust then it flashed upon his memory that two years previous anothergrand "signor, " of reverend age like this one, had come inquiring aboutthe young pair, and had ended in breaking up their union for the time. 

"I have known the lady for about a year, or a little longer; thegentleman only a few months; but I can scarcely lay claim to so anintimate a relation to them as 'friendship' would imply, " answered theduke, evasively, and putting a severe constraint upon himself. 

The landlord was completely deceived and thrown off his guard. 

"How far from the village does this vine-dresser live?" inquired theduke. 

"Just on the outside, signor--just at the foot of the mountain--aboutthree miles from this house. "

"Can I have a carriage to take me there this evening. "

"Si, signor, assuredly; but will not the signor refresh himself before heleaves?" inquired the host. 

"No; I will refresh myself after I come back. Let me have the carriage assoon as possible. "

"Si, signor, " said the landlord, bowing himself out. 

The duke, unable to rest, even after a long and fatiguing journey, walkedup and down the floor of his little room, until the landlord re-appearedand announced the carriage. 

The duke caught up his rough traveling-cap, clapped it on his head, hurried out and entered the rustic vehicle, dignified with the nameof a carriage. 

And in another moment he was rolling off in the direction of theVine-dresser's cottage at the foot of the mountain. 

CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE RIVALS. 

The sun was setting behind the western ridge, and throwing a deep shadowover the valley, as the rustic vehicle conveying the Duke of Herewarddrew up before the vinedresser's cottage, nestled almost out of sightamid thick foliage and deep shade. 

It was the hour of rest, and Beppo, the vine-dresser, sat at the gate, strumming an old, dilapidated lute; his red jacket and white shirt makingthe only bits of bright color in the sombre picture. 

As the rude carriage stopped before the gate, Beppo arose and put asidehis lute, and stood with a look of expectancy on his dark face. 

The duke did not alight, but put his head out of the carriage window andbeckoned the man to approach him. 

Beppo came up, curiosity expressing itself in every feature of hisspeaking countenance. 

"You have a young gentleman and lady--a young married couple--stayingwith you?" said the duke, but speaking in the Italian language. 

"No, Excellenzo. The signora is here. The signor went away on the sameday on which he brought the signora, " deferentially answered the peasant, with a profound bow. 

"The man has gone!" exclaimed the duke, losing his caution and hispoliteness in the phrenzy of baffled vengeance. 

"Si, signer, the man has gone!" with another deep bow. 

"Where, then, has he gone?"

"To Paris, signor; but the signora is still here. Will the signor deignto come into my poor house and see the signora, then?"

"See _her_! No!" vehemently exclaimed the duke. Then recollectinghimself, he inquired:

"Are you sure the man has gone to Paris?"

"Si, signor; I drove him myself, in my little cart, to San Stephano, where he took the train. "

"You say that he left on the same day in which he brought the lady here?"inquired the duke, with more interest. 

"Si, signor. They arrived in the afternoon, and he went away again in theevening. "

"Hum. Why did he go so soon?"

"Affairs, signor. It is not to be thought he would have left the signoraso sick if it had not been for affairs. "

"The lady is sick, then?"

"Very sick, signor. "

"What is the matter with her?"

"We do not know, signor. She will not have a doctor, but sits and pines. "

"Ah! no doubt, " said the duke to himself. 

"Will the signor condescend to honor our poor shed by coming under itsroof, where he may for himself see the signora?" said the vine-dresser, with much courtesy. 

"Thanks, no. Back to the hotel!" he added, to the driver, who immediatelyturned his horse's head to the village. 

With a parting nod to the courteous vine-dresser, the duke sank back onhis seat, closed his eyes, and gave his mind up to thought. 

Volaski had gone back to Paris. Why had he left Valerie and gone there?To resign his position in the embassy? To settle up business previous totaking up his permanent abode in Italy? Or had he returned so quickly toParis only to conceal his crime and deceive the world into the opinionthat he had not been out of Paris. 

The duke did not know what his motive for so sudden a return could be;but judged the last-mentioned theory of causes to be the most probable. 

"I do not know what _else_ the caitiff has gone back for; but I knowone thing--he has gone there to give me satisfaction, " said the duke, grimly, to himself. 

The horse, with the prospect of stall and fodder before him, made muchbetter time in going home than in coming away, and so, in less than halfan hour, the rumbling vehicle drew up before the little hotel. 

The landlord himself came out to meet the returning traveler. 

"I hope the illustrious signor found the excellent signor and thebeautiful signora in good health, " said the polite host, as he openedthe carriage-door for his guest. 

"The beautiful signora is sick and the excellent signor is gone, " saidthe duke, grimly, as he got out. 

"_Misericordia!_" cried the host, with a look of unutterablewoe. 

"That will do. Now let me have some supper as soon as you can get it, andwhen it is ready to be served, come yourself and tell me why I was notinformed of the young man's departure before taking that useless driveto the vine-dresser's, " said the duke, gravely. 

"Pardon, illustrissimo, if I tell you now. We did not know the youngsignor had gone. He did not come this way. He must have taken anotherroute and got his train at San Stephano, " humbly replied the host. 

"Ah! yes! the vine-dresser did tell me he had driven the man over to SanStephano. Well, then, hurry up my supper, " said the duke, passing on tohis room. 

The landlord looked after him, muttering to himself:

"Ah! so not finding the excellent young signor, he has turned his back onthe beautiful young signora. I know it! The _other_ ancient andillustrious signor, who raised the devil in Beppo's cottage last year, and carried off the bride, was her father; but this illustrissimo is_his_ father, wherefore he cares not to bring away the lovelysignora. "

The host then gave the necessary orders for the duke's supper to beprepared, and when it was ready he took it up to his guest. 

The duke had no more questions to ask, and only two orders togive--breakfast at seven o'clock on the next morning, and a conveyanceto take him to the railway station at half-past seven. 

The next day the duke set out on his return to Paris, and on the fourthevening thereafter found himself re-established at his comfortablequarters at Meurice's. 

He changed his dress, dined, and ordered the files of English and Frenchnewspapers for the past week to be brought to him. 

He was interested only in political affairs when asking for the papers, and so he was quite as much astonished as grieved when his eyes fell uponthis paragraph in the _Times_:

"A painful rumor reaches us from Paris. It is to the effect that acertain young and lovely duchess, who made her _debut_ in Englishsociety as a bride only twelve months since, has left her home under theprotection of a certain Polish count, attached to the Russian Embassy. "

Stricken to the soul with shame, the unhappy duke sank back in his chairand remained as one paralyzed for several minutes; then slowly recoveringhimself he took up other papers, one by one, to see if they too recordedhis dishonor. 

Yes! each paper had its paragraph devoted to the one grand sensation ofthe day--the flight of the beautiful Duchess of Hereward with the youngRussian count; and very few dealt with the deplorable case as delicatelyas the _Times_ had done. 

"So my dishonor is the talk of all Paris and London!" groaned the duke, dropping his head upon his chest. "If all the civilization of thenineteenth century had power to stay my arm in its vengeance, it has lostit now! And nothing is left for me to do but to kill the man and divorcethe woman. "

There was a certain Colonel Morris, of the Tenth Hussars, staying atParis on leave. 

The duke sat down at his writing-table and dashed off a hasty note tothis compatriot, asking him to come to him immediately. 

Then he rang the bell and gave the note to his own groom, saying:

"Take this to Colonel Morris, at the _Trois Freres_, and wait ananswer. "

The man took the message, bowed and hurried away. 

The duke sank back in his chair with a deep sigh, and covered his facewith his hands, and so awaited the return of his messenger. 

Half an hour crept slowly by, and then the groom came back, opened thedoor, and announced:

"Colonel Morris. "

The gallant colonel entered the room, looking as little like the deadshot and notorious duellist he was reported to be, as any fine gentlemancould. 

He was a tall, slight, fair and refined looking young man, exquisite indress, soft in speech, and suave in manners. 

"You have guessed the reason why I have sent for you, Morris?" said theduke, advancing to meet him, and plunging into the middle of his subject. 

"Yes, " murmured the colonel, sinking into the seat his host silentlyoffered him. 

"You can go, Tompkins. I will ring when I want you, " said the duke, throwing himself into his own chair. 

When the man had bowed himself out, and the duke and his visitor wereleft alone, the former said:

"You know why I have sent for you here. Now what do you advise?"

"You must blow out the man's brains and break the woman's heart, " softlyand sweetly replied the dandy duellist. 

"The question arises whether the man has any brains to blow out, or thewoman any heart to break, " grimly commented the duke. "However, " headded, "you are right, Morris, I must kill the man--divorce the woman. You are with me?"

"To the death, " answered the _elegant_, in the same easy tone inwhich he ever uttered even the most ferocious words. 

"You will take my challenge?"

"With much pleasure. "

"I wonder where the fellow is to be found. At the Russian Embassy, I suppose, " observed the duke, as he turned to his writing-table. 

"No, not there. The Count de Volaski has withdrawn or been dismissed fromthe Embassy. It is not certainly known which. He is, meanwhile, at theTrois Freres. He has the honor of being my fellow-lodger, " suavelyobserved the colonel. 

"There, " said the duke, as he folded and directed his note, "no timeshould be lost in an affair of this sort. It is not yet ten o'clock. Youmay even deliver this challenge to-night, if you will be so kind. "

"Certainly, " murmured the graceful colonel rising. 

"I leave everything absolutely in your hands. Make every arrangement youmay think proper; I will agree to it all; and many thanks, " said theduke, striving to maintain a calm exterior, while his spirit was troubledwithin him. 

"Expect me back to-night. I may be late, but I shall certainly reportmyself here, " were the parting words of Colonel Morris as he left theroom. 

The duke walked slowly up and down the floor for nearly half an hour, andthen he sat down to his desk and employed some hours in writing lettersto his family, friends and men of business in England. 

When he had completed his task he sealed and directed all these lettersand locked them in his desk. 

At a quarter past twelve the colonel returned to the hotel, andimmediately presented himself at the duke's apartments. 

He entered with a soft smile, and gently sank into a seat. 

"Well?" inquired the duke. 

"Well, " cheerfully responded the second; "everything is pleasantlyarranged. I had the good fortune of finding the count 'with himself, 'as they say here. I explained my errand and delivered your missive. Heread it and expressed his gratification at its reception, declaring thatyou had anticipated him by but a few hours, as he should certainly havecalled you out immediately upon hearing of your arrival in Paris. "

"The diabolical villain!" hotly exclaimed the duke. 

"He claimed the first right to the lady in question, and affirmed that itwas your grace who had appropriated his wife--"

"_O-h-h-h!_ when shall I have the opportunity of shooting him!"cried the duke. 

"By and by, " soothingly responded the colonel. "He referred me to hisfriend, Baron Blowmonozoff, then staying at the same house. "

"Blowmonozoff! Yes, I know him. A very good fellow. "

"A gentleman, I think. Of course I went directly from the presence of thecount to that of the baron, who received me with much politeness, and wasso kind as to express the pleasure he should feel in negotiating with methe terms of so interesting a meeting. "

"And the terms, Colonel! What are they?"

"I am coming to them. The meeting is to take place at sunrise in the woodof Vincennes. We are to leave here an hour before dawn, in order to be onthe spot in time. The weapons are to be pistols; the distance ten paces. Other minor details will be arranged on the spot. We shall each take asurgeon. I have engaged Doctor Legare. We will call and pick him up onour way to the ground. And now all we have got to do is to ring for theEnglish waiter here, and get him to send us some coffee before we go out. I will see to that also, as I have taken a room in the house, and intendto stay here to-night, so as to be up in time in the morning. "

"Thanks very much. You are really very good to take so much trouble, "said the duke, with some emotion. 

"No trouble, I assure you, duke; quite a pleasure, " serenely answered thecolonel. 

"My friend, I have left half a dozen letters locked up in mywriting-desk. I shall hand the key of that desk to you as we go out. If I should fall, I hope you will take charge of the desk and see tothe delivery of the letters at their proper addresses, " said the duke, more gravely than he had spoken before. 

"Certainly, with much pleasure. Have you also made your will?" cheerfullyinquired the colonel. 

"No, " shortly replied the duke. 

"Then permit me to say that I think you should do so, by all means. "

"There is no need. My estates are all entailed. My personal property isnot worth winning. The--duchess is provided by her own dower, which cameout of her own property, I am thankful to say. No, there is no need of awill. "

"Then allow me to suggest that we ought to go to bed. It is now twoo'clock. We must be up at five. We have just three hours to sleep, and--if you have no other commissions for me--I will retire, " said thecolonel, smoothly. 

"Many thanks. I believe there is nothing more to be said or doneto-night, " responded the duke, in a desponding tone--for it _cannot_be an exhilarating anticipation to have to get up in the morning andstand up to murder, or be murdered, even where the duellist is thebravest of men, backed by the serenest of seconds. 

"Then, since there is no further use for me this evening, I will saygood-night and pleasant dreams, " said the colonel, suavely, as he slidfrom the room. 

Good-night and pleasant dreams to a duellist on the eve of a duel!Was it a sarcasm on the colonel's part? By no means; it was only themanifestation of his habitual smooth politeness. 

The duke, left to himself, walked up and down the floor for a fewminutes, and then rang for his valet to attend him, and retired to bed, leaving orders to be called at five o'clock in the morning. 

Though left in quietness, he could not compose himself to sleep, buttossed and tumbled from side to side, spending the most wakeful and themost miserable night he had ever known in the whole course of his life. The time seemed stretched out upon a rack of torture, until the fourhours extended to forty; for from the moment he had lain down he had notslept an instant, until he was startled by a rap at his bedroom door, andthe voice of his valet calling:

"If you please, your grace, the clock has struck five; the coffee isready, and the cab is at the door. "

"Then come in and dress me quickly, " answered the duke, rising, as theprompt servant entered and handed a dressing-gown. 

The toilet of the duke was quickly made. 

When he passed into the next room, he found the breakfast table laid andthe colonel waiting for him. 

"Good-morning, Duke. I hope you slept well. The day promises to bedelightful. We have no time to lose, however, if we are to be on theground at sunrise. Shall we have our coffee?" serenely inquired thesecond. 

"Certainly--Tompkins, touch the bell, " replied the duke. 

The obedient valet rang, and a waiter entered with the breakfast-tray, which he set upon the table and proceeded to arrange. 

"Take this case of pistols down very carefully, and place it in the cab, and put in a railway rug also, " quietly directed the colonel, after thewaiter had completed the arrangement of the breakfast table. 

"What possible use can we make of a railway rug on such a mild morning asthis?" gloomily inquired the duke. 

The colonel looked calmly at the questioner, and quietly replied:

"To cover the body of the fallen man, whoever he may happen to be. I amso used to these affairs that I know what will be wanted beforehand. Shall we sit down to breakfast?"

Now the duke was a courageous man, but he shuddered at the coolness ofhis second, as he assented. 

They sat down to the table and drank their coffee in silence. 

Then with the assistance of the obsequious Mr. Tompkins, they drew onlight overcoats suitable to the autumnal morning, and went down stairs, caps and gloves in hand, and entered the carriage that was to take themto the appointed place. 

On their way they stopped at the Rue du Bains and took the surgeon whohad been engaged to attend them. 

Dr. Legare was a young graduate who had just commenced practice, and waseager for the fray. 

He came into the carriage, bringing a rather ostentatious looking case ofinstruments and roll of bandages. 

On being introduced by the second, he bowed to the duke and took hisseat. 

The carriage started again. 

It was yet dark. 

After an hour's ride they reached a quiet, solitary glade in the wood ofVincennes. 

The carriage drove up under some trees on one side. 

It was yet earliest morning, and the glade lay in the darksome, dewyfreshness of the dawn. There was no living creature to be seen. 

"We are the first on the ground, as I always like to be, " remarkedColonel Morris, as he alighted from the carriage, bearing the pistol-casein his hands. 

He was followed by the duke, who slowly came out, stood by his side andlooked around. 

The young surgeon remained in the carriage in charge of his verysuggestive and alarming instruments and appliances. 

"The sun is just rising, " said the duke, as the first rays sparkled upabove the rosy line of the eastern horizon. 

"And look, with dramatic precision, there are our men, " cheerfullyremarked the colonel, as a second carriage rolled into the glade anddrew up under the trees at a short distance from the first. 

The carriage door was thrown open and the Russian Baron Blomonozoff cameout--a thin, ferocious-looking little man, with a red face, encircled bya red beard and red hair, of all of which it would be difficult to saywhich was reddest. 

He was followed by the beautiful Adonis, the Count de Volaski, lookingvery fair and dainty, very languid and melancholy. 

The four gentlemen simultaneously raised their hats in courteousgreeting; but no words passed between them then. 

The seconds advanced toward each other, and went apart to settle thefinal details of the meeting. They divided their duties equally. 

The colonel gave the pistol-case to the baron, who opened it and examinedthe weapons. The colonel stepped off the ten paces of ground, and thebaron marked the positions to be taken by the antagonists. 

Then each went after his man and placed him in position. Then the Coloneltook the case of pistols and placed it in the hands of the baron, whocarried it to his principal, that the latter might take his choice of thepair of revolvers, in accordance with the terms of the meeting. 

The count took the first that came to hand. The baron carried back thecase to the colonel, who placed the remaining weapon in the hands of theduke. 

The antagonists stood opposite each other in a line of ten paces runningnorth and south, so that the sun was equally divided between them. Theseconds stood opposite each other, in a line of six paces running eastand west, across the line of their principals; so that the positions ofthe four men, as they stood, formed the four points of a diamond. 

They stood prepared for the mortal issue. 

A fatal catastrophe is always sudden and soon over. 

The final question was asked by the duke's second:

"Gentlemen, are you ready?"

"We are, " responded both principals. 

"One--two--three--FIRE!" intoned the Russian baron. 

Two flashes, a simultaneous report, and the Count de Volaski leaped intothe air and fell down, with a heavy thud, upon his face!

The seconds hastened to raise the fallen man. The duke stoodpanic-stricken for an instant, and then followed them. 

The unfortunate count lay in a tumbled, huddled, shapeless heap, with hishead bent under him. Not a drop of blood was to be seen on his person orclothing. The Russian baron raised him up. There was a gasp, a momentaryflutter of the lips and eyelids, and all was still. 

The colonel hurried off to the carriage to call the surgeon. 

The duke stood gazing on his murdered foe, aghast at his own deed andfeeling the brand of Cain upon his brow, notwithstanding that he hadacted in accordance with the "code of honor. "

The surgeon came in haste with his box of instruments in his hands, andthe roll of linen under his arm. 

He put these articles on the ground, and knelt down to examine hissubject; for the body of the count was only a subject now, and not apatient. 

After a careful investigation, the surgeon arose and pronounced hisverdict. 

"Shot through the heart: quite dead. "

The Duke of Hereward groaned aloud. None of his wrongs could have beensuch a calamity as this! None of his sufferings could have equalled inintensity of agony this appalling sense of blood-guiltiness!

"Can _nothing_ be done?" he inquired, not with the slightest hopethat anything could, but rather in the idiocy of utter despair. 

"Nothing. No medical skill can raise the dead, " solemnly answered thesurgeon. 

"One of you fellows can bring the railway rug out of our carriage. I knewit would be needed, " said the serenely practical colonel. 

The count's servant started to obey. 

The duke groaned and turned away from the body of his fallen foe, uponwhich he could not endure longer to gaze. 

The Russian baron came up to him, and with the knightly courtesy of hiscaste and country, said:

"Monseigneur may rest tranquil. Everything has been conducted inaccordance with the most rigid rules of honor. The result has beenunfortunate for my distinguished principal, but Monseigneur has nothingwith which to reproach himself. "

"Thanks, Baron. You are kind to say so. Yet I would that I had neverlived to see this day; or the worthless woman who has caused thiscatastrophe!" exclaimed the duke, as he walked hurriedly away andhid himself and his remorse in the inclosure of his own carriage. 

There he was soon joined by his serene second, who entered the carriageand gave the order to the coachman;

"Drive to the Depot St. Lazare. "

"Why to the depot?" gloomily inquired the duke, as the coachman closedthe door and remounted to his box. 

"Because we must get out of Paris--yes, and out of France also, " calmlyreplied the colonel, sinking back in his seat as the cab drove off. 

"Who is looking after--after--"

"The body? I left Legare to help Blomonozoff and his servant to removeit. We must get away. An arrest would not be pleasant. "

"No, no, certainly not; yet not on that account, but for the peace of myown spirit, I would to Heaven this had not happened!" exclaimed the duke. 

"Why? Everything went off most agreeably. Indeed, this was one of themost satisfactory meetings at which I ever assisted, " said the colonel, comfortably. 

"I wish to Heaven it had never taken place! I would give my right hand toundo its own deed to-day--if that were possible!" groaned the homicide. 

"Why should you disturb yourself?--but perhaps this is your first affairof the kind?" calmly inquired the colonel. 

"My first and last! I do not know how any one can engage in a second oneafter feeling what it is to kill a man. "

"You feel so because it _is_ your first affair. You would not mindyour second, and you would rather enjoy your third, " suavely observed thecolonel, who then drew a railway card from his pocket, examined it, looked at his watch, and said:

"We shall be in time to catch the morning's express to Calais, and we mayactually eat our dinners in London. When we arrive you can get some ofyour people to send a telegram to Tompkins, to order him to pay yourhotel bill and bring your effects to London, or wherever else you maythink of stopping. "

"Thanks for your counsel. I leave myself entirely in your hands, " saidthe duke, with a half-suppressed sigh. 

They caught the express to Calais, connected with the Dover boat, andcrossed the channel the same day. They ran up to London by the afternoontrain, and arrived in good time for a dinner at "Morley's. "

Two telegrams were dispatched to Paris--one to the respectable Mr. Tompkins, with orders to pay bills and return with his master's effects;the other to the estimable Mr. Joyce, the groom of the colonel, withorders to perform the same services in behalf of his own employer. 

Then the principal and his second separated--the duke to go to histown-house in Piccadilly and the colonel to join his regiment, thenstationed at Brighton. 

And as the extradition treaty had not at that day been thought of, bothwere perfectly safe. 

CHAPTER XL. 

AFTER THE STORM. 

The Duke of Hereward only remained in town until the arrival of hisservants with his effects from Paris. 

He avoided looking at the newspapers, which, he knew, must containexaggerated statements of the duel and its causes, if, indeed, anystatement of such horrors could be exaggerated. 

On the third day after his arrival in London, he went down to Greencombe, a small family estate in a secluded part of Sussex, near the sea. 

Here he hid himself and his humiliations from the world. 

The primitive population around Greencombe had never seen the duke, or any of his family, who preferred to reside at Hereward Hold, inDevonshire, or their town-house in Piccadilly, leaving their smallSussex place in charge of a land-steward and a few old servants. 

They had never even heard of the marriage of the duke in Paris, much lessthe flight of the duchess, or the duel with Volaski. 

This neglect of his poor people at Greencombe had hitherto been a matterof compunction to the conscientious soul of the duke, but he now wassatisfied with the course of conduct which had left them in totalignorance of himself and his unhappy domestic history. 

The duke and his fine servants were received with mingled deference, gladness and embarrassment by the aged and rustic couple who acted asland-steward and housekeeper at Greencombe, and who now bestirredthemselves to make their unexpected master and his attendantscomfortable. 

The duke gave orders that he should be denied to all visitors, thoughthere was little likelihood of any calling upon him, except perhaps thevicar of Greencombe church. 

Here the duke vegetated until the meeting of Parliament, when he went upto London to institute proceedings for a divorce. 

At that time there was no divorce court, and little necessity for one. Divorces were to be obtained by act of Parliament only. 

The duke commenced proceedings immediately on his arrival in London. Hiscase was a clear and simple one; there was no opposition; consequently hewas soon, matrimonially considered a free man. 

The Duke of Hereward was now nearly fifty years of age. Life wasuncertain, and the laws of succession very certain. 

If the present bearer of the coronet of Hereward should die childless, the title would not descend to the son of his only and beloved sister, but would go to a distant relative whom the duke hated. 

A speedy marriage seemed necessary. 

The duke looked around the upper circle of London society, and fixed uponthe Lady Augusta Victoria McDugald, the eldest daughter of the Earl ofBanff, and a woman as little like his unhappy first wife as it wasPossible for her to be. 

"The daughter of an hundred earls" was tall and stately, cold and proud, embodying the child's or the peasant's very ideal of "a duchess. "

"Dukes, " like monarchs, "seldom woo in vain. "

After a short courtship the duke proposed for the lady, and after ashorter engagement, married her. 

The newly-wedded pair went on a very unusually extended tour over Europe, into Asia and Africa, and then across the ocean and over North and SouthAmerica. 

After twelve months spent in travel, they returned to England only thatthe anticipated heir of the dukedom might be born on the patrimonialestate of Hereward Hold. 

There was the utmost fulfillment of hope. The expected child proved to bea fine boy, who was christened for his father, Archibald-Alexander-John, by courtesy styled Marquis of Arondelle. 

Had the duke's mind been as free from remorse for his homicide ashis heart was free from regret for his first love, he would havebeen as happy a man as he was a proud father; but ah! the sense ofblood-guiltiness, although incurred in the duel, under the so-called"code of honor, " weighed heavily upon his conscience, and over-shadowedall his joys. 

His duchess was a prolific mother, and brought him other sons anddaughters as the years went by; but, as if some spell of fatality hungover the family, these children all passed away in childhood, leavingonly the young Marquis of Arondelle as the sole hope of the great ducalhouse of Hereward. 

So the time passed in varied joys and sorrows, without bringing anytidings, good or bad, of the poor, lost girl who had once shared theduke's title and possessed his heart. 

He believed her to be as dead to the world as she was to him. And so hegradually forgot even that she had ever lived! She had long been "out ofmind" as "out of sight. "

Fifteen years of married life had passed over the heads of the Duke andDuchess of Hereward. 

The duchess at thirty-five was still a very beautiful woman, a reigningbelle, a leader of fashion, a queen of society. 

The duke at sixty-five was still a very handsome, stately and commandingold gentleman, with hair and beard as white as snow. He was a greatpolitical power in the House of Lords. Their son, the young Marquisof Arondelle, was a fine boy of fourteen. 

It was very early summer in London. Parliament was in session, and theseason was at its height. 

The Duke and Duchess of Hereward were established in their magnificenttown-house in Piccadilly. 

The Marquis of Arondelle was pursuing his studies at Eton. 

A memorable day was at hand for the duke. 

It was the morning of the first of June--a rarely brilliant and beautifulday for London. 

The duchess had gone down to a garden party at Buckingham Palace. 

The duke sat alone in his sumptuous library, whose windows overlooked theluxuriant garden, then in its fullest bloom and fragrance. 

The windows were open, admitting the fine, fresh air of summer, perfumedwith the aroma of numberless flowers, and musical with the songs of manybirds. 

The duke sat in a comfortable reading-chair, with an open book on itsrotary ledge. He was not reading. The charm of external nature, appealingequally to sense and sentiment, won him from his mental task, andsoothed him into a delicious reverie, during which he sat simply resting, breathing, gazing, luxuriating in the lovely life around him. 

In the midst of this clear sky a thunderbolt fell. 

A discreet footman rapped softly, and being told to enter, glided intothe room, bearing a card upon a tiny silver tray, which he brought to hismaster. 

The duke took it, languidly glanced at it, knit his brows, and took uphis reading-glass and examined it closely. No! his eyes had not deceivedhim. The card bore the name: ARCHBALD A. J. SCOTT. 

"Who brought this?" inquired the duke. 

"A young gentleman, sir, " respectfully answered the footman. 

"Where is he?"

"I showed him into the blue reception room, your grace. "

The duke paused a moment, gazing at the card, and then abruptly demanded:

"What is the young man like?"

"Most genteel, your grace; most like our young lord, and about his age, and dressed in the deepest mourning, your grace; and most particularanxious to see your grace. "

"I do not know the boy at all; do not know where he came from, nor whathe wants; but he bears the family name, and looks like Arondelle, " musedthe duke, gazing at the card and knitting his brow. 

"I will see the young man. Show him up here, " at length he said, abruptly. 

The footman bowed and withdrew. 

A few moments passed and the footman re-entered and announced:

"Mr. Scott, " and withdrew. 

The duke wheeled his chair around and looked at the visitor, who stoodjust within the door, bowing profoundly. 

The newcomer was a youth of about fifteen years of age, tall, slight andelegant in form; fair, blue-eyed and light-haired in complexion; refined, graceful and self possessed in manner; and faultlessly dressed in deepmourning; but! how amazingly like the duke's own son, the young Marquisof Arondelle. 

The duke's short survey of his visitor seemed so satisfactory that hearose and advanced to meet him, saying kindly:

"You wished particularly to see me, I understand, young gentleman. Inwhat manner can I serve you?"

The youth bowed again with the deepest deference, and said:

"Thanks, your grace. I bring you a letter of introduction. "

"Sit down, young sir, sit down, and give me your letter, " said the duke, pointing to a chair, and resuming his own seat. "Good Heaven, how likethis boy's voice was to the voice of the young Marquis of Arondelle! Whocould he be?" mused the duke, as he sat and waited the issue. 

The youth seated himself as directed, and seemed to hesitate, as ifrespectfully referring to his host's convenience. 

"Your letter of introduction, now, if you please, young sir, " said theduke, at length. 

"Thanks; your grace. It's from my mother. She--" Here the boy's voicefaltered and broke down; but he soon, recovered it and resumed: "Shewrote it on her death-bed--on the very day she died. Here it is, yourgrace. "

The duke took the letter and held it gravely in his fingers while hegazed upon the orphaned boy with sympathy and compassion in everylineament of his fine face, saying, slowly and seriously:

"Ah! that is very, very sad. You have lost your mother, my boy; and if Ijudge correctly from the circumstance of your coming to me, you have lostyour father also. I hope, however, I am wrong. "

"Your grace is right. I have lost my father also. I lost him first, solong ago that I have no memory of him. I have no relatives at all. Thatis the reason why my dear mother, on her death-bed, gave me that letterof introduction to your grace, who used to know her, so that I might notbe without friends as well as without relatives, " modestly replied theyouth. 

"Ah! I see! I see! And she wrote this letter on her death-bed, whichgives it a grave importance. I must therefore pay the more respect to it. The wishes of the dying should be considered sacred, " said the duke, ashe adjusted his glass and looked at the letter, wondering who the writercould be and what claims she could possibly have on him; but feeling tookindly toward the orphan-boy to let such thought betray itself. 

He scrutinized the handwriting of the letter. He could not recognize thefaint, scratchy, uncertain characters as anything he had ever seenbefore. After all, the whole thing might be an imposture, and he himselfan exceedingly great dupe, to suffer his feelings to be enlisted by aperfect stranger, merely because that stranger happened to be acounterpart of his own idolized boy Arondelle. 

Still dallying with the note, he looked again at the youth, and as helooked, his confidence in him revived. No boy of such a noble countenancecould possibly be an impostor. He might have satisfied himself at once, by opening the note and reading the signature; but from some occultreason that even he could not have given, he held it in his hands fora few moments longer, as if it contained some oracle he dreaded todiscover. At length he broke the seal and looked at the signature. It was a faint maze of scratches, so difficult to decipher that he gaveit up in despair, and turning to the boy, said:

"Your name is Scott, young sir?"

"Yes, your grace--a very common name, " modestly replied the youth. 

"It is ours also" added the duke with a smile. 

"I beg your grace's pardon, " said the boy, with some embarrassment. 

"No offence, young sir. Your mother's name was also Scott, I presume?"

"Yes, your grace; my mother never re-married. "

"Ah, " said the duke, and he turned the letter for the first page, andcommenced its perusal. 

And then--

Reader! If the Duke of Hereward's hair had not already been white withage, it must have turned as white as snow with amazement and horror as heread the astounding disclosures of that dying woman's letter!

CHAPTER XLI. 

FATHER AND SON. 

The first part of the letter was written in a much clearer chirographythan the latter, where it grew fainter and more irregular as itproceeded, until at last, in the signature, it was so nearly illegibleas to baffle the ingenuity of the reader to decipher it; as if, in thecourse of her task, the strength of the dying writer had grown weaker andweaker, until at the end the pen must have fallen from her failing hand. 

The Duke of Hereward, who could not make out the name at the bottom ofthe letter, at once recognized the handwriting at the top, and knew thathis correspondent from the dead was his lost wife, Valerie de la Motte. 

He grew cold with the chill of an anticipated horror; but with thatsupreme power of self-control which was as much a matter of constitutionas of education with him, he suppressed all signs of emotion, andcourteously apologized to his visitor, saying:

"Excuse me, young sir; my eyes are not so good as they were some twentyyears ago, and I must turn to the light, " and he deliberately wheeled hischair around so as to bring his face entirely out of range of hisvisitor's sharp vision, while he should read the fatal letter, whichwas as follows:

"SAN VITO, ITALY, MARCH 1st, 18--

"DUKE OF HEREWARD: This paper will be handed you byArchibald-Alexander-John Scott, my son and yours. 

"This news will startle you, if you have not already been sufficientlystartled by the living likeness of the boy to yourself, and by theelectric chain of memory which will bring before you the weeksimmediately preceding our separation, when you yourself had suspicionsof my condition, and hopes of becoming a father. Those fond hopes weredestined to be fulfilled by me, but doomed to be ruined by you. 

"Yes, Duke of Hereward, your son stands before you, strong, healthy, beautiful, perfect as ever wife bore to her husband; yet denied, delegalized, and defrauded by you, his father!

"If you are inclined still to deny him, turn and look upon him, as hestands, and you can no longer do so. If you want further proof, find itin these circumstances: That this letter is written, and these statementsare made by a dying woman, with the immediate prospect of eternity andits retribution before her. 

"But on one point be at ease before you read farther; the boy does notknow who his father is, and therefore does not know how grievously, howirretrievably you wronged him by divorcing his mother and delegalizinghim before his birth. I would not put enmity between father and son bytelling him anything about it. _He_ thinks that his father is dead, and I have never undeceived him. He has heard of you only as one who wasa friend of his mother, and who, for her sake, may become the friend ofher son. It must be for you to decide whether to leave him in thisignorance or to tell him the truth. 

"Perhaps you will ask why I have concealed your son's existence from youup to this time. I will tell you; but in order to do so clearly, I mustrefer to those last few weeks spent with you in Paris before ourseparation. 

"Remember the ball at the British Embassy, to which you persuaded me togo, and where I met, unexpectedly the Count de Volaski, my secretlymarried husband, supposed to be dead; remember my illness that followed!and how earnestly I tried to avoid him, an effort that was totallyuseless, because he, considering that he possessed the only rightfulclaim to my society, constantly sought me, and you, ignorant of all hisantecedents, constantly helped him to see me. 

"My position was degrading, agonizing, intolerable. I found myself, though guiltless of any intentional wrong-doing, in the horrible dilemmaof a wife with two living husbands. 

"Yes, by the laws of love and nature, justice and the church, I was thewife of Waldemar de Volaski; by the laws of France and England, I was thewife of the Duke of Hereward. 

"The discovery shocked, confused, and, perhaps, unsettled my reason. Atfirst I knew not what to do. I prayed for death. I contemplated suicide. At length, I thought I saw a way out of my dreadful dilemma. It was toescape and to live apart from both forever. 

"So also thought the Count de Volaski. I consulted with him. I dared notconfess to you the secret that my parents had compelled me to conceal solong. Volaski would have told you, but I would not consent that he shoulddo so, until I should be safe out of the house; for I could not haveborne, after such confession, to have met you again; and again, under anycircumstances, I preferred that I myself should be your informant. Idetermined to leave yon, and to live apart from both, as the only life ofpeace and honor possible for me, and to write you a letter confessing thewhole truth, as an explanation of my course of conduct. I thought thatyou would understand and pity me, and leave me to my fate. 

"I did _not_ think that you would disbelieve my statement, publish myflight, and blast my reputation by a divorce. 

"I was never false to you in thought, word or deed. 

"Volaski was not my lover; he was my sternest mentor. He came to thehouse during your absence; not for the pleasure of seeing me, for he tookno pleasure in my society; he came to arrange with me the programme of mydeparture; an angel of purity or a demon of malice might have beenpresent at our interviews, and seen nothing to grieve the first or pleasethe last. 

"I was ill and nervous and fearful; I could not travel alone, andtherefore Volaski went with me, and took care of me; but it was thecare a pitiless gend'arme would have taken of a convicted criminal. Itwas a care that only hurried me to my destination, my chosen place ofexile--San Vito--and which left me on the day of my arrival there. I havenever seen him since. And now let me say and swear on the Christian faithand hope of a dying woman--that--from the moment I met Count Waldemar deVolaski at the British embassy, to the moment I parted with him at SanVito, he never once came so near me as even to kiss my hand--a courtesythat any gentleman might have shown without blame. You may not believe menow; that you did not believe me before was your great misfortune, andmine, and our son's. 

"A week after Volaski had left me you followed us and traced us to SanVito. I heard of your visit and trembled; for, though really guiltless, I felt that to meet your eye would seem worse than death. Fortunatelyfor us both, perhaps, you declined to see me and went away. 

"The next news that I heard was of the duel in which you had killedVolaski. I should scarcely have believed in his death this time, had nota packet been forwarded to me, through his second. This packet containeda letter that he had written to me on the eve of the duel, and with apresentiment of death overshadowing him. In this letter he said that indeath he claimed me again as his wife, and bequeathed to me, as to hiswidow, all that he had the power to leave, his personal property, and hetook a last solemn farewell of me. 

"In the packet, besides, was his will and other documents necessary toput me in possession of his bequest, and also a great number of valuablejewels. 

"These, together with my own small dower, have made me independent forlife. 

"It will show how perfectly palsied was my heart when I tell you thatI could not feel either horror of crime, grief for Volaski's death, orgratitude for his bequest. 

"I could feel nothing. 

"Days and weeks passed in this apathy of despair, from which I was atlength painfully aroused by a most shocking discovery. 

"Madelena, my hostess, who tenderly watched over my health had hersuspicions aroused, and put some motherly questions to me, and when I hadanswered them she startled me with the announcement that in a very fewmonths I should become a mother. 

"This news, so joyful to most good women, only filled my soul withsorrow and dismay. It seemed to complicate my difficulties beyond allpossibility of extrication. 

"Lena, poor woman, who had never heard of my marriage with the Duke ofHereward, but had known me as the wife of the Count de Volaski, believedthat all my distress was caused by the prospect of becoming the mother ofa fatherless child, and bent all her energies to try to comfort me withthe assurance that this motherhood would be the greatest blessing of mylonely life. 

"Ah! how willing would I have confided the whole truth to this good womanif I had dared to do so! It will show how timid I had grown when I assureyou that I, a faithful daughter of the church, had not even ventured togo to confession once since my arrival in Italy. 

"Now, Duke of Hereward, attend to my words! Had you been less bitterlyincredulous of my statements, less cruel in your judgment of me, lessmurderous in your vengeance upon one much more sinned against thansinning, I should have ventured to write to you of my condition and myprospect of giving you an heir to your dukedom, in time to prevent yourrash and fatal act by which you unconsciously delegalized your ownlawful son!

"But your murderous cruelty had left me in a state of stupor from whichI could not rally. 

"Night after night I resolved to write to you. Day after day I tried tocarry my resolution into effect. Time after time I failed through fearof you!

"At length I persuaded myself that there was no immediate necessity foraction on my part. I might defer writing to you until the arrival of mychild. That child might prove to be a girl, who could not be your heir, and, therefore, could not be an object of momentous importance to you; orit might die. Either of which circumstance would relieve me from thepainful duty of opening a correspondence with you; or I myself mightperish in the coming trial, when the duty of communicating the facts toyou would devolve upon some one whom I would appoint with my dyingbreath. 

"These were the causes of my fatal delay in writing to you. 

"At length the time arrived. On the fifth of April, just five monthsafter our separation. I became the mother of a fine, healthy, beautifulboy. He brought with him the mother-love that is Heaven's first gift tothe child. I loved my son as I never loved a human being before. I _had_prayed for death; but as I clasped my first-born to my bosom, I askedpardon for that sinful prayer, thanked the Lord that I had lived throughmy trial, and besought him still to spare my life for my boy's sake. Fromthat day forth I was able to pray and to give thanks. I resolved that myfirst act of recovery should be to go to the church and make myconfession to the good father there, gain my absolution, and then writeand inform you of the birth of your heir, the infant Earl of Arondelle, for such I knew was even then the baby boy's title! With these fond hopesI rapidly recovered. "Perfect love casteth out fear. " Mother-love hadcast out from my soul all fear of you. I thought that you would feel sorejoiced at the news of the birth of your son, your heir, and so fine aboy, that even for his sake you would forgive his mother, supposing thatyou should still think you had anything to forgive. 

"In the midst of my vain dreaming a thunderbolt fell upon me!

"My boy was six weeks old. I had not yet left the house to carry out anyof my happy resolutions, when my good Madelena entered my room andbrought two large parcels of English papers, such as were sent me monthlyby my London correspondent. She told me that the first parcel had arrivedduring my confinement to my bed, and that she had laid it away andforgotten all about it until this day, when the arrival of the secondparcel had reminded her of it, and now she had brought them both, andhoped I would excuse her negligence in not having remembered to bring thefirst parcel sooner. I readily and even hastily excused her, for I wasanxious to get rid of my good hostess and read my files of papers. 

"As any one else would have done under the like circumstances, I openedthe last parcel first, and selected the latest paper to begin with. Itwas the London _Times_ of April 7th. As I opened it, a short, markedparagraph caught my eyes. 

"Judge of my consternation when I read the notice of your marriage withthe Lady Augusta McDugald!

"The letters ran together on my vision, the room whirled around with me, all grew dark, and I lost consciousness. When I recovered my senses Ifound myself in bed, with Madelena and several of her kind neighbors inattendance upon me. Many days passed before I was able to look again atthe file of English newspapers. 

"You had married again! you had married just one week before the birth ofmy son! But under what circumstances had you married? Did you suppose meto be dead, and that my death had set you free? Or--oh, horror! had youdragged my name before a public tribunal, and by lying _facts_--forfacts do often lie--had you branded me with infidelity, and repudiated meby divorce?

"Such were the questions that tormented me, until I was able to examinethe file of English newspapers, and find out from them; for, as before, I would not have taken any one into my confidence by getting another toread the papers for me, even if I could have found any one in that ruralItalian neighborhood capable of reading English. 

"At length, one morning, I sent for the papers, and began to look themover, and I found--merciful Heaven! what I feared to find--the fullreport of our divorce trial! found myself held up to public scorn andexecration, the reproach of my own sex--the contempt of yours! Foundmyself, in short, convicted and divorced from you, upon the foulestcharge that can be brought upon a woman! Guiltless as I was! wronged asI had been! wishing only to live a pure and blameless life, as I did!

"Oh! the intolerable anguish of the days that followed! But for my babyboy, I think I should have died, or maddened!

"In my worst paroxysms, good Madelena would come and take up my baby andlay him on my bosom, and whisper, that no doubt, though his handsomeyoung father had gone to Heaven, it was all for the best; and we too, if we were good, would one day meet him there, or words to that effect. 

"Surely angels are with children, and their presence makes itself feltin the comfort children bring to wounded hearts. 

"One day, in a state bordering on idiocy, I think, I examined andcompared dates, in the sickening hope that my darling boy might have beenborn before the decree of divorce had been pronounced, and thus be theheir of his father's dukedom, notwithstanding all that followed. 

"But, ah! that faint hope also was destined to die! The dates, compared, stood thus:

"The decree of divorce was pronounced February 13th, 18--. 

"The marriage between yourself and Lady Augusta McDugald was solemnizedApril 1st, 18--. 

"My boy was born April 15th, 18--. 

"Yes, you divorced the guiltless mother two months, and married anotherwoman two weeks, before the birth of your innocent boy. 

"You cruelly and unjustly disowned, disinherited, and even delegalized, and degraded your son before he was born! So that your son was not bornin wedlock, could not bear your name, or inherit your title! And thismisfortune came upon him by no fault of his, or of his most unhappymother's but by the jealousy, vengeance, and fatal rashness of hisfather! And now there was no help, either in law or equity, for thedishonored boy. 

"This, Duke of Hereward, is the ruin you have wrought in his life, inmine, and in yours. 

"Do you wonder that when I realized it all I fell into a state of despairdeeper than any I had ever yet known?--a despair that was characterizedby all who saw it as melancholy madness. 

"My dear boy, who was at first such a comfort to me, was now only abeloved sorrow! When I held him to my bosom, I thought of nothing buthis bitter, irreparable wrongs. 

"I do not know how long I had continued to live in this despairing andheathenish condition, when one day, in harvest time, Madelena broughtgood Father Antonio to see me. This Father Antonio was the priest of thechapel of Santa Maria, who had performed the marriage ceremony betweenWaldemar de Volaski and myself. 

"The father also naturally supposed that all my grief was for the deathof my child's father. He began in a gentle, admonitory way to rebuke mefor inordinate affection and sinful repining, and to remind me of thecomfort and strength to be found in the spirit of religion and theordinances of the Church. 

"My heart opened to the good old priest as it had never opened to aliving man or even woman before. 

"Then and there I told him the whole secret history of my life, includingevery detail of my two unhappy marriages, and the fatal divorce precedingthe birth of my son. I concealed nothing from him. I told him all, andfelt infinitely relieved when I had done so. 

"The gentle old man dropped tears of pity over me, and sat in silentsympathy some time before he ventured to give me any words. 

"At length he arose and said:

"'Child, I must go home and pray for wisdom before I can venture tocounsel you. '

"'Bless me, then, holy father. '

"He laid his venerable hands upon my bowed head, raised his eyes toHeaven, and invoked upon me the divine benediction, of which I stood somuch in need. 

"Then he silently passed from the room. 

"That night I slept in peace. 

"The next day the good old man came to me again. 

"He told me that my first marriage with Waldemar de Volaski was my onlytrue marriage, indissoluble by anything but death, however invalid in lawit might be pronounced by those who were interested in breaking it. 

"That my second marriage contracted with the Duke of Hereward during thelife of my first husband, was sacrilegious in the eyes of religion andthe church, however legal it might be considered by the laws of Englandor of France, and pardonable in me only on account of my ignorance at thetime of the continued existence of my first husband. 

"That the desperate step I had taken of leaving the Duke of Hereward, upon the discovery of the existence of Waldemar de Volaski, was the rightand proper course for me to pursue; but that he regretted I had notpossessed the moral courage to tell the duke the whole story, for he hadthat much right to my confidence. 

"As for the divorce I so much lamented, it was to be regretted only forthe sake of the son whom it had outlawed, for he was the son of a lawfulmarriage in the eyes of the world, if not a sacred one in the eyes of thechurch. 

"For the boy thus cruelly wronged there seemed no opening on earth. Hewas disowned, disinherited, delegalized, deprived even of a name in thisworld. All earth was closed against him. 

"But all Heaven was open to him. The church, Heaven's servant, would openher arms to receive the child the world had cast out. The church inbaptism would give him a name and a surname; would give him an educationand a mission. I must, like Hannah of old, devote my son, even from hischildhood up, to the service of the altar, and the church would do therest. 

"How comforted I was! I had something still to live for! My outcast sonwould be saved. He could not inherit his father's titles and estates; hecould not be a duke, but he would be a holy minister of the Lord; hemight live to be a prince of the church, an archbishop or a cardinal. 

"Foolish ambition of a still worldly mother you may think. Yes! but hewas her only son, and she was worse than widowed. 

"I agreed to all the good priest said. I promised to dedicate my son tothe service of the altar. 

"The next Sunday I went to the chapel of Santa Maria and had my childchristened. I gave him in baptism the full name of his father. Beppo andMadelena stood as his sponsors. They told me St. John would be his patronsaint. 

"I rallied from my torpor. I built a roomy cottage in a mountain dellnear the chapel of Santa Maria, furnished it comfortably, and moved intoit, and engaged an Italian nurse and housekeeper, for I had resolved topass my life among the simple, kindly people who were the only friendsmisfortune had left me. 

"Another trial awaited me--a light one, however, in comparison to thoseI had suffered and outlived. 

"This trial came when my son was but little over a year old, and I hadbeen about six months in the "Hermitage, " as I called my new home. 

"One morning I received a file of English papers for the month of Mayjust preceding. In the papers of the first week in May I saw announcedthe birth of your son, called the infant Marquis of Arondelle, and theheir. I read of the great rejoicings in all your various seats throughoutthe United Kingdom, and the congratulations of royalty itself, upon thisauspicious event. I clasped my disinherited son to my bosom and wept thevery bitterest tears I had ever shed in my life. 

"Later on I read in the papers for the last of May a graphic account ofthe grand pageantry of the christening, which took place at St. Peter's, Euston Square, where an archbishop performed the sacred rites and a royalduke stood sponsor, and of the great feastings and rejoicings in hall andhut on every estate of yours throughout the kingdom. I thought of mydisowned boy's humble baptism in the village church by the countrypriest, where two kind-hearted peasants stood sponsors for him, and Iwept myself nearly blind that night. 

"The next day I went to the little church and told the good father thereall about it. He understood and sympathized with me, counselled andcomforted me as usual. 

"He admonished me that to escape from the wounds of the world, I must notonly forsake the world, as I had done, but forget the world as I had notdone; to forget the world I must cease to search and inquire into itssayings and doings; and he advised me to write and stop all mynewspapers, which only brought me news to disturb my peace of mind. 

"I followed the direction of my wise guide. I wrote immediately andstopped all my newspapers. 

"After that I devoted myself to the nurture of my child, to the careof my little household, to the relief of my poorer neighbors, and to theperformance of my religious duties; and time brought me resignation andcheerfullness. 

"From that day to this, Duke of Hereward, I have never once seen yourname printed or written, and never once heard it breathed. You may havepassed away from earth, for aught I know to the contrary; though I hopeand believe that you have not. 

"My boy throve finely. The good priest of Santa Maria took charge of hiseducation for the first twelve years of the pupil's life, made of him, even at that early age, a good Latin and Greek scholar, and a fairmathematician; and would have prepared him to enter one of the GermanUniversities, had not the summons come that cut short the good father'swork on earth, and carried him to his eternal home. 

"It was soon after the loss of this kind friend, who had been the strongprop of my weakness, the wise counsellor of my ignorance, that my ownhealth began to fail. The seeds of pulmonary consumption, inherited frommy mother, began to develop, and nothing could arrest their progress. Forthe last three years I have been an invalid, growing worse and worseevery year. Perhaps in no other climate, under no other treatment, couldI have lived so long as I have been permitted to live here by the help ofthe pure air and the grape cure. 

"My boy, now fifteen years of age, is everything that I could wish him tobe, except in one respect. He will not consent to enter the church. Hewants to be a soldier, poor lad! Well, we cannot coerce him into a lifeof sanctity and self-denial. Such a life must always be a voluntarysacrifice. Neither do I wish to cross him, now that I am on my death-bedand doomed so soon to leave him. 

"In these last days on earth, lying on my dying bed, travailing for hisgood, it has come to me like an inspiration that I must send him to hisfather. I must not leave him friendless in the world. And now that thepriest Antonio has long passed away, and I am so soon to follow, he willhave no friends except these poor, helpless Italian peasants among whomhe has been reared. Therefore I must send him, in the hope that you willrecognize him by his exact likeness to yourself, and prove his identityas your son, by all the testimony you can be sure to gather in Paris andat San Vito. I have written this long letter, in the intervals betweenpain and fever, during the last few weeks. 

"Yesterday, my faithful physician warned me that my days on earth haddwindled down to hours; that I might pass away at any moment now, andhad therefore best attend to any necessary business that I might wishto settle. 

"This warning admonishes me to finish and close my letter. I end as Ibegan, by swearing to you, by all the hopes of salvation in a dyingwoman, that Archibald Scott is your own son. You can prove this to yourown satisfaction by coming to San Vito and examining the church registeras to the dates of his birth, baptism, and so forth; by which you willfind that he was born just five months after I left your roof, and justsix months after our return from our long yachting cruise, and therenewal of my acquaintance with Count de Volaski, at the Britishminister's dinner. You see, by these circumstances, there cannot beeven the shadow of a doubt as to his true parentage. 

"I repeat, that I have not told the boy the secret of his birth; to havedone so might have been to have embittered his mind against you, and Iwould not on my death-bed do anything to sow enmity between father andson. 

"I leave to yourself to tell him, if you should ever think proper to doso, and with what explanations you may please to add. 

"I have constituted you his sole guardian, and trustee of the moderateproperty I bequeath him. He wishes to enter the army, and he will havemoney sufficient to purchase a commission and support himself respectablyin some good regiment. I hope that when the proper time comes you willforward his ambition in this direction. 

"And so I leave him in your hands, for my feeble strength fails, and Ican only add my name. 

CHAPTER XLII. 

HER SON. 

The last lines of this sad letter were almost illegible in theirfaintness and irregularity; and the tangled skein of light scratches thatstood proxy for a signature could never have been deciphered by the skillof man. 

The Duke of Hereward had grown ten years older in the half hour hehad spent in the perusal of this fatal letter. He was no longer onlysixty-five years of age, and a "fine old English gentleman;" he seemedfully seventy-five years old, and a broken, decrepit, ruined man. Infact, the first blow had fallen upon that fine intellect whose subsequenteccentricities gained for him the sobriquet of the mad duke. 

The hand that held the fatal letter fell heavily by his side; his headdrooped upon his chest; he did not move or speak for many minutes. 

His young visitor watched him with curiosity and interest that graduallygrew into anxiety. At length he made a motion to attract the duke'sattention--dropped a book upon the floor, picked it up, and arose toapologize. 

The duke started as from a profound reverie, sighed heavily, passed hishandkerchief across his brow, and finally wheeled his chair around, andlooked at his visitor. 

No! there could be no question about it; the boy was the living image ofwhat he himself had been at that age, as all his portraits could prove!and his eldest son, his rightful heir, stood before him, but forever andirrecoverably disinherited and delegalized by his own rash and cruel act. 

The young man stood up as if naturally waiting to hear what the dukemight have to say about his mother's letter. 

But the duke did not immediately allude to the letter. 

"Where are you stopping, my young friend?" he asked, in as calm a voiceas he could command. 

"At 'Langhams, ' your grace, " respectfully answered the youth. 

"Very well. I will call and see you at your rooms to-morrow at eleven, and we will talk over your mother's plans and see what can be done foryou, " said the duke, as he touched the bell, and sank back heavily in hischair. 

The young man understood that the interview was closed, and he was aboutto take his leave, when the door opened and a footman appeared. 

"Truman, attend this young gentleman to the breakfast-room, and placerefreshments before him. I hope that you will take something before yougo, sir, " said the duke, kindly. 

"Thanks. I trust your grace will permit me to decline. It is scarce twohours since I breakfasted, " said the boy, with a bow. 

"As you please, young sir, " answered the duke. 

The youth then bowed and withdrew, attended by the footman. 

The duke watched them through the door, listened to their retreatingsteps down the hall, and then threw his clasped hands to his head, groaning:

"Great Heaven! What have I done? What foul injustice to her, what cruelwrong to him. I thank her that she has never told him! I can never do so!Nay, Heaven forbid that he should ever even suspect the truth! Nor must Iever permit him to come here again; or to any house of mine, where theduchess, where _his brother_, where every servant even must see thelikeness he bears to the family, and--discover, or, at least, suspectthe secret!"

Meanwhile the youth, respectfully attended by the footman, left thehouse. 

As he entered his cab that was waiting at the door, a bitter, bitterchange passed over his fine face; the fair brow darkened, the blue eyescontracted and glittered, the lips were firmly compressed for an instant, and then he murmured to himself:

"That they should think a secret like this could be buried, concealedfrom me, the most interested of all to find it out! Was ever son soaccursed as I am? Other sons have been disinherited, outlawed--but I!I have been delegalized and degraded from my birth!"

The fine mouth closed with a spasmodic jerk, the brow grew darker, theeyes glittered with intenser fire. He resumed:

"It will be difficult, if not impossible, but I will be restored to myrights, or I will ruin and exterminate the ducal house of Hereward! I amthe eldest son of my father; the only son of his first marriage. I am theheir not only of my father, but of the seven dukes and twenty barons thatpreceded him, to whom their patent of nobility was granted, to them and_their heirs forever_! 'Their heirs forever!' It was granted, therefore, to _me_ and to all of _my_ direct line! Each baronand duke had but his life-interest in his barony or dukedom, and couldnot alienate it from his heirs by will. It was an infamous, a fraudulentsubterfuge to divorce my poor mother, and so delegalize me a few monthsbefore my birth. But--I will bide my time! This false heir may die. Suchthings do happen. And then, as there is no other heir to his title andestates, _my father_ may acknowledge his eldest son, and try to undothe evil he has done. But if this should not happen, or if my father, whois old, should die, and this false heir inherit, _then_ I will spendevery shilling I have inherited from my mother to gain my own. I willhave my rights, though I convict my father of a fraudulent conspiracy, and it requires an act of Parliament to effect my restoration! And if, after all, this wrong cannot be righted--although it can be abundantlyproved that I am the only son of my father's first marriage, and therightful heir of his dukedom, if, after all, I cannot be restored to myposition, I will prove the mortal enemy of the race of Scott, and thedestruction of the ducal house of Hereward. Meanwhile I must watch andwait; use this old man as my friend, who will not acknowledge himself asmy father!"

These bitter musings lasted until the cab drew up before Langham's Hotel, and the youth got out and went into the house. 

The boy, wrong in many instances, was right in this, that the secret ofhis birth could not be concealed from him. 

His poor mother had never divulged it to him, never meant him to knowthat, the knowledge of which, she thought, would only make him unhappy;but she had told no falsehoods, put forth no false showing to hide itirrecoverably from him. 

She was known among her poor Italian neighbors as Signora Valeria, andsupposed by them to be the widow of that handsome young Pole to whom theyhad seen her married, and from whom they had seen her torn by her father, some years before. Of the Duke of Hereward, her second husband, and ofher divorce from him, they knew nothing. But she was known to herfather-confessor, to her news-agent, and later to her son, as Valerie dela Motte Scott, for though no longer entitled to bear the latter name, she had tacitly allowed it to cling to her. 

Now as to how the boy discovered the secret that was designed to beconcealed from him. 

When with childish curiosity he had inquired, his mother had told himthat he had lost his father in infancy; and the boy understood that theloss was by death: but as time passed, and the lad questioned moreparticularly concerning his parentage, his mother, in repeating that hehad lost his father in infancy, added that the loss had been attendedwith distressing circumstances, and begged him to desist in hisinquiries. This only stimulated the interest and curiosity of theyouth, and kept him on the _qui vive_ for any word, or look, orcircumstance that might give him a clew to the mystery. And thus itfollowed that with a mother so simple and unguarded as Valerie, and ason so cunning and watchful as Archibald, the secret she wished to keepbe soon discovered. But he kept his own counsel for the sake of gainingstill more information. And, at length, the full revelation andconfirmation of all that he had suspected came to him in a manner andby means his mother had never foreseen or provided against. 

Valerie had made a will leaving all her property to her son, andappointing the Duke of Hereward as his guardian. After her death, all herpapers and other effects had to be overhauled and examined and her sontook care to read every paper that he was free to handle. Among these wasa copy of the will of the late Waldemar de Volaski, by which hebequeathed to Valerie de la Motte Scott, Duchess of Hereward, all hispersonal property. 

Here was both a revelation and a mystery! Valerie de la Motte Scott, hismost unhappy mother, Duchess of Hereward! and his guardian, appointed byher--the Duke of Hereward!

Who was the Duke of Hereward? That he was a great English nobleman wasevident! But aside from that, who and what was he?

The boy was in a fever of excitement. It was of no use to ask any of hispoor Italian neighbors, for they knew less than he did. He had heard of amammoth London annual, called _Burke's Peerage_, which would tellall about the living and dead nobility; but there was no copy of itanywhere in reach. 

However, his mother's dying directions had been that he should proceed atonce to England, and report himself to his guardian, that very Duke ofHereward so mysteriously connected with his destiny. 

Intense curiosity stimulating him, he hurried his departure, and aftertraveling day and night arrived in London on the evening of the last dayof May. 

He waited only to engage a room at Langham's and change his dress, andpartake of a slight luncheon, before he ordered a cab, drove to thenearest bookstore, and purchased a copy of _Burke's Peerage_ forthat current year. 

As soon as he found himself alone in his cab again, he tore the paper offthe book and eagerly turned to the article Hereward, and read:

"Hereward, Duke of--Archibald-Alexander-John Scott, Marquis and Earl ofArondelle in the peerage of England, Viscount Lone and Baron Scott in thepeerage of Scotland, and a baronet; born Jan. 1st, 1795; succeeded hisfather as seventh duke, Feb. 1st, 1840; married, March 15th 1845, Valerie, only daughter of the Baron de la Motte; divorced from her graceFeb. 13, 1846; married secondly, April 1st, 1846, Lady Augusta-Victoria, eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff, by whom he has:

"Archibald-Alexander-John, Marquis of Arondelle. "

Then followed a long list of other children, girls and boys, of whom theonly record was birth and death. Not one of them, except the youngMarquis of Arondelle, had lived to be seven years old. 

Then followed the long lineage of the family, going over a glorioushistory of eight centuries. 

The youth glanced over the lineage, but soon recurred to the openingparagraphs. 

"'Married, March 15th, 1845, Valerie, only daughter of the Baron de laMotte. ' That was my poor, dear mother!

"'Divorced from her grace, Feb, 13th, 1846, ' He divorced her, and whatfor! She was a saint on earth, I know! Perhaps it was for being_that_ she was divorced! Let us see. 'Married secondly, April 1st, 1846, Lady Augusta Victoria, eldest daughter of the Earl of Banff. 'Ah, ha! that was it! He divorced my beloved mother for the same seasonthat the tryant Henry VIII. Divorced Queen Catherine, because he was inlove with another woman whom he wished to marry!"

(The study of history teaches as much knowledge of the world as doespersonal experience. )

"But here again, " continued the youth. "He divorced my dear motheron the 13th of February, married his Anne Boylen on the 1st ofApril--appropriate day--and I was born on the 15th of the same month!Yes! my angel mother and my infant self branded with infamy two monthsbefore my birth, and by the very man whom nature and law should haveconstrained to be our protector! Will I ever forgive it? No! When I do, may Heaven never forgive me!"

As the boy made this vow he laid down the "Royal and Noble Stud-Book, "and took up the bulky letter that his mother had entrusted to him to bedelivered to the Duke of Hereward. He studied it a moment, then had alittle struggle with his sense of right, and finally murmuring:

"Forgive me, gentle mother; but having discovered so much of your secret, I must know it all, even for _your_ sake, and for the love andrespect I bear you. "

He broke the seal and read the whole of the historical letter frombeginning to end. 

Then he carefully re-folded and re-sealed the letter, so as to leave notrace of the violence that has been done in opening it. 

Then he sat for a long time with his elbows on the table before him, andhis head bowed upon his hands while tear after tear rolled slowly downhis cheeks for the sad fate of that young, broken hearted mother who hadperished in her early prime. 

The next day, as we have seen, he went to Hereward House and presentedhis mother's letter to the duke. He had watched his grace while thelatter was reading the letter. He had foolishly expected to see somesign of remorse, some demonstration of affection. But he had beendisappointed. He had been received only as the son of some humbledeceased friend, consigned to the great duke's care. His tender moodhad changed to a vindictive one, and he had sworn to be restored to hisrights, or to devote his life to effect the ruin and extermination of thehouse of Hereward. 

CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE DUKE'S WARD. 

The next morning, at the appointed hour, the Duke of Hereward drove toLangham's, and sent up his card to Mr. John Scott. 

The youth himself, to show the greater respect, came down to the publicparlor where the duke waited, and after most deferentially welcoming hisvisitor, conducted him to his own private apartment. 

"I see by your mother's letter, as well as by her will, that she has doneme the honor to appoint me your guardian, " said the elder man, as soon asthey were seated alone together, and cautiously eyeing the younger, so asto detect, if possible, how much or how little he knew or suspected ofthe true relationship between them. 

"My mother did _me_ the honor to consign me to your grace'sguardianship, if you will be so condescending as to accept the charge, "replied the youth, with grave courtesy and in his turn eyeing the duketo see, if possible, what might be his feelings and intentions towardhimself. 

The duke bowed and then said:

"I would like to carry out your mother's views and your own wishes, ifpossible. She mentioned in her letter the army as a career for you. Doyou wish some years hence to take a commission in the army?"

"I _did_, your grace: but now I prefer to leave myself entirely inyour grace's hands, " cautiously replied the youth. 

"But in the matter of choosing a profession you must be left free. No onebut yourself can decide upon your own calling with any hope of ultimatesuccess. Much mischief is done by the officiousness of parents andguardians in directing their sons or wards into professions or callingsfor which they have neither taste nor talent, " said the duke. 

The youth smiled slightly; he could but see that the duke was utterlyperplexed as to his own course of conduct, and to cover his confusion hewas only talking for talk's sake. 

"You will let me know your own wishes on this subject, I hope, youngsir, " continued the elder. 

"My only wish on the subject is to leave myself in your grace's hands. I feel confident that whatever your grace may think right to do with me, will be the best possible thing for me, " replied the boy, with moremeaning in his manner, as well as in his words, than he had intendedto betray. 

The duke looked keenly at him; but his fair impassive face wasunreadable. 

"Well, at all events, it is, perhaps, time enough for two or three yearsto come to talk of a profession for you. Would you like to enter one ofthe universities? Are you prepared to do so?" suddenly inquired theguardian. 

"I _would_ like to go to Oxford. But whether I am prepared to do so, I do not know. I do not know what is required. I have a fair knowledge ofLatin, Greek, and Hebrew, and of the higher mathematics. I was in courseof preparation to enter one of the German universities, when my goodtutor, Father Antonio, died, " replied the youth. 

The duke dropped his gray head upon his chest and mused awhile, and thensaid:

"I think that you had better read with a private tutor for a while; youwill then soon recover what you may have lost since the death of yourgood teacher, and make such further progress as may fit you to go toOxford at the next term. What do you think? Let me know your views, youngsir. "

"Thanks, your grace; I will read with any tutor you may be pleased torecommend, " respectfully answered the youth. 

"You are certainly a most manageable ward, " said the guardian, dryly, andwith, perhaps, a shade of distrust in his manner. 

The boy bowed. 

"Well, since you place yourself so implicitly in my hands, I must justifyyour faith as well as your mother's by doing the very best I can for you. There is a very worthy man, the Vicar of Greencombe, on one of myestates, down in Sussex, near the sea. He is a ripe scholar, a graduateof Trinity College, Oxford, and occasionally augments his moderate salaryby preparing youth for college. I will direct my secretary to write tohim this morning to know if he can receive you, and I will let you knowthe result in a day or two. "

"Thanks, your grace. "

"And now how are you going to employ your time while waiting here?"

"By taking a good guide-book, your grace, and going through London. Yourgrace will remember that I am a perfect stranger here, and even one ofyour great historical monuments, such as Westminster Abbey or the Tower, has interest enough in it to occupy a student for a week. "

"I commend your taste in the occupation you have sketched out for yourtime. I must request you, however, to take great care of yourself, and tobe _here_ every day at this hour, as I shall make it a point to lookin upon you. "

"Thanks, your grace. "

"And now good-day, " said the visitor, offering his hand, and thenabruptly leaving the room. 

The youth, however, with the most deferential manner, attended him downstairs and to his carriage, and only took his leave, with a bow, when thefootman closed the door. 

Again as soon as his back was turned upon his father, the youth's facechanged and darkened, and--

"I bide my time--I bide my time, " he muttered to himself as here-ascended the stairs. 

He had not deceived his guardian, however, as to the manner in which hemeant to spend his time while in London. At this time of his unfortunateposition he had not yet contracted any evil habits, and he had a genuineliking for interesting antiquities. So, after partaking of a lightluncheon, he went out, guide-book in hand and spent the whole day instudying the architectural glories and the antique monuments inWestminster Abbey. 

The second day he passed among the gloomy dungeons and bloody records ofthe Tower of London. 

On the third day he received another visit from the Duke of Hereward, whocame to tell him the Reverend Mr. Simpson, the Vicar of Greencombe, hadreturned a favorable answer to his letter, and would be happy to receiveMr. Scott in his family. 

"Now I do not wish to hurry you my dear boy; but I think the sooner youresume your long-neglected studies, the better it will be for you, " saidthe duke, speaking kindly, but watching cautiously, as was his constanthabit when conversing with this unacknowledged son. 

"I am ready to go the moment your grace commands, " answered the youngman. 

"I issue no commands to you, my boy. I will give you a letter ofintroduction to Dr. Simpson, which you may go down and deliver at yourown leisure. If you choose to spend a week longer in London to see whatis to be seen, why do so, of course. If not, you can run down toGreencombe to-day or to-morrow. It is about two hours' journey bythe London and South Coast Railroad from the London Bridge Station. "

"I will go down this afternoon. "

"That is prompt. That is right. All you do my boy, all I see of you, commends you more and more to my approval and esteem. Go this afternoon, by all means. I will myself meet you at the station, to see you off andleave with you my letter of introduction. Stay; by what train shall yougo? Ah! you do not know anything about the trains. Ring the bell. "

The youth complied. 

A waiter appeared, a Bradshaw was ordered and consulted, and the fiveP. M. Express fixed upon as the train by which the youth shouldleave London. 

The duke then took leave of the boy, with an admonition of punctuality. 

"Well, " said John Scott to himself, as soon as he was left alone, "if myfather gives me nothing else, he is certainly disposed to give me my ownway. Perhaps in time he may give me all my rights. If so, well. If not--I_bide my time_, " he repeated. 

At the appointed hour the guardian and ward met at the depot. 

The duke placed the promised letter in the youth's hand, saw him intoa first-class carriage, and there bade him good-by. 

John Scott sped down into Sussex as fast as the express train could carryhim, and the Duke of Hereward went back to Hereward House, much relievedby the departure of the youth, whose presence in London had seemed likean incubus upon him. 

The deeply injured boy had departed; but--so also had the father's peaceof mind, forever! Certainly he was now relieved of all fear of anunpleasant ecclaircissement; but he was not freed from remorse for thepast, or from dread for the future. 

He told the duchess that day at dinner that a ward had been left to hisguardianship, that this ward was, in fact, the son of a near relation, and bore the family name, which made it the more incumbent upon him toaccept the charge; and, finally, that he had sent the boy down to Dr. Simpson, at the Greencombe Vicarage, to read for the university. 

The duchess was not in the least degree interested in the duke's ward, and rather wondered that he should have taken the trouble to tell heranything about him; but the duke did so to provide for the futurecontingency of an accidental meeting between the duchess and the boy, sothat she might suppose him to be a blood relation, and thus understandthe family likeness without the danger of suspecting a truth that couldnot be explained to her. 

But the duke could not silence the voice of conscience and affection. Thedeeply-wronged boy whom he had sent away was his own first-born son--theson of his first marriage and of his only love; and he had wronged himbeyond the power of man to help! He was the rightful heir of his titleand estates, yet he could never inherit them; he had been delegalized byhis father's own hasty, reckless and cruel act; and for no fault of theboy's own--before he was capable of committing any fault--before hisbirth--he was disinherited. 

All this so worked upon the duke's conscience that he could not give hismind to his ordinary vocations. 

But about this time, the duchess, through the death of a near relative, inherited a very large fortune, principally in money. 

With this she wished to purchase an estate in Scotland. And so, whenParliament rose, the duke and duchess went to Scotland, personally toinspect certain estates that were for sale there; for the duchess saidthat, in the matter of choosing a home to live in, she would trust noeyes but her own. 

It seemed, however, that neither of the seats in the market pleased thelady, and she had given up her quest in despair, when the duke suggestedthat, before leaving Scotland, they should make a visit to the famoushistorical ruins of Lone Castle, in Lone, on Lone Lake, which had been inthe Scott-Hereward family for eight centuries. 

It was while they were tarrying at the little hotel of the "HerewardArms, " and making daily excursions in a boat across the lake to the isleand to the ruins, that the stupendous idea of restoring the castleoccurred to the duke's mind--and not only restoring it as it had stoodcenturies before, a great, impregnable Highland fortress, but by bringingall the architectural and engineering art and skill of the nineteenthcentury to bear upon the subject, transforming the ruined castle androcky isle and mountain-bound lake into the earthly paradise andcentury's wonder it afterwards became. 

What vast means were used, what fortunes were sacrificed, what treasureswere drawn into the maelstrom of this mad enterprise, has already beenshown. 

It is probable, however, that the duke would not have thrown himself soinsanely into this work had it not seemed a means of escaping the tortureof his own thoughts. 

He could restore the old Highland stronghold, and transform the barren, water-girt rock into a garden of Eden; but he could not restore therights of his own disinherited son. 

He had consulted some among the most eminent lawyers in England, puttingthe case suppositiously, or as the case of another father and son, andthe unanimous opinion given was that there could be no help for such acase as theirs; and even though the father had had no other heir, hecould not reclaim this disinherited one. 

It was not with unmingled regret that the duke heard this opinion given. It certainly relieved him from the fearful duty of having to oppose theduchess and all her family, as he would have been obliged to do, had itbeen possible to restore his eldest son to his rights; for the duchesswould not have stood by quietly and seen her son set aside in favor ofthe elder brother. 

The duke spoke of his ward from time to time, so that in case the duchessshould ever meet him, or hear of him from others, she could not regardhim as a mystery that had been concealed from her, or look upon hislikeness to the family with suspicion. 

But the duchess seemed perfectly indifferent to the duke's ward, or ifshe did interest herself, it was only slightly or good-naturedly, as whenshe answered the duke's remarks, one day, by saying:

"If the dear boy is a relative of the family, however distant, and yourward besides, why don't you have him home for the holidays?"

"Oh, schoolboys at home for the holidays are always a nuisance. He willgo to Wales with Simpson and his lads, when they go for their shortvacation, " answered the duke, not unpleased that his wife took kindlyto the notion of his ward. 

In due time the youth entered Oxford. The duke spoke of the fact to theduchess. Then she answered not so good-humoredly as before; indeed, therewas a shade of annoyance and anxiety in her tones, as she said:

"Oxford is very expensive, and a young man may make it quite ruinous. I hope the youth's friends have left him means enough of his own. Iwould not speak of such a matter, " she added apologetically, "only therestoration of Lone seems so to swallow up all our resources as to leaveus nothing for charitable objects. "

"The youth has ample means for educational purposes, and to establish himin some profession. Of course, he cannot indulge in any of thoseuniversity extravagances and dissipations that are the destruction ofso many fine young men; but, then, he is not that kind of lad; a steady, studious boy, brought up by--a widowed mother and a priest, " answered theduke, with just a slight faltering in his voice, in the latter clause ofhis speech. 

"Such boys are more apt than others to develop into the wildest youngmen, " replied the lady; and circumstances proved that she was right. 

John Scott, at Trinity College, Oxford, passed as the grand-nephew of theDuke of Hereward, and the next in succession, after the young Earl ofArondelle to the dukedom. 

The young Earl of Arondelle was still at Eton. And the duke determined tosend him from Eton to Cambridge, instead of Oxford, where John Scott wasat college; for the father of these two boys wished them never to meet!

At Oxford, John Scott, as the grand-nephew of the Duke of Hereward, bearing an unmistakable likeness to the family, and being, besides, ayoung man of pleasing address, soon won his way among the most exclusiveof the aristocrats there; and pride and vanity tempted him to vie withthem in extravagant and riotous living!

His income _only_ was limited, his credit was _un_limited. When his money fell short, he ran into debt; and at the end of the firstterm his liabilities were alarming, or would have been so to a moresensitive mind. 

It is true, the amount was much greater than his inexperience had led himto expect; but he only smiled grimly when he had all his bills beforehim, and had estimated the sum total, and he said to himself:

"If my allowance will not support me here like a gentleman, my fathermust make up the deficiency, that is all!"

The Duke of Hereward was indeed confounded when his ward wrote to him andtold him boldly that he wanted fifteen hundred pounds for immediatenecessities--namely, twelve hundred for the liquidation of debts, andthree hundred for traveling expenses. 

But could he scold the poor, disinherited boy, who, kept to himself atOxford, had doubtless fallen among thieves and been mercilessly fleeced. 

No; he would pay these debts out of his own pocket, and write the youngman a kind letter of warning against the university sharks. 

The duke carried out this resolution, and John Scott, freed from debt, and with three hundred pounds in his possession, went on a holiday tourthrough the country. 

He had heard at Oxford of the rising glories of Lone, and determined totake his holiday in that neighborhood. 

It happened that the Duke and Duchess of Hereward, with the Marquis ofArondelle, and their attendants, went that summer to Baden-Baden; so whenthe Oxonion arrived at the "Hereward Arms, " in the hamlet of Lone, and, from his age and his exact likeness to the family, was mistaken for theheir, there was no one to set the people right on the subject. 

The obsequious host of the Hereward Arms called him "my lord, " andinquired after his gracious parents, the duke and the duchess. 

John Scott did not actually deceive the people as to his identity, but hetacitly allowed them to deceive themselves. He did not tell them that hewas the Marquis of Arondelle; neither did he contradict them when theycalled him so. Nor did his conscience reproach him for his silentduplicity. He said to himself:

"I _am_ the rightful Marquis of Arondelle. They do but give me myown just title! If this comes to the ears of the duke and brings on acrisis, I will tell him so!"

While he was in the neighborhood, he went up to Ben Lone on a fishingexcursion, and there, as elsewhere, on the Scottish estate, he waseverywhere received as the Marquis of Arondelle. There John Scott firstmet by accident the handsome shepherdess, Rose Cameron, and fell in lovefor the first time in his young life. 

We have already seen how the Highland maiden, flattered by the noticeof the supposed young nobleman, encouraged those attentions withoutreturning that love. 

After this, John Scott spent all his holidays at Lone, and much of themin the society of the handsome shepherdess. His attentions in thatdirection were regarded with strong disapproval by his father's tenantry, but it was not their place to censure their supposed "young lord, " and sothey only expressed their sentiments with grave shaking of their heads. 

During the progress of the work, the ducal family never came to Lone, sothat the tenantry there were never set right as to the identity of JohnScott. 

Only once the duke made a visit, to inspect the progress of the workmen. He stopped at the Hereward Arms, and there heard nothing of the pranks ofJohn Scott, although, upon one occasion, he came very near doing so. 

The landlord respectfully inquired if they should have the young marquisup there as usual. 

The duke stared for a moment, and then answered:

"You are mistaken. Arondelle does not come up here. Whatever are youthinking of, my man?"

The host said he was mistaken, that was all, and so got himself out ofhis dilemma the best way he could, and took the first opportunity to warnall his dependents and followers that they were not to "blow" on theyoung marquis. 

"He was an unco wild lad, nae doobt, but his feyther kenned naethingabout his pranks, and sae the least said, sunest mended, " said thelandlord. 

And thus, by the pranks of his "double, " the reputation of the excellentyoung Marquis of Arondelle suffered among his own people. 

CHAPTER XLIV. 

RETRIBUTION. 

But a crisis was at hand. 

The debts of John Scott increased every year, while the ready means ofthe Duke of Hereward diminished--everything being engulfed by the Lonerestoration maelstrom. 

The guardian determined to expostulate with his ward. 

He went down to Oxford just before the close of the term. He found hisward established in elegant and luxurious apartments, quite fit for aroyal prince, and very much more ostentatious than the unpretendingchambers occupied by the young Marquis of Arondelle at Cambridge, andridiculously extravagant for a young man of limited income and noexpectations like John Scott. 

The duke was excessively provoked; the forbearance of years gave way; thebottled-up indignation burst forth, and the guardian gave his ward whatin boyish parlance is called, "an awful rowing. "

"You live, sir, at twenty times the rate, your debts are twenty times aslarge, you cost me twenty times as much as does Lord Arondelle, my ownson and heir!" concluded the duke, in a final burst of anger. 

John Scott had listened grimly enough to the opening exordium, but whenthe last sentence broke from the duke's lips, the young man grew pale asdeath, while his compressed lips, contracted brow, and gleaming blue eyesalone expressed the fury that raged in his bosom. 

He answered very quietly:

"Your grace means that I cost you twenty times as much as does youryounger son, Lord Archibald Scott, as it is natural that I should beingthe elder son and the heir of the dukedom. "

To portray the duke's thoughts, feelings or looks during his deliberatespeech would be simply impossible. He sat staring at the speaker, withgradually paling cheeks and widening eyes, until the quiet voice ceased, when he faltered forth:

"What in Heaven's name do you mean?"

"I should think your grace should know right well what I have known foryears, and can never for a moment forget, though your grace may effect todo so--that I am your eldest son, the son of your first marriage, withthe daughter of the Baron de la Motte, and therefore that I, and not myyounger half brother, by your second marriage, am the right Marquis ofArondelle, and the heir of the Dukedom of Hereward, " calmly replied theyoung man, with all the confidence an assured conviction gave. 

The duke sank back in his seat and covered his face with his hands. However John Scott had made the discovery, it was absolutely certain thathe knew the whole secret of his parentage. 

"What authority have you for making so strange an assertion?" at lengthinquired the duke. 

"The authority of recorded truth, " replied the young man, emphatically. "But does your grace really suppose that such a secret could be keptfrom me? My dear, lost mother never revealed it to me by her words, butshe unconsciously revealed enough to me by her actions to excite mysuspicions, and set me on the right track. The records did the rest, and put me in possession of the whole truth. "

"What records have you examined?" inquired the duke, in a low voice. 

"First and last, in Italy and France, I have examined the registers ofyour marriage with my mother, and of my own birth and baptism; and inEngland, Burke's Peerage. All these as well as other well-known facts, As easily proved as if they were recorded, establish my rights as yourson--your eldest son and _heir_. "

"As my son, but not as my heir, for your most unhappy mother--"

"STOP!!" suddenly exclaimed the young man, while his blue eyesblazed with a dangerous fire. "I warn you, Duke of Hereward, that youmust not breathe one word reflecting in the least degree on my dear, injured mother's name. You have wronged her enough, Heaven knows! and I, her son, tell you so. Yes! from the beginning to end, you have wrongedher grievously, unpardonably. First of all, in marrying her at all, whenyou must have seen--you could not have failed to see--that she, gentleand helpless creature that she was, was _forced_ by her parents togive you her hand, when her broken heart was not hers to give! And, secondly, when she discovered that the lover (to whom she had beensacredly married by the church, though it seems not lawfully marriedby the state, ) and whom she had supposed to be dead, was really living;and when she took the only course a pure and sensitive woman could take, and withdrew herself from you both, _writing to you her reasons fordoing so_, and expressing her wish to live apart a quiet, single, blameless life, you did not wait, you did not investigate, but, withindecent haste, you so hurried through with your divorce, and hurriedinto your second marriage, as to brand my mother with undeserved infamy, and delegalized her son and yours before his birth. "

"Heaven help me, " moaned the Duke of Hereward, covering his face with hishands. 

"You have done us both this infinite wrong, and you cannot undo it now. I know that you cannot, for I have taken the pains to seek legal advice, and I have been assured that you cannot rectify this wrong. But--use myinjured mother's sacred name with reverence, Duke of Hereward, I warnyou!--"

"Heaven knows I would use it in no other way! I loved your mother. Sheand you were not the only sufferers in my domestic tragedy. Her lossnearly killed me with grief even when I thought her unworthy. Thediscovery of the great wrong I did her has nearly crazed me withremorse since that. "

"Then do not grudge her son the small share you allow him of that vastinheritance which should have been his, had you not unjustly deprived himof it. "

"I will not. Your debts shall be paid. "

"And do not upbraid me by drawing any more invidious comparisons betweenme and one who holds my rightful place. "

"I will not--I will not. John we understand each other now. Your mannerhas not been the most filial toward me, but I will not reproach you forthat. You say that I have wronged you; and you know that wrong can neverbe righted in this world. 'If I were to give my body to be burned, ' itcould not benefit you in the least toward recovering your position; butI will do all I can. I will sell Greencombe, which is my own entailedproperty, and I will place the money with my banker, Levison, to youraccount. I have a pleasant little shooting-box at the foot of Ben Lone. We never go to it. You must have the run of it during the vacations. Whenyou are ready for your commission I will find you one in a good regiment. In return I have one request to make you. For Heaven's sake avoid meetingthe duchess or her family. Do this for the sake of peace. I hope now thatwe _do_ understand each other?" said the duke with emotion. 

"We do, " said the young man, his better spirit getting the ascendency fora few moments. "We do; and I beg your pardon, my father, for the hasty, unfilial words I have spoken. "

"I can make every allowance, for you, John. I can comprehend how you mustoften feel that you are only your mother's son, " answered the duke, grasping the hand that his son had offered. 

So the interview that had threatened to end in a rupture between guardianand ward terminated amicably. 

John Scott's debts were once more paid, his pockets were once morefilled, and he left for Scotland to spend his vacation at the hunting-boxunder Ben Lone, in the neighborhood made attractive to him, not by blackcock or red deer, but by the presence of his handsome shepherdess. 

The duke sold Greencombe, and placed the purchase-money in the hands ofSir Lemuel Levison and Co. , Bankers, Lombard Street, London, to beinvested for the benefit of his ward, John Scott. 

The unhappy duke did this at the very time when he was so pressed formoney to carry on the great work at Lone, as to be compelled to borrowfrom the Jews at an enormous interest, mortgaging his estate, HerewardHold, in security. 

And John Scott, with an ample income, and without any restraint, tookleave of his good angel and started on the road to ruin. 

Meanwhile, the great works at Lone were completed and the ducal familytook possession, and commenced their short and glorious reign there bya series of splendid entertainments given in honor of the coming of ageof the heir. 

John Scott was not an invited guest, either to the castle or the grounds;but he presented himself there, nevertheless, and caused some confusionby his close resemblance to his brother, and much scandal by his improperconduct among the village girls. And many an honest peasant went homefrom the feast lamenting the behavior of the young heir, and trying toexcuse or palliate his viciousness by the vulgar proverb:

"Boys will be boys. "

And so the reputation of the young Marquis of Arondelle suffered andcontinued to suffer from the evil doings of his double. 

John Scott kept one part of his compact with the duke; he avoided thefamily; even when he could not keep away from Lone, he contrived to keepout of sight of the duke, the duchess, and the marquis. 

The young Marquis of Arondelle, indeed, was very little seen at Lone. Hewas at Cambridge, or on his grand tour, nearly all the time of thefamily's residence in the Highlands. 

John Scott left the university without honors. This was a disappointmentto the duke, who did not, however, reproach his wayward son, but onlywrote and asked him if he would now take a commission in the army. Butthe young man, who had lost all his youthful military ardor, andcontracted a roving habit that made him averse to all fixed rules andall restraints, replied by saying that his income was sufficient forhis wants, and that he preferred the free life of a scholar. 

The duke wrote again, and implored him to choose one of the learnedprofessions, saying that it was not yet too late for him to enter uponthe study of one. 

The hopeful son replied that he was not good enough for divinity, badenough for law, or wise enough for medicine; that, therefore, he wasunsuited to honor either of the learned professions; and begged hisguardian to disturb himself no longer on the subject of his ward'sfuture. 

Then the duke let him alone, having, in fact, troubles enough of his ownto occupy him--a life of superficial splendor, backed by a condition ofhopeless indebtedness. 

We have already, in the earlier portions of this story, described theshort, glorious, delusive reign of the Herewards at Lone, and theculminating glory and ruin of the royal visit, so immediately to befollowed by the great crash, when the magnificent estate, with all itssplendid appointments, was sold under the hammer, and purchased by thewealthy banker and city knight, Sir Lemuel Levison. We have told howthe noble son--the young Marquis of Arondelle--sacrificed all hislife-interest in the entailed estate, to save his father, and howvain that sacrifice proved. We have told how the duchess died ofhumiliation and grief, and how the duke and his son went into socialexile, until recalled by the romantic love of Salome Levison, who wishedto bestow her hand and her magnificent inheritance upon the disinheritedheir of Lone. 

We have now brought the story of John Scott up to the night of thebanker's murder, and his own unintentional share in the tragedy. 

At the time of the projected marriage between the Marquis of Arondelleand the heiress of Lone, John Scott was deeply sunk in debt, and badly inwant of money. 

The capital given him by his father had been so tied up by the donor thatnothing but the interest could be touched by the improvident recipient. It had, in fact, been given to Sir Lemuel Levison in trust for JohnScott, with directions to invest it to the best advantage for hisbenefit. 

This duty the banker had most conscientiously performed by investing themoney in a mining enterprise, supposed to be perfectly secure and to paya high interest. This investment continued good for years, affordingJohn Scott a very liberal income; but as John Scott would probably haveexceeded any income, however large, that he might have possessed, so ofcourse he exceeded this one and got into debt, which accumulated yearafter year, until at length he felt himself forced to ask his trustee tosell out a part of his stock in the mining company to liquidate hisliabilities. 

This the banker politely but firmly refused to do, representing to theyoung spendthrift that his duties as a trustee forbade him to squanderthe capital of his client, and that he had been made trustee for the verypurpose of preserving it. 

The obstinacy of the banker enraged the young man, who protested thatit was unbearable to a man of twenty-five years of age to be inleading-strings to a trustee, as if he were an infant of five years old. 

The time came, however, when the trustee was compelled by circumstancesto sell out. 

The rare foresight which had made him the millionaire that he was, warnedSir Lemuel Levison that the mining company in which he had invested hisward's fortune was on the eve of an explosion. As no one else perceivedthe impending catastrophe, Sir Lemuel Levison was enabled to sell out hisward's stock at a good premium some days before the crash came--not anhonest measure by any means, _we_ think, but--a perfectlybusiness-like one. 

He informed John Scott of the transaction, telling him at the same timethat he had the capital of thirty thousand pounds in his possession, ready to be re-invested, and the premium of three hundred pounds, whichlast was at the orders of Mr. Scott. 

Mr. Scott was not contented with the three hundred pounds premium. Hewanted a few thousands out of the capital, and he wrote and told histrustee as much. 

Sir Lemuel Levison was firm in refusing to diminish the capital that hadbeen placed in his hands for the benefit of the spendthrift. 

Then John Scott in a rage, went up to London and called at the bankinghouse of Levison Brothers. 

Being admitted to the private office of Sir Lemuel Levison, the young manused some very intemperate language, accusing the great banker ofappropriating his own contemptible little fortune for private andunhallowed purposes. 

"You are the most unmitigated scamp alive, and I wish I had never hadanything to do with you; however, I will convince you that you havewronged me, and then I will wash my hands of you!" exclaimed the banker. 

And so saying, he unlocked a great patent safe that stood in his privateoffice, took from it a small iron box, and set it on his desk before him, in full sight of his visitor. 

"See here, " he continued; "here is this box, read the inscription on it. "

The visitor stooped over and read--in brass letters--the followingsentence: "John Scott--£30, 000. "

"Now, sir, " continued the banker, opening the box and displaying thetreasure, all in crisp, new, Bank of England notes of a thousand poundseach--"here is your money. I cannot betray my trust by giving it intoyour hands. But I intend, nevertheless, to resign my trust into the handsthat gave it me. I am going down to Lone to celebrate the marriage of mydaughter with the Marquis of Arondelle, and I shall take this box and itscontents down with me. I shall, of course, meet the Duke of Herewardthere. As soon as the marriage is over, and the pair gone on their tour, I shall deliver this box with its contents over to the duke, who can thenhand over any part or the whole of this money to you, if he pleasesto do so. "

If any circumstance could have increased the uneasiness of thespendthrift, it would have been this resolution of the banker andtrustee. 

John Scott begged Sir Lemuel Levison to reconsider his resolution, andnot return his capital to the donor, who, in his impoverished condition, might, for all he knew, choose to resume his gift entirely, andappropriate it to his own uses. 

But the banker was inflexible, and the next day set out for Lone, carrying John Scott's fortune locked up in the iron box, besides othertreasures in money and jewels, secured in other receptacles. 

John Scott was in despair. 

At length, a daring plan occurred to his mind. His evil life had broughthim into communication with some outlaws of society of both sexes, withwhom, however, he would not willingly have been seen in daylight, or inpublic. One of these--a brutal ruffian and thief, with whose haunts andhabits he was well acquainted--he sought out. He gave him an outline ofhis scheme, telling him of the great treasures in jewels and other bridalpresents that would be laid out in the drawing-room at Lone on the nightof the sixth of June, in readiness for the wedding display on the morningof the seventh. 

The man Murdockson listened with greedy ears. 

The tempter then told him of the iron box, inscribed with his own name, and containing _important papers_ which it was necessary he shouldrecover, and proposed that if Murdockson would promise to purloin theiron box from the chamber of Sir Lemuel Levison, and bring it safelyto him, John Scott, _he_ would engage to leave the secret passageto the castle open for the free entrance of the adventurers. 

Murdockson hesitated a long time before consenting to engage in anenterprise which, if it promised great profit, also threatened greatdangers. 

At length, however, fired by the prospect of the fabulous wealth said tolie exposed in the form of bridal presents displayed in Castle Lone, Mr. Murdockson promised to form a party and go down to Lone to reconnoitre, and if he should see his way clear, to undertake the job. 

The plan was carried out to its full and fatal completion. 

Disguised as Highland peasants, Murdockson and two of his pals went downto Lone to inspect the lay. 

They mingled with the great crowd of peasantry and tenantry that hadcollected from far and near to view the grand pageantry prepared for thecelebration of the wedding, and their presence in so large an assemblagewas scarcely noticed. 

They met their principal in the course of the day, and with him arrangedthe details of the robbery. 

One thing John Scott insisted upon--that there was to be no violence, no bloodshed; that if the robbery could not be effected quietly andpeaceably, without bodily harm to any inmate, it was not to be done atall, it was to be given up at once. 

The men promised all that their principal asked, on condition that hewould act his part, and let them into the castle. 

That night John Scott did his work, and attained the climax of his evillife. 

He tampered with the valet, treated him with drugged whiskey, and whilethe wretched man was in a stupid sleep, stole from him the pass-key toSir Lemuel Levison's private apartment. 

We know how that terrible night ended. John Scott could not control thedevils he had raised. 

Only robbery had been intended; but murder was perpetrated. 

John Scott, with the curse of Cain upon his soul, and without the spoilfor which he had incurred it, fled to London and afterwards to theContinent, where he became a homeless wanderer for years, and where hewas subsequently joined by his female companion, Rose. 

CHAPTER XLV. 

AFTER THE REVELATION. 

During the latter portion of the mother-superior's story--the portionthat related to the delegalized elder son of the Duke of Hereward--alight had dawned upon the mind of Salome, but so slowly that no suddenshock of joy had been felt, no wild exclamation of astonishment uttered:yet that light had revealed to the amazed and overjoyed young wife, beyond all possibility of further doubt, the blessed truth of the perfectfreedom of her worshiped husband from all participation in the awfulcrimes of which over-whelming circumstantial evidence had convicted himin her own mind, but of which it was now certain that his miserablebrother, his "double" in appearance, was alone guilty. 

The dark story had been told in the darkness of the abbess' den, so thatnot even the varying color that must otherwise have betrayed the deepemotion of the hearer, could be seen by the speaker. 

At the conclusion of the story, one irrepressible reproach escaped thelips of the young wife. 

"Oh, mother! mother! If you knew all this, why did you not tell mebefore? For you must also have known, what is now so clear to me, thatnot the Duke of Hereward, who, after all, is my husband, I thankHeaven--not the noble Duke of Hereward, but his most ignoble brother, his counterpart in person and in name, has married that terrible Scotchwoman, and mixed himself up in murder and robbery. Oh, mother! you shouldhave told me before!"

"My daughter be patient! Only this week have I been able to fit in allthe links in the chain of evidence to make the story complete. Yourmention of the Duke of Hereward as your false husband, my memory of theDuke of Hereward as the wronged husband who had slain my betrothed in aduel, all set me to thinking deeply, very deeply thinking. I did notexpress my thoughts unnecessarily. Silence is, with our order, aduty--the handmaid of devotion; but I set secret inquiries on foot, through agencies that our orders possess for finding out facts, and meansthat we can use, superior to those of the most accomplished detectivesliving. Through such agencies, and by such means, I learned not onlyexternal facts--which are often lies, paradoxical as that may seem--but Ilearned, also, the internal truths without which no history can be reallyknown, no subject really understood. "

"But oh! you should not have kept silence. You should not have left me tomisjudge my noble husband a day longer than necessary!" burst forthSalome. 

"Calm yourself, daughter, and listen to me. I have kept nothing from youa day longer than necessary. The facts that exonerate the Duke ofHereward came to me last of all. Hear me. From Father Garbennetti, thenew cure of San Vito, I learned the truth of that miscalled elopement ofthe late Duchess of Hereward. I learned that--in the words of your owncharming poet--

 'My rival fairA saint in heaven should be. '

For a most innocent and most deeply wronged and long-suffering martyr onearth she had been. From him I also learned the existence of her boy, andthe adoption of the boy, after the mother's death, by the Duke ofHereward. That was all I could learn from the Italian priest, who hadlost sight of the lad after the mother's death. Next I pushed inquiriesthrough our agents in England, and through the investigations of FatherFairfield, the eloquent English oratorian, I learned the truth of JohnScott's life in England and Scotland, as I have given it to you. Ireceived Father Fairfield's letter only this day; only this day I havelearned, Salome, that you are really the Duchess of Hereward; that theDuke of Hereward was, and is, really your husband, and was never thehusband of any other woman. "

"Oh, how bitterly! how bitterly! how unpardonably I have wronged him! Hewill pardon me! Yes, he will! for he is all magnanimity, and he loves me!But I can never, never pardon myself!" exclaimed the young wife, herfirst joy at discovering the absolute integrity of her husband now givingplace to the severest self-condemnation. 

"You need not reproach yourself so cruelly, so sternly, undercircumstances in which you would not reproach another at all. Rememberwhat you told me, you had the evidence of your own eyes and ears, and thetestimony of documents, and of individuals against him!" said the abbess, soothingly. 

"Yes! the evidence of my own eyes and ears, which mistook the counterfeitfor the real! the testimony of documents that were forgeries, and ofindividuals that were false! And upon these I believed my noble husbandguilty of a felony, and without even giving him an opportunity toexplain the circumstances, or to defend himself, I left him even on ourwedding-day! and have concealed myself from him for many months! exposinghim to misconstruction, to dishonor and reproach. Oh, no! I can never, never pardon myself! Nor do I even know how _he_ can ever pardon me. But he will! I am sure he will! Even as the Lord pardons all repentedsin, however grievous, so will my peerless husband pardon me!" ferventlyexclaimed Salome. 

The abbess reverted to her own troubles. 

"I cannot understand, " she said, "the mystery of that man's appearancehere this morning. "

"What man?" inquired Salome, who was so absorbed in thinking of herhusband that she had nearly forgotten the existence of other men. 

"'What man?' Why, daughter, the Count Waldemar de Volaski--the man whocame here with the woman this morning--the man whom you mistook for yourown husband, the Duke of Hereward, but whom I knew to be Waldemar deVolaski, once my betrothed, who was said to have been killed in a duel, shot through the heart, a quarter of a century ago!" answered the lady, emphatically. 

Salome stared at the abbess for a few moments in amazed silence, and thenexclaimed:

"Dear madam, good mother, are you still under that deep delusion?"

"Delusion!" echoed the lady. 

"Yes, the deepest delusion. Dear lady, do you not know, can you notcomprehend _now_ that the man who visited us this morning was noother than John Scott, the counterpart whom even I really did mistake forthe Duke of Hereward, as you say; and that the bold, bad beauty whoaccompanied him was his wife, Rose Cameron?"

"Nay, daughter, he was Count Waldemar de Volaski!" persisted the abbess. 

"What an hallucination! Dear lady, do you not see--But what is the use oftalking? I cannot convince you of your mistake: but circumstances may;for, of course, sooner or later the unhappy man will be arrested andbrought to trial for his share in the robbery and murder at Castle Lone. "

"No, you cannot convince me of mistake, because I have not made any; but_I_ will convince _you_ of _yours_, " said the lady, risingand striking a match and lighting a lamp; for they had hitherto sat indarkness. 

Salome smiled incredulously. 

The abbess went to a little drawer of the stand upon which her crucifixand missal stood, and drew from it a small box, which she opened andexhibited to Salome, saying:

"This, daughter, is the only memento of the world and the world's peoplethat I have retained. I should not have kept even this, but that it isthe likeness of my once betrothed, bestowed on me on the occasion of ourbetrothal, cherished once in loyal love, cherished now in prayerfulmemory of one whom I supposed had expiated his sins by death, long, longago. I have kept it, but I have not looked at it for twenty years ormore. "

Salome took the miniature, and examined it carefully with interest andcuriosity. 

It was very well painted in water-colors on ivory. It represented a youngman of from twenty to twenty-five years of age, with a Roman profile, fair complexion, blue eyes and blonde hair and mustache; and so far asthese features and this complexion went, the miniature certainly did bearan external and superficial resemblance to John Scott and to the youngDuke of Hereward; but in character and expression the faces were sototally different that Salome could never have mistaken the miniatureto be a likeness of the duke or his brother, or either of these men to bethe original of the picture. 

After gazing intently at the miniature for a few minutes, she turned tothe abbess and said:

"You tell me that you have not looked at this for twenty years?"

"I have not, " said the lady. 

"And you tell me that the man who visited the asylum this morning is theoriginal of this picture?"

"I do. "

"Then, dear mother, your memory is at fault and your imagination deceivesand misleads you. Both the supposed original and the miniature arethin-faced, with Roman features, fair complexion, blue eyes and blondehair--points of resemblance which are common to many men who are not atall alike in any other respect. Now look at this miniature again, and youwill see that, except in the points I have named, it is in no way likethe man you mistook for its original. "

"I would rather not look at it. I have not seen it since--Volaski'ssupposed death, " said the abbess, shrinking. 

"Oh, but do, for the satisfaction of your own mind. You see so few men, that you may easily mistake one blonde for another after twenty years ofabsence from them, " persisted Salome, pressing the open miniature uponthe lady. 

So urged, the abbess took it, gazed wistfully at the pictured face, andmurmured:

"It is possible. I may be mistaken. "

"You are, " muttered Salome. 

The abbess continued to gaze on the portrait, and whispered:

"I think I am mistaken. "

"I am _sure_ that you are, good mother, " said Salome. 

The lady's eyes were still fixed upon the relic, until at length sheclosed the locket with a click and laid it away in the little drawer, saying, clearly and firmly:

"Yes, I see that I _was_ mistaken. "

"I am very glad you know it, " remarked Salome. 

"So am I. It is a relief. And now, dear daughter, I will dismiss you toyour rest. To-morrow we will consult concerning your affairs, and seewhat is best for you to do, " said the abbess. 

"I know what is best for me to do--_my duty_. And my very first dutyis to hasten immediately to England, seek out my dear husband, confessall my cruel misapprehension of his conduct, and implore his pardon. Iam sure of his pardon, and of his love! As sure as I am of my HeavenlyLord's pardon and love when I kneel to Him and confess and deplore mysins!" fervently exclaimed the young wife. 

"Yes, I suppose you must return to England now. I do suppose that, afterwhat we have discovered, you cannot remain here and become a nun, " sighedthe abbess, unwilling to resign her favorite. 

"No, indeed, I cannot remain here. But I will richly endow the Infants'Asylum, dear mother. And I will visit, it every year of my life. I amgoing to retire now, good mother. Bless me, " murmured Salome, bendingher head. 

"_Benedicite_, fair daughter, " said the abbess, spreading her openpalms over the beautiful, bowed head as she invoked the blessing. 

Then Salome arose, left the cell, and hurried back through the two longpassages at right angles that conducted her from the nursery to theInfants' Asylum. 

She passed silently as a spirit through every dormitory where her infantcharges lay sleeping, assured herself that they were all safe and well, and then she entered her own little sleeping-closet adjoining thedormitory of the youngest infants, then disrobed and went to bed. 

She was much too happy to sleep. She lay counting the hours to calculatein how short a time she could be with her beloved husband!

She had no dread of meeting him, not the least. 

"Perfect love casteth out fear. "

She arose early the next morning, and, after going through all her dutiesin the Infants' Asylum, she went to the lady-superior's sitting-room toconsult her about making arrangements for an immediate departure forEngland. 

"But shall you not write first to announce your arrival?" inquired theabbess. 

"No; because I can go to England just as quickly as a letter can, and Iwould rather go. There is a train from L'Ange at five P. M. Ican go by that and reach Calais in time for the morning boat, and be inLondon by noon to-morrow--as soon as a letter could go. And I could seemy husband, actually see him, before I could possibly get a letter fromhim, " said Salome, brightening. 

"If his grace should be in London, " put in the abbess. 

"I think he will be in London. If he is not there, I can find out wherehe is, and follow him. Dear madam, _do_ not hinder me. I _must_start by the first available train, " said Salome, earnestly. 

"I do not desire to hinder you, " answered the lady-superior. 

Their conversation was interrupted by the entrance of Sister Francoise, who pale and agitated, sank upon the nearest seat, and sat trembling andspeechless, until the abbess exclaimed:

"For the love of Heaven, Sister Francoise, tell us what has happened. Whois ill? Who is dead?"

"_Helas!_ holy mother!" gasped the nun, losing her breath againimmediately. 

Salome drew a small phial of sal volatile from her pocket and uncorkedand applied it to the nose of the fainting nun, saying soothingly:

"Now tell us what has overcome you, good sister. "

"Ah, my child! It is dreadful! It is terrible! It is horrible! It isawful! But they are bringing him in!" gasped Sister Francoise, snuffingvigorously at the sal volatile, and still beside herself with excitement. 

"What! What! Who are they bringing in?" demanded the abbess, in alarm. 

"I'm going to tell you! Oh, give me time! It is stupefying! It isannihilating! The poor gentleman who has just shot himself through thebody!" gasped Sister Francoise, losing her breath again after thiseffort. 

"A gentleman shot himself!" echoed Salome, in consternation. 

The abbess, pale as death, said not a word, but left the unnerved sisterto the care of Salome, and went out to see what had really happened. 

She met the little Sister Felecitie in the passage. 

"What is all this, my daughter?" she inquired, in a very low voice. 

"They have taken him into the refectory, madam. That was the nearest tothe gate, where it happened. It happened just outside the south gate, madam. They took off a leaf of the gate, and laid him on it and broughthim in, " answered the trembling little novice, rather incoherently. 

"Daughter, I have often admonished you that you must not address me as'madam, ' but as 'mother. '"

"I beg your pardon, holy mother; but I was so frightened, I forgot. "

"Now tell me quickly, and clearly, what happened near the south gate?"

"Oh, madam!--holy mother, I mean!--the suicide! the suicide!"

"The suicide! It was not an accident, then, but a suicide?" exclaimed theabbess, aghast, and pausing in her hurried walk toward the refectory. 

"Oh, madam--holy mother!--yes, so they say! It is enough to kill one tosee it all!"

"Go into my room, child, and stay there with Sister Francoise until Ireturn. Such sights are too trying for such as you, " said the abbess, asshe parted from the young novice, and hurried on toward the refectory. 

CHAPTER XLVI. 

RETRIBUTION. 

She entered the long dining-hall, where a terrible sight met her eyes. 

Stretched upon the table lay a man in the midst of a pool of his ownblood!

In the room were gathered a crowd, consisting of three Englishmen, threegend'armes, several countrymen, several out-door servants of the convent, and half a hundred nuns and novices. 

The crowd had parted a little on the side nearest the door by which theabbess entered, so as to permit the approach of an old man who seemed tobe a physician, and who proceeded to unbutton the wounded man's coat andvest, and to examine his wound. 

"How horrible! Is he quite dead?" inquired the abbess, making her way tothe side of the village surgeon, for such the old man was. 

"No, madam; he has fainted from loss of blood. The wound has stoppedbleeding now, however, and I hope by the use of proper stimulants torecover him sufficiently to permit me to examine and dress his wounds, "replied the surgeon, who now drew from his pocket a bottle of spirits ofhartshorn, poured some out in his hands, and began to bathe the forehead, mouth and nostrils of the unconscious man. 

The abbess drew nearer, stooped over the body, and gazed attentively intothe pallid and ghastly face, and then started with a half-suppressed cryas she recognized the features of the man who had visited the Infants'Asylum on the day previous, and whom the abbess now believed to be JohnScott, the half brother and the "double" of the Duke of Hereward. 

"Will you kindly order some brandy, madam?" courteously requested thesurgeon. 

"Certainly, monsieur, " replied the lady superior, who immediatelydispatched a nun to fetch the required restorative. 

As soon as it was brought, a few drops were forced down the throat of thefainting man, who soon began to show signs of recovery. 

"I should like to put my patient to bed, madam; but the nearestfarm-house is still too far off for him to be conveyed thither in safety. The motion would start his wound to bleeding again, and the hemorrhagemight prove fatal, " said the surgeon suggestively. 

The abbess took the hint. 

"Of course, " she said, "the poor wounded man must remain here. I willhave a room prepared for him in our Old Men's Home. It will not take tenminutes to get the room ready, and carry him to it. Can you wait so long, good Doctor?"

"Assuredly, madam, " answered the surgeon. 

The abbess gave the necessary orders to a couple of young nuns, whohurried off to obey them. 

In less time than the abbess required, they came back and reported thatthe room was ready for the patient. 

"Now, then, Monsieur le Docteur, you may remove your patient, " said theabbess, courteously. 

The surgeon, assisted by two of the countrymen, tenderly lifted thewounded man, and laid him on the leaf of the gate, and, preceded by anaged nun to show the way, bore him off toward the Old Men's Home. 

One of the Englishmen and one of the gend'armes followed him. 

The remaining two Englishmen and two gend'armes showed no disposition todepart. 

The abbess was not two well pleased at this masculine invasion of hersanctuary, and so after waiting for some explanation of their presencefrom these strange men, she went up to them and inquired, with suggestivepoliteness:

"May we know, messieurs, how we can further serve you?"

"Your pardon, holy madam, but we are not willing intruders. I amInspector Setter, of Scotland Yard, London, at your service. The woundedman is one John Scott, charged with complicity in the murder and robberyof the late Sir Lemuel Levison of Lone Castle. I bear a warrant for hisarrest, countersigned by your chief of police. But for the prisoner'sdying condition, we should convey him back to England immediately. As itis, we must hold him in custody here until the end, " said the elder andmore respectable-looking of the two Englishmen. 

"I am very sorry to hear what you have to tell me; but since it seemsyour duty to remain here on guard for the security of your prisoner, Ithink it would be better that you should be nearer to him. The Old Men'sHome will afford the most proper lodging for you as well as for him. Oneof my nuns will show you the way there, when a room near that of yourwounded prisoner shall be assigned you, " said the abbess, with gravecourtesy, as she beckoned a withered old nun to her presence, andsilently directed her to lead the way for the strangers to the lodgingprovided for them. 

"John Scott, the half brother of the Duke of Hereward, charged withcomplicity in the murder and robbery at Castle Lone! Well, I am moregrieved than surprised, " murmured the abbess to herself. 

Then she sent the younger nuns and novices about their several duties, and directed one of the elders to see that the refectory was restored toorder. 

The abbess was about to return to her own room when she was stayed bythe re-entrance of Inspector Setter, the three gend'armes, and thecountrymen. 

The abbess looked up in a grave inquiry at this second intrusion. 

"I beg your pardon, reverend madam; I have come to report to you thecondition of your wounded guest, and to relieve you of the presence ofthese trespassers, " said Inspector Setter, indicating his companions. 

"Well, monsieur, what of the wounded man?" inquired the lady. 

"The surgeon has dressed his wound, but pronounces it mortal. The man, hesays, cannot live over a few days, perhaps not over a few hours. Thesurgeon will not leave him to-day. "

"I am very sorry to hear that. Will you be so good as to tell me, monsieur, how the unfortunate man received his fatal injury? I heard--Iheard--but I hope it is not true, " said the abbess, shrinking fromrepeating the awful rumor that had reached her ears. 

"You heard, holy madam, that he had committed suicide?" suggested theharder-nerved inspector. 

The abbess bowed gravely. 

"It is unfortunately quite true, " said Inspector Setter. "You see, reverend madam, we traced him and his young--woman--I beg your reverendladyship's pardon, holy madam--to Paris. Afterwards, we tracked them toL'Ange. We reached L'Ange this morning, and learned that our man hadwalked out toward the convent here. We followed, and came upon him nearthe south gate. I accosted him, and arrested him. He was as cool as acucumber, and quick as lightning! Before we could suspect or prevent theaction, he whipped a pistol out of his breast-pocket, and presented it athis own head. I seized his arm while his finger was on the trigger; butwas too late to save him. He fired! I only changed the direction of theball, which, instead of blowing off his head, buried itself somewhere inhis body. He fell, a crowd gathered, we picked him up, took a leaf of thegate off its hinges, laid him on it, and brought him in here. That isall, your reverend ladyship. The doctor says the wound is mortal; I mustremain in charge until all is over; but I don't want a body-guard, and ifyour ladyship's politeness will permit me. I will dismiss all these menand see them out. "

"Do so, if you please, Monsieur l'Inspecteur. Oh, this is too horrible!"said the abbess. 

While she was yet speaking, the surgeon also re-entered the refectory. 

"How goes it with your patient, Monsieur le Docteur?" inquired the lady. 

"He will die, good madam. Velpeau himself could not save him; he knowsthat he will die as well as we do, for he has recovered consciousness, and desired that a telegram be sent off immediately to summon the Dukeof Hereward, whom he seems extremely anxious to see. I have written themessage; here it is. I cannot leave my patient, or I would take itmyself; but Monsieur l'Inspecteur, perhaps you can provide me with amessenger to carry this to L'Ange, " said the surgeon. 

"Certainly, " agreed Mr. Setter, taking the written message and readingit. "But you have directed this to Hereward House, Piccadilly, London?"

"I wrote it at the dictation of my patient. "

"He is mistaken. The Duke of Hereward is living in Paris, at Meurice's. I will make the correction, " said Mr. Setter, drawing from his pocket alead pencil and a blank-book, upon a leaf of which he re-wrote themessage. He tore out the leaf, and read what he had written:

"To HIS GRACE THE DUKE OF HEREWARD, MEURICE'S, PARIS: I am dying. Comeimmediately. 

"JOHN SCOTT, Convent of St. Rosalie, L'Ange. "

"That will do, " said Mr. Setter, inspecting his work. "Now, Smith, " headded, handing the paper to one of his officers, "hurry with this messageto the telegraph office at the railway station at L'Ange. See that it issent off promptly, for it is a matter of life and death, as you know. Wait for an answer, and when you get it hasten back with it. "

"All right, sir, " answered the man, taking the paper, and hurrying away. 

The other men, whose services were no longer required, followed him outto go about their business. 

The inspector and the surgeon, seeing the lady abbess about to addressthem, lingered. 

"I hope, messieurs, that you will freely call upon us for anything thatmay be needed for the relief of your patient, or for the convenience ofyourselves, " she said, with grave courtesy. 

"Thanks, madame, we will do so, " replied the surgeon, with a deep bow. 

"And, above all, the interests of his immortal soul should be taken careof. If he should need spiritual comfort, here is Father Garbennetti, whowill wait on him, " added the abbess, solemnly. 

"Your ladyship's holiness is very good. I happen to know the man is aRomanist, and if he should ask for a priest, I will let your reverendladyship know, " said Mr. Setter. 

"Do so. Monsieur l'Inspecteur. And tell him the name of the priest Iproposed for him--Father Garbennetti, of San Vito, Italy; for I havereason to believe that this holy father once knew your patient veryintimately, " added the abbess. 

"Stay, now--what was the priest's name again? I never can get the name ofthese foreigners, " muttered Mr. Setter, with a puzzled air. 

"Father Garbennetti, of San Vito, Italy. But I will write it for you. Lend me your pencil and tablets, monsieur, if you please. "

Mr. Setter placed his pocket writing material in the hands of the lady, with his best bow. 

She carefully wrote the name of the Italian priest on a blank leaf andreturned the pencil and the book to the inspector, who received them withanother bow. 

Doctor Dubourg and Inspector Setter then "bowed" themselves out of thelady's presence and returned to the bedside of the wounded man. 

The abbess gave a few more directions to the lay sisters who were engagedin restoring the room to order, and then she withdrew from the refectoryand returned to her own apartment, where she had left Salome and thelittle Sister Felecitie. 

She found them still waiting there; and both engaged in the little bit ofknitting or embroidery that they always carried in their pockets to takeup at odd moments that would otherwise be wasted in idleness, which washeld to be a grave fault, if not a deadly sin, by the sisterhood, and, besides, from the sale of this work they realized a very considerableincome. 

"I waited here, good mother, to learn more of the poor wounded man. Sister Felecitie tells me that he is a suicide. I hope that is amistake, " said Salome. 

"It is too true, _helas_! But, my daughter, " said the abbess, turning to the young nun, "leave us alone for a few minutes. "

The little sister retired obediently, but very unwillingly, for she wastormented with unsatisfied curiosity concerning the unfortunate stranger, who had committed suicide at their convent gate. 

"Salome! do you know, can you conjecture, who the unhappy man is?"solemnly inquired the abbess, as soon as she was left alone with heryoung friend. 

"I do not know. I--_fear to conjecture_, " whispered the young wife;growing pale. 

"Yet your very fear proves that you _have_ conjectured, andconjectured correctly. Yes! the wretched suicide is no other than JohnScott, the 'double' of the Duke of Hereward. "

"Heaven of heavens! What drove him to the fatal deed? But why shouldI ask? Of course, it was remorse! remorse that was slowly killing him!too slowly for his suffering and his impatience!" exclaimed the younglady, with a shudder. 

"Yes, it was remorse, and--_desperation_. "

"Desperation!"

"Yes! The English detectives had traced him down to this neighborhood;they followed him down here with a warrant for his arrest, countersignedby our chief of police. They surprised him near the south gate of theconvent; but he was too quick for them; and before they could preventhim, driven to desperation, he caught a pistol from his pocket and shothimself through the body, inflicting a mortal wound. They brought himinto the convent. I have had him placed in a comfortable room in the OldMen's Home, where he is attended by Doctor Dubourg, of L'Ange, whoProvidentially happened to be passing the convent at the time of theoccurrence. "

Salome covered her face with her hands, and sank back in her chair, witha groan. 

A few moments elapsed, and then Salome, still vailing her face, murmureda question:

"How long may the dying man last? Surely--surely--" Her voice faltered, and broke down with a sob. 

"He _can_ not last more than a very few days. He _may_ not lastmore than a few hours, " said the abbess, in a low tone. 

"Surely--surely, then, " resumed Salome, in a broken voice, "he will makea confession before he dies. He will vindicate his brother, and so savehis own soul. "

"I think that he will do so, Sister Salome. Calm yourself. He has causeda telegram to be sent to the Duke of Hereward, calling him here. "

Salome started and trembled violently. She could scarcely gasp forth thewords of her broken exclamation:

"The Duke of Hereward! Called! Here!"

"Yes, my daughter. So you perceive that your proposed journey to Englandis forestalled. "

"My husband coming here! Oh! how soon will he come? He cannot be here inless than twenty-four hours, can he?" eagerly demanded Salome. 

"He may be here in less than six hours. The Duke of Hereward does nothave to come from London; he is not there, but in Paris; so you perceive, also, that if you had gone to England, as you proposed to do, you wouldhave missed seeing him there, " added the lady, smiling. 

"My husband in Paris--so near. My husband to be here this evening--sosoon. Oh, this is too much, too much happiness!" exclaimed the youngwife, bursting into tears of joy. 

"Then you have no dread of meeting him?" suggested the elder lady. 

"'Dread of meeting him?' Dread of meeting my own dear husband? Ah, no, no, no! No dread, but an infinite longing to meet him. Oh! I know andfeel how I have wronged him. How deeply and bitterly I have wronged him. But I know, also, how utterly he will pardon me. Yes, I know that, assurely as I know that my Heavenly Lord pardons us all of our repentedsins!" fervently exclaimed Salome. 

"Heaven grant that you may be happy, my child'" said the lady, earnestly. 

At that moment the door opened, and an aged nun, one of the attendants inthe Old Men's Home, entered the room. 

"Well, Mere Pauline, what is it?" calmly inquired the abbess. 

"Holy mother, I have come from Monsieur le Docteur to say that themessenger has come back from L'Ange, and brought an answer to thetelegram. Monsieur le Duc d' Hereward will be here by the middayexpress from Paris, which reaches L'Ange at five o'clock this afternoon, "answered Mere Pauline. 

"Thanks for your news. Sit down and breathe after climbing all thesestairs. And now tell me, how is the wounded man?" inquired the abbess, as the old nun sank wearily into the nearest chair. 

"_Helas!_ holy mother, he is sinking fast. The doctor thinks he willnot outlive the night; and meanwhile he is anxious, so anxious, for thearrival of Monsieur le Duc! He asks from time to time if the duke hascome, or is coming; if we have heard from him, and so on, " sighed the oldnun. 

"But have you not soothed him by communicating the message received fromthe duke, that his grace will be here at five o'clock?"

"No, holy mother! for he was sleeping under the influence of opium, whichthe good surgeon had felt obliged to administer in order to quiet himjust before the message came. If he wakes and inquires about the dukeagain, we will give him the message. "

"Quite right. Has the wretched man seen a priest, or asked to see one?"

"No, mother! but I was not unmindful of his immortal weal. I asked him ifhe would see Pere Garbennetti. He brightened up at the name, and inquiredif le pere was here. I told him yes, and at his service, waiting toattend him, indeed. But then he gloomed again, and said no; he would seeno one until he had seen the Duke of Hereward. He would rest and save hisstrength for his interview with the Duke of Hereward. I will return to mycharge now, if my good mother will permit me, " said the old nun, risingfrom her chair. 

"Go, then, Mere Pauline, if you are sufficiently rested. Keep me advisedof the state of your patient, but do not tax your aged limbs to climbthese stairs again. Send one of the younger nuns, and give yourself somerest, " said the abbess, kindly. 

"_Helas!_ holy mother, I shall have time enough to rest in thegrave, whither I am fast tending, " sighed the old nun, as she withdrewfrom the room. 

"Oh, mother!" joyfully exclaimed Salome, as soon as they were left alone, "he comes by the midday express! It is midday now! The train has alreadyleft Paris! He is speeding toward us, even now, as fast as steam canbring him. I can almost see and hear and _feel_ him coming!"

"Calm your transports, dear daughter; think of the dying sinner so nearus, even now, " gravely replied the elder lady. 

"I can think of nothing but my living husband, " exclaimed the young wife. 

"Oh, these young hearts! these young hearts! 'From all inordinate andsinful affections, good Lord, deliver us!'" prayed the abbess. 

She had scarcely spoken, when the door opened and Sister Francoiseentered the room. 

"I came with a message from the portress, good mother. She says that ayoung woman has come from L'Ange, who claims to be the wife of thewounded man, and insists upon being admitted to see him. The portressdoes not know what to do, and has sent me to you for instructions, " saidSister Francoise. 

"The wounded man is sleeping and must not be awakened. Tell the portressto keep the young woman in the parlor until she can be permitted to seethe patient, then do you go to the Old Men's Home, inquire for Monsieurle Doctor Dubourg, and announce to him the arrival of this woman, and lethim use his medical discretion about admitting her. Go. "

"Yes, holy mother, " said Sister Francoise, retreating. 

"You have not had a moment's peace since this unhappy man has been in thehouse, " said Salome, compassionately. 

"No, " smiled the lady. "Of course not, but it cannot be helped. We mustbear one another's burdens. "

The loud ringing of the dinner-bell arrested the conversation. 

"Come, we will go down, " said the abbess, rising. 

They descended to the refectory. 

The long hall, that had been the scene of so much horror and confusion inthe morning, was now restored to its normal condition. 

The plain, frugal, midday meal of the abbess and the elder nuns wasarranged with pure cleanliness upon the table, where, but a few hoursbefore, the body of the wounded man had lain. But the awful event of themorning had taken a deep effect upon the quiet and sensitive sisterhood. They sat down at the table, but scarcely touched the food. 

When the form of dining--for it was little more than a form that day--wasover, the abbess and her nuns arose, and separated about their severalvocations. 

Later on, the abbess sent a message to the Old Men's Home, inquiringafter the wounded man. 

She received an answer to the effect that the patient had waked up, andhad been told of the telegram from the Duke of Hereward, and the expectedarrival of his grace at five o'clock. 

The news had satisfied the suffering man, who had been calmer ever sinceits reception. He had also been told of the arrival of his wife, but hehad declined to see her, or _any_ one, until he should have seen theDuke of Hereward. He was saving up all his little strength for hisinterview with the duke. 

As the hours of the afternoon crept slowly away, the impatience of theyoung wife, Salome, arose to fever heat. She could not rest in any oneroom, but roamed about the convent, and through all its departments andoffices, until, at length, she was met in the main corridor by theabbess, who gravely took her hand, drew it within her arm, and led heralong, saying:

"Come into my parlor, child. The Duke of Hereward has arrived. "

CHAPTER XLVII. 

THE END OF A LOST LIFE. 

The Duke of Hereward knew nothing of his wife's presence in the Conventof St. Rosalie. 

On his arrival, soon after five o'clock, he was met by the portress, whoushered him into the receiving parlor and sent to warn the abbess of hispresence. 

The abbess dispatched a message to the surgeon in attendance upon JohnScott, and then sought out the young duchess to inform her of herhusband's arrival. 

Meantime Dr. Dubourg hurried down to the receiving-parlor to see theDuke of Hereward. They were strangers to each other, so the portressintroduced them. 

"I hope your patient is better, Monsieur le Docteur, " said the duke, whenthe first salutations were over. 

"No, I regret to say. There is, indeed, no hope. The poor man has beensinking since morning. He is most anxious to see your grace, before hedies, and that very anxiety, I think, has kept him up, " gravely repliedthe physician. 

"I am sorry to hear that. Is he in condition to see me now? Will not theinterview tend to excite him and shorten his life?" anxiously inquiredthe duke. 

"It may do so; but, on the other hand, his failure to see you might provefatal to him sooner than his wound would. The fact is, sir, the man isdoomed; his hours are numbered, and he knows it. He is eager to see you;he seems to have something weighing upon his mind, which he wishes toconfide to you. He has been saving his little strength for an interviewwith you. He has refused to speak to any one, lest he should waste hisforces and be too weak to talk to you. "

"I will go to him, then, at once, " said the duke. 

"Do so, your grace, and I will attend you, " said the doctor with a bow. 

The duke arose and followed the doctor through the long corridors andnarrow passages leading from the Nunnery to the Old Men's Home. 

On their way thither, the duke inquired how the patient had received thatfatal wound, of which his grace had only heard a vague report from scrapsof conversation among the officials at the L'Ange Railway Depot. 

The doctor gave him a brief account of the arrest and the suicide. 

The duke made no comment, but fell into deep, sorrowful thought, untilthey reached the door of the room in which John Scott lay mortallywounded. 

The doctor opened the door and passed in with the duke. 

It was a good-sized, square room, in which had once been placed four cotsto accommodate four old men. Now, however, all the cots had been removedexcept the one on which the wounded man lay, and that had been drawn intothe middle of the chamber, so as to give the patient a free circulationof fresh air, and to allow the approach of surgeon and attendants onevery side. The walls were white-washed, the floor sanded, the windowsshaded with blue paper hangings, and the cot-bed covered with a clean, blue-checked spread. Four cane chairs and a small deal table completedthe furniture. 

Everything was plain, clean and comfortable. 

The doctor, with a deprecating gesture, signed to the duke to wait amoment, and went up to the side of the bed, and finding his patientawake, whispered:

"Monsieur, the friend you expected has arrived. "

"You mean--the Duke of Hereward?" faintly inquired Scott. 

"Yes, monsieur. "

"Give me then--some cordial--to keep up my strength--for fifteen minuteslonger, " sighed the dying man at intervals. 

The doctor signed to Sister Francoise, who sat by the bedside, to go andbring what was required. 

The old nun went to the deal table and brought a small bottle of cognacbrandy and a slender wine glass. 

The doctor filled the glass, lifted the head of the patient, and placedthe stimulant to his lips. 

Scott swallowed the brandy, drew a deep breath as he sank back upon thepillow and said:

"Now, bring the duke to my bed side, and let everyone go and leave ustogether. "

The doctor signed for the duke to approach, and silently presented him tothe patient. 

Then he beckoned Sister Francoise to follow him, and they left the room, closing the door behind them. 

"I am sorry to see you suffering, my brother, " said the duke, kindly, ashe bent over the dying man. 

"Ah! you call me your brother! You acknowledge me then?" said Scott, halfin earnest, half in mockery. 

"Most certainly I do acknowledge you, and most sincerely do I deploreyour misfortunes, " answered the duke. 

"Yet I have been a great sinner. I feel that now, as I lie upon mydeath-bed, " muttered Scott, in a low tone. 

"I look upon you as one 'more sinned against than sinning, '" said theduke seriously. 

"Yes, that is true also, " murmured the dying man. 

"But let us not dwell upon that. The past is dead. Let it be buried. "

"Aye, with all my heart. "

"You wished to see me. "

"Yes, I did. "

"To make some communication to me. Is it a very important one?"

"It is so important that I have risked my soul to make it to you. "

"But how can that be?"

"Why, in this way. I have but little strength, I might have used thatstrength in making my confession to Father Garbennetti, and receivedabsolution at his hands; but I was afraid of exhausting myself so thatI should not be able to tell you what I have to communicate. "

"I trust and believe that you have more strength than you suppose. Youreyes look bright and strong. "

"That is the effect of the brandy. I never tasted better. Ah! they knowwhat good liquor is--these holy sisters--no offence to them, bless them;their care has helped me; but I am going fast, for all that. "

"You are at ease--you feel no pain?"

"No; but that is because mortification has set in. I feel no pain: I amat ease, only sinking, sinking, sinking fast. Will you pour out a littleglass of brandy and give it to me? You will find the bottle and thewine-glass on the table, " said the patient, who was visibly growingfeebler. 

The duke went and brought the stimulant, and administered it to the dyingman. 

"Ah! that revives me! How long have you known that I was your brother?"Scott inquired, as soon as the duke had replaced the glass and returnedto the bedside. 

"Only since our honored father's death. I should at once have claimed youand carried out certain instructions he had left me for your benefit, inthe letter in which he revealed our relationship--if--if--if--"

The duke, with more delicacy than moral courage, hesitated, and finallyleft his sentence incomplete. 

"If I had not dishonored my family by committing a crime, and flying thecountry!" said John Scott, finishing the sentence for the first speaker. 

"I did not say so, " exclaimed the duke, flushing. 

"But it was the truth nevertheless. And now before I begin my confession, will you please to tell me the nature of the revelation and of theinstructions that my father left to you concerning me?"

"Certainly. He told me the story of his first fatal marriage; of thedivorce sought and granted under lying circumstantial evidence; of yourbirth some few months later--out of wedlock--although you were the son ofhis lawful marriage. He told me how impossible it was ever to restore youto your lawful rights, and he charged me to regard you as a dear brother, and share with you all the benefits of the estate, the whole of whichwould eventually have been yours had not your father's own rash actdeprived you of the succession, and forever put it out of our power torestore you to it. I accepted the trust, and should have discharged ithad you not left the country. "

"Well, I suppose the old man did as well as he could under thecircumstances. He too was to be pitied. But now tell me, did _you_help to hark the bloodhounds of the law on my track?"

"No. From the time I received a hint from that wretched man, Potts, thevalet, implicating yourself, I refrained from all action in yourpursuit. "

"I thought so--I thought so. You wouldn't like to help hang your ownbrother, even if he had deserved it; but he did not quite deserve it; andit was to explain that, as well as some other things, that I brought youhere. You know so much already, however, so much more than I suspectedyou knew, that I shall not have a great deal to tell you; but--mystrength is going fast again. I shall have to be quick. Give me anotherglass of brandy. "

The duke complied with the man's request, and then replaced the glassagain and returned to the bedside. 

"I suppose I should not require that stimulant so often to keep up mydying frame, if I had not been so hard a drinker in late years. However, it is absolutely necessary to me now, if I am to go on. Come close; Icannot raise my voice any longer, " whispered the fast-failing man. 

The duke drew his chair as closely as possible to the side of the cot, took the wasted hand of his poor brother, and bowed his head to hear thesorrowful story. 

In a weak, low voice, with many pauses, John Scott told the story ofhis life, from his own point of view, dwelling much on his mother'sundeserved sorrows and early death. 

He told of his own secluded life and education, and of his ignorance ofhis father's name until after his mother's decease. 

He confessed the rage and hatred that filled his bosom on first learningthat poor mother's wrongs, greater even than his own. 

He spoke of the natural mistake made by the country people at Lone, whomisled by his perfect likeness to his brother, had received him andhonored him as Marquis of Arondelle. 

He admitted that their error flattered his self-love, and believingthat he had the best right to the title, he allowed them to deceivethemselves, and to address him and speak of him as Lord Arondelle, theheir. 

He related the incident of his first accidental meeting with RoseCameron, who, like all the other tenantry, mistook him for the youngmarquis, and so had her head turned by his attentions, and followed himto London, where he secretly married her. 

This brought him to the time when the extravagance of his companion, added to his own expensive vices, brought him deeply into debt. He knewthat his father had placed a large amount of money in the hands of SirLemuel Levison to be invested for his (John Scott's) benefit. He appliedfor a part of this money to pay his debts, but was refused by thetrustee. Whereupon a quarrel ensued, which resulted in Sir LemuelLevison's resolution to take the money down to Lone Castle and restoreit to the original donor, that the latter might dispose of it at his owndiscretion. 

This move maddened the penniless spendthrift. It drove him todesperation. He resolved to get possession of his money by foul meanssince he could not do so by fair ones; by violence, if not by peace. Circumstances had brought him to acquaintance with a pair of desperatethieves and burglars. 

He sought them out, tempted them by the prospect of great booty forthemselves, and arranged with them the whole plan of the robbery of Lone, stipulating that there should be no bloodshed at all; but that if theburglars were discovered before completing the robbery, they should seekrather to make their escape than to secure their booty. 

But who can unchain a devil and say to him, "Thus far, no farther shaltthou go?" The instigator of the crime had no power over his instruments;on the contrary, they had power over him from the moment he called intheir aid and became their confederate. 

John Scott continued his confession by relating that he took the men downto Lone, disguised as countrymen, and led them to the castle grounds, where, lost in the great crowd that came to see the preparations for thewedding festivities, their presence as strangers was unnoticed; that atnight he drugged the drink of the valet, stole the pass-key from hispocket, and through the secret passage under Malcolm's Tower he admittedthe thieves into the castle, and by means of the valet's key passed theminto Sir Lemuel Levison's bedroom. 

He shuddered, failed, and seemed about to faint, as he recalled thehorrible tragedy enacted in the room that night. 

The duke gave him another small glass of brandy before he could reviveand continue. 

"Heaven knows, though under strong temptation, not to say underimperative necessity, I employed thieves and burglars, I was neithera robber nor a murderer in intention. I wanted to get my own money, withheld from me against my expressed desire--that was all. I do not saythis to extenuate my crime, but to let you know the exact truth. I cannotdwell upon this part of the dreadful tale. You know already that thethieves murdered Sir Lemuel Levison in his chamber. It seems that hehad not gone to bed, but had fallen asleep in his chair. He woke anddiscovered them. He was instantly about to give the alarm, when he wasknocked senseless by Smith and killed by Murdockson. From the moment thatI heard the old man was dead, although I had not intended the awfulcrime, I knew that I had actually occasioned it, and that the curse ofCain was upon my head! I have not had a happy moment since. I fled thecountry, and stayed abroad until I heard that my wretched companion, Rose, was in trouble. Then I returned in disguise to see what was tobecome of her, resolved to give myself up to justice, if it should benecessary to vindicate her. But I found, by cautious inquiry, that shehad been admitted as crown's evidence on the trial of the valet Potts, who was discharged from custody, on a verdict of 'Not Proven, ' but thatshe was in prison again, on the charge of perjury, for having sworn--whatshe truly believed, by the way, poor wench--that the confederate of thethieves who murdered Sir Lemuel Levison was no other than the youngMarquis of Arondelle. You were there, sir, and immediately proved analibi?"

"Yes, " said the duke. 

"Rose was thereupon committed for perjury. I found her in prison on thatcharge when I returned to Scotland. I did not see her then. I was afraidto show myself, especially as I knew the girl felt very bitterly towardme, believing that I had willfully betrayed her into danger, when inpoint of fact it was her own dishonesty that led to her arrest. Hervanity tempted her to purloin and secrete a portion of the most valuablejewels from the booty that had accidentally in the confusion of thethieves' flight fallen into my hands along with the money that was myown. I had intended, secretly to return the jewels upon the firstopportunity, but the unfortunate woman secreted them, and denied allknowledge of them. After my flight she was so mad as to wear the watch inpublic, and to take it to a West End jeweller for repairs. Of course thatjeweller, like others, had a full description of the watch, recognizedthe stolen property, and caused the arrest of the holder. "

"We heard all that on the trial. Do not exhaust yourself by repeatinganything that has already come to our knowledge, " said the duke. 

"I refer to this only to explain the bitterness of the girl's feelingstoward me as the reason why I was obliged to keep concealed. "

"But if the girl had been favorable toward you, would not it have beenequally dangerous for you to have shown yourself?"

"Oh! no; my disguise was too complete. Besides, if I had not beendisguised--you see in that neighborhood I had never been known as myself, but had always been mistaken for you--and the people were not undeceivedup to that time. Give me a little more brandy. Ah! this spurring up ajaded horse! You see it does not get into my head. It only keeps up mysinking strength, " added the man, after the duke had complied with hisrequest. 

"I remained in the neighborhood to see the result of Rose Cameron's trialfor perjury. It was near the end of the term when she was arraigned atBanff. She would certainly have been convicted, for it was in evidencethat she had sworn that the Marquis of Arondelle had been the confederateof the thieves and murderers, and had himself received and delivered toher the stolen booty; and her testimony was rebutted on the spot, notonly by the high character and standing of the marquis, but by witnesseswho proved an alibi for him. She would certainly have been convicted, Isay, had not an unexpected witness appeared in her behalf. John Potts, the valet, who had been discharged from custody, came upon the stand, took the oath, and testified to the existence of a perfect counterpart ofthe Marquis of Arondelle, in the person of one John Scott, the companionof the accused woman, who had always foolishly believed him to be theyoung marquis himself. This testimony not only vindicated the accusedwoman from the charge of perjury, but opened her eyes to the facts of thecase--namely, that I had never abandoned her to suffer in my stead whileI went off to marry another woman, as she had supposed--that my only sinagainst her was in having allowed her to deceive herself in believing meto be Lord Arondelle. "

The man gasped as he concluded the last sentence, and the duke said:

"You had better rest now. A little rest will do more good than anystimulant. "

"You think so? Nay, rest would be death for me now. I must go on while mynerves are strung up; once they relax, I die. "

"Very well; I am listening attentively. "

"As soon as Rose was discharged from custody I sought her out, and therewas a mutual explanation and reconciliation. But the testimony of JohnPotts, given on the trial of Rose Cameron, had placed my life in greatjeopardy: so we secretly left the country. We went away separately forour greater security. I went first. Rose came on a week later. We met byappointment at L'Ange. In the obscurity of that village we hoped forsafety; but I was tormented by remorse; for the murder of Sir LemuelLevison lay heavily on my soul. There, my wife, Rose, gave birth to alittle girl, whom we secretly placed in the rotary basket at the door ofthe Infants' Asylum attached to this convent. The good nuns received it, and cared for it. They called it _Marie Perdue_, 'Lost Mary. ' AfterRose's recovery, we went away, because it was not safe for us to remainso near home with such sharpers as English detectives and French policeon our track. We took refuge in Italy, in the Sanctuary of the Holy See. We stayed there several months, when, thinking that all pursuit had beenabandoned, and longing to see our child, we came on a flying visit toL'Ange. But the police were on the watch for us. I was arrested, as youhave heard, on the day after my arrival. Quick work; but you see thechief of police here telegraphed the police in London, and brought thedetectives hither within twenty-four hours. You know the rest. I am dyinghere by my own hand. It was a mad, rash, impulsive act, for which Iam deeply sorry; but--I am dying in expiation of _my_ share in thetragedy at Lone Castle. "

The young duke took the emaciated hand of the failing man and pressed itin silence; he was too deeply moved to trust himself to speak. 

"I have but this to say now. I leave a wife and helpless child. They arepenniless and friendless. You will not let them starve, " murmured theman. 

"Oh, no, no, I will care for them, believe me, as long as we all shalllive, " said the duke, earnestly. 

"That is all. Bid me good-by now. And when you go out ask good SisterFrancoise to send the priest, " said John Scott, holding out his white, cold hand. 

"I will. Good-bye. May our merciful Father in heaven bless and save you, my poor brother, " murmured the duke, pressing that pale hand, laying ittenderly on the coverlet, and gliding from the room of death. 

Ten minutes later, the good Father Garbennetti was closeted with hispenitent, administering religious consolation. 

When the last sacred offices were all performed, the priest retired, andthe wife and child of the dying man were admitted to his presence, withpermission to remain with him to the end. 

In the meantime, the Duke of Hereward, conducted by Doctor Dubourg, traversed the long passages leading from the Old Men's Home to theconvent. 

As they went on, the duke gave the doctor instructions to supply thepatient with everything that he should require during the last few hoursof his life; and after death to take direction of the funeral, and chargeall expenses to himself (the duke), adding:

"I shall, of course, remain at L'Ange until all is over. "

"It will not be long, monseigneur. The poor man has been kept up bymental excitement and by strong stimulants all day long; there comes afatal reaction soon, from which nothing can raise him. He will notoutlive the day. "

"I am very sorry for him, " murmured the duke. 

"He was, perhaps, a distant relative of your grace. There is a slightfamily likeness, " suggested the doctor. 

"There is a very remarkable family likeness, and he is a very nearrelative, " answered the duke, adding; "I hope you will kindly follow theinstructions I have given you in regard to him. "

"I will faithfully follow them out, monseigneur, " said the doctor, witha bow. 

At the entrance to the convent proper they were met by an elderly nun, who brought the lady superior's compliments and begged leave to announcethat refreshments were laid in the receiving-parlor, if the Duke ofHereward and Doctor Dubourg would do the house the honor to partake ofthem. 

The young duke was tired and hungry from his long journey and longerfast, and gratefully accepted the sister's courteous invitation in hisown and the doctor's name. 

The nun led the way to the parlor, where a table was set out, not merelywith slight refreshments, but with the first course of a dainty dinner, which the forethought of the abbess had caused to be prepared for hernoble guest. 

The duke and the doctor sat down to the table, and were attentivelywaited on by two of the elder sisterhood. 

Notwithstanding the good appetite of the guests and the delicacy of theviands set before them, the meal passed in gravity and in almost totalsilence, for the thoughts of the two companions were with the dyingman whom they had left in the Old Men's Home. 

When they had finished dining, and had arisen from the table, a messagewas delivered by one of the old nuns who had waited upon them, to theeffect that the lady superior desired to see the duke in the portress'room for a few minutes, before his departure. 

The duke immediately signified his readiness to wait on the lady, and followed his conductress to the little room behind the wicketappropriated to the portress. 

CHAPTER XLVIII. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

Two hours before this, the lady superior had conducted the young duchessto the private apartment of the abbess, to await the issue of events. 

Salome, pale, and trembling with excitement, sank into the nearest chair. 

"You do not fear to meet the duke, my child?" inquired the abbess, uneasily, as she also dropped into her seat. 

"Fear to meet my own magnanimous husband? Oh, no, no! I do not fear tomeet him; but I long to meet him with an infinite longing!" ferventlyexclaimed Salome. 

"I am very glad to hear you say so. And you are sure of his prompt andfull forgiveness?" said the abbess, softly. 

"'Sure of his forgiveness!'" echoed Salome, with a holy and happy smile. "Yes, as sure of his forgiveness as I am of the Lord's pardon!"

"And yet when he hears the truth and understands all, he will know thathe has nothing to forgive. And he should know and understand everythingbefore he sees you. For this reason, as well as for several others, Ihave brought you here, and I advise you to seclude yourself yet for a fewhours. I do not wish you to see the duke, or even to advise him of yourpresence in the house, until he has seen the dying man and heard theconfession of the truth from his lips. That confession will prepareyour husband to receive and understand you, better than any explanationyou could possibly make would do. It will also save you from the distressof having to make a long explanation. Do you understand me, my child?"

"Yes, dear mother, I understand, and thank you for your wise counsels. "

"I have also given directions to Sister Dominica that after he shall haveconcluded his interview with Mr. Scott, and partaken of dinner, whichwill be prepared for him in the receiving parlor, he shall be requestedto meet me in the portress' room, where I propose to break to him theintelligence of your presence in the house. "

"Thanks, dear mother! infinite, eternal thanks for all your greatgoodness to me, " fervently exclaimed Salome. 

"You are much too extravagant in your expressions of gratitude, mydaughter! You exaggerate like a school-girl!" smiled the abbess. 

"Oh! I will prove by my acts that I do not exaggerate my feelings atleast!" persisted Salome. 

And then, with girlish enthusiasm, she began to tell the lady-superiorall she intended to do for the benefit of the convent charities, andespecially for the "Infants' Asylum. "

The vesper-bell summoned them to chapel, where the evening serviceoccupied them for an hour. 

They then went to the refectory, and joined the sisterhood at tea. 

In coming from the refectory, they were met in the corridor by old SisterDominica, who stopped the abbess, respectfully, and said:

"I come, holy mother, to report to you that I have followed all yourinstructions. Monseigneur le Duc and Monsieur le Docteur have well dined. Monsieur le Docteur has returned to his patient, Monseigneur le Duc hasgone to the wicket-room to await madame, our holy mother. "

"_Bien!_" said the abbess. "I will attend his grace. Go, deardaughter, and await my return in my parlor. Sister Dominica, lead theway and announce me. "

Salome, in obedience to the abbess' orders, went back to thelady-superior's private parlor to await, with palpitating heart theissue of the lady's interview with the duke. 

Sister Dominica deferentially led the lady abbess to the wicket room, opened the door, and said:

"The lady-superior of the convent to see Monseigneur, the Duke, " thenclosed the door after the abbess, and retired. 

As Mother Genevieve entered the room, she saw standing there a tall, thin, distinguished-looking young man, with a pale complexion, blondehair and beard, and blue eyes. His face bore traces of deep sufferingbravely endured. The gentle abbess sympathized with him from the depthsof her kind heart, and for the first time felt glad that he would regainhis wife, although by his doing so the convent would lose her fortune. 

"Monseigneur, the Duke, of Hereward?" she said graciously, advancing intothe room. 

"Yes, madam. I have the honor of saluting the Lady Abbess of St. Rosalie?" returned the duke, with a bow. 

"A poor nun, monseigneur; who, as the unworthy head of the house, begsleave to welcome you here, " humbly returned the lady, bending her head. 

"Thanks, madam. "

"It is a sad event which has brought you under our roof, monseigneur. "

"A very sad one, madam. "

"And yet, for your sake, a very fortunate one. "

"May I be permitted to ask you, madam, in what way this misfortune can befortunate?"

"I had supposed that you already knew that, monseigneur. "

"Perhaps I do. I am not sure. I do not clearly comprehend, madam. Willmadam deign to make her meaning plainer?"

"Yes, monseigneur, and you will pardon me if I enter too abruptly upona subject at once painful and delicate. "

The abbess paused, and the duke inclined his head in the attitude of anattentive listener. 

"The young Duchess of Hereward, monseigneur?" said the abbess, in a lowvoice. 

The duke started very slightly, but his pale face flushed crimson. 

"Pardon, monseigneur. I am the more deeply interested in the young lady, for that she passed her infancy, childhood and youth--being nearly thewhole of her short life, indeed, under this roof--where I stood in theposition of a mother to her orphanage. "

"I knew, madam, that the motherless heiress was educated here, " repliedthe duke, by way of saying something. 

"You will, therefore, understand the interest I take in Madame laDuchesse, and forgive my question when I ask: Have you heard from hergrace since she left her home?"

"You knew that she had left her home, then?" exclaimed the duke, inpainful astonishment. 

The abbess bowed assent. 

"I hoped and believed that no one knew of her flight except the membersof our own household, and the single confidential agent I employed tofind her, and on whose discretion I could implicitly rely, " said theduke, in a tone of extreme mortification and sorrow. 

"Be tranquil, monseigneur, no one does know of it out of the circle ofher own devoted friends, who can never misinterpret it. "

"You know something of the duchess' movements, then? You know, perhaps, the cause of her flight--the place of her residence? You know--ah, madam, tell me _what_ you know, I beseech you!" implored the duke. 

"I know the cause of her flight, and justify her action even though sheacted under a false impression. I know the place of her residence, andwill tell it to you after you shall have answered one or two questionsthat I shall put to you. First then, monseigneur, when did you last hearof the duchess?"

"Some few weeks after her flight, I received the first and last newsI have ever had of my lost bride. It came in a short and cautiouslywritten note from herself. This note was without date or address. It wasapparently written in kind consideration for me, but it contained no wordof affection. It was signed by her maiden name and post-marked Rome. "

The abbess smiled as she remembered that letter which had been written bySalome to put her husband out of suspense, and which had been sent by themother superior, through a confidential agent who happened to be goingthere, to be mailed from Rome, to put the Duke of Hereward entirely offthe track of his lost wife. 

"I have the note in my pocketbook. You may read it, madam, if youplease, " continued the duke, as he opened his portmonnaie and handed hera tiny, folded paper. 

The abbess took it and read as follows:

"DUKE OF HEREWARD: I have just arisen from a bed of illness whichhas lasted ever since my flight, and prevented me from writing to you upto this time. 

"I write now only to relieve any anxiety that you may feel on account ofone in whom you took too much interest; for I would not have you sufferneedless pain. 

"You know the reason of my flight; or if you do not, my maiden name, atthe foot of this note, will tell you how surely I had learned that it wasmy bounden duty to leave you instantly. 

"I left you without malice, trying to put the best construction on yourmotives and actions, if any such were possible; I left you with sorrow, praying the Lord to forgive and save you. 

"I dare not write to you as I feel toward you, for that would be a sin. 

"I have entered a religious house, where, by prayer and labor, I may livedown all "inordinate and sinful affections, " and where I shall henceforthbe dead to the world and to you. 

"This, then, is the very last you will hear of her who was once known asSALOME LEVISON. "

"She says you knew the cause of her flight. _Did_ you know it, monseigneur?" inquired the abbess, when she had finished reading thenote, and had returned it to the owner. 

"I did not even suspect it, at first, madam. At the trial of John Scott, on the charge of murder of Sir Lemuel Levison, to which I was summoned asa witness for the crown, some facts were developed that first awoke mysuspicions as to the cause of my wife's flight. These suspicions werefurther strengthened by the tone of her letter, received three weeksafterwards, and they were absolutely confirmed by a revelation I havereceived this day. "

"From John Scott?"

"Yes, madam. "

"You know the cause of your bride's flight, monseigneur. Do you blame herfor it?"

"Under such circumstances, I honor her for it. She nearly broke her ownheart and mine; but, as a pure woman, believing as she was forced tobelieve, she could do no less. Now, madam, I have answered all yourquestions. Now relieve my anxiety--tell me where she is. "

"First tell me where you have been seeking her?" inquired the abbess, with a singular smile. 

"In Italy, of course! Her letter was post-marked Rome, though without anyother address, " said the duke, lightly lifting his eyebrows. 

"That letter was written in this house, and sent to Rome to be mailedthence, in order to put you off the true track of the duchess, monseigneur, " said the abbess, with a smile. 

"What do you tell me, madam!" exclaimed the duke, in surprise. 

"Madame la Duchesse is under this roof, to which she fled for refugedirect from London!"

"Can this be possible, madam?"

"It is true! To whom, indeed, could the child come, in her extremity, butto me, the mother of her motherless youth?"

"Oh, madam, you fill my heart with joy and gratitude! My wife under thisroof?"

"Yes, monseigneur. "

"And safe and well?"

"Safe and well. "

"Thank Heaven! Can I see her at once? Does she know I am here? Does sheknow--"

"She knows everything, monseigneur, that you would have her know, although she has not heard the confession of John Scott, which has justbeen made to you. She knows everything by means of the agencies I set towork to investigate the truth. And she knows that you will forgive her, through the intuitions of her own spirit. "

"When can I see her, madam? Oh, when?" exclaimed the young duke, risingimpatiently. 

"This moment, if you please. She is expecting you. Follow me, monseigneur, " said the abbess, rising and leading the way through thebroad hall that stretched between the wicket room and the lady-superior'sparlor. 

When they reached the place, the abbess said:

"Enter, monseigneur. You will find the duchess alone, within. "

And she opened the door and admitted him, then closed it behind him, andpaced slowly away from the spot. 

As the duke advanced into the room, so silently that his footsteps wereunheard, he saw his wife sitting within the recess of the solitarywindow. She wore a simple dress of black serge, with a white collar andwhite cuffs, such as she had worn ever since her entrance into theconvent. Her head was turned toward the window and bowed upon her hand inan attitude of meditation. She neither saw nor heard the soft approach ofthe duke. He stood gazing on her with infinite pity, for a moment, andthen laying his hand gently on her shoulder, whispered:

"Salome!"

She started up with a wild cry of joy! She would have sank down at hisfeet, but he caught her to his bosom, held her there, stroking her hair, kissing her face, murmuring in her ear:

"Salome, Salome, my sweet wife, Salome! Oh, how thankful! Oh, how gladI am to meet you!"

She could not answer him. She could not speak. She was overwhelmed by hisgoodness. She could only burst into tears and weep like a storm upon hisbosom. 

He sat down on the sofa, and drew her to his side, keeping his arm aroundher and resting her head upon his bosom, while still he smoothed her hairwith his hands, and kissed her from time to time, until she ceased toweep. 

"I can never forgive myself, " she murmured at length--"never forgivemyself for the deep wrong I have done your noble nature; nor do I ask youto forgive me; because--because your every tone and look and gestureexpresses the full forgiveness, you are too delicate and generous tospeak!"

"No, sweet wife, do not ask me to forgive you; for you have done nowillful wrong that needs forgiveness. And I have no forgiveness for you, sweet, but only love! infinite, eternal love! Our past is dead andburied. Let it be forgotten. You will leave this house with me thisevening, love. And as soon as our duties will release us from thisneighborhood we will return to England, where a host of friends willwelcome us home. And here is something that will surprise and please you, love. Your flight is not known to the world. We are believed to be livingin Italy together, where I have been traveling alone in secret search foryou these many months. We shall return to society as from a lengthenedwedding tour. Come, love, will you go away with me this very evening?"

"I will go anywhere, do anything you wish--for, under God, henceforthI have no will but yours, oh, my lord and love!" murmured the young wife, sweetly, and solemnly, as she turned her face to his, and he sealed herpromise with an earnest kiss. 

The same evening the Duke of Hereward took his recovered bride to thepretty, rustic inn at L'Ange, and installed her in a pleasant suite ofapartments. They remained at L'Ange until after the funeral of poor JohnScott, whose body was interred in the little cemetery by St. MarieL'Ange. 

The young Duke of Hereward defrayed all the expenses of the burial, andsettled upon the widow an income sufficient to enable her to live incomfort and respectability. With the full consent of the unloving mother, who was but too willing to be relieved of her incumbrance, the youngDuchess of Hereward adopted little Marie Perdue; "perdue" no longer, butthe cherished pet of a fond foster-mother. 

Before leaving France, the Duke and Duchess of Hereward richly endowedthe charities of the Convent of St. Rosalie, which had been so long therefuge of the lost bride. The duchess took an affectionate leave of thegentle abbess and her simple nuns, who had for so many months been heronly companions. She promised to make them an annual visit. 

The young duke took his recovered bride over to England, then on toScotland, and finally to their beautiful home, Lone Castle, where theyoung couple were received by their tenantry with great rejoicings. 

THE END.