Produced by David Edwards, Mary Meehan and the Online

                             A NOBLE WOMAN.

                        BY MRS. ANN S. STEPHENS.

AUTHOR OF "PALACES AND PRISONS," "FASHION AND FAMINE," "MARRIED IN
HASTE," "MABEL'S MISTAKE," "DOUBLY FALSE," "WIVES AND WIDOWS," "MARY
DERWENT," "THE HEIRESS," "THE REJECTED WIFE," "THE SOLDIER'S ORPHANS,"
"THE OLD HOMESTEAD," "RUBY GRAY'S STRATEGY," "THE CURSE OF GOLD," "THE
WIFE'S SECRET," "THE GOLD BRICK," "SILENT STRUGGLES," ETC.

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1871, by
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS,
In the Office of the Librarian of Congress, at Washington, D. C.

"A Noble Woman," is the name of the new novel written by Mrs. Ann S.
Stephens. Its pages are replete with incidents of absorbing interest,
and her admirers will read it with avidity, and with a zest which would
indicate that the freshness and interest of each of her new novels are
still as potent as were her earliest productions. The leading characters
are carried through a series of exciting adventures, all of which are
narrated and drawn out with such ingenuity that the reader's attention
is kept on a tension of interest from the opening page to the close of
the volume. This is the great secret of Mrs. Stephens' success--her
readers cannot get out of her influence. She does not fatigue them with
the subtleties of metaphysics or philosophy. She gives you a thrilling
story, pure and simple, sensational if you please, and she leaves the
whole affair in the hands of her readers, feeling quite secure of a
favorable verdict on every new emanation from her pen. "A Noble Woman"
will prove to be the most popular novel that she has ever written.

PHILADELPHIA:
T. B. PETERSON & BROTHERS;
306 CHESTNUT STREET.

CONTENTS.

I.--A PROPOSAL

II.--TOM THE GROOMSMAN

III.--A FRIGHT AND A RESCUE

IV.--HIGH FESTIVAL AT PINEY COVE

V.--A BALL IN THE BASEMENT

VI.--THE WEDDING

VII.--THE FIRST CLOUD

VIII.--THE BRIDE'S WELCOME HOME

IX.--COUSIN TOM VISITS PINEY COVE

X.--SHADOWS OF A SEPARATION

XI.--THE BALL

XII.--TOM MAKES A DECLARATION

XIII.--WHO COULD IT HAVE BEEN?

XIV.--THE HUSBAND'S LAST CHARGE

XV.--MRS. HARRINGTON'S FRIENDS

XVI.--THE WIDOW'S FLIRTATION

XVII.--STARTING FOR THE PIC-NIC

XVIII.--FACE TO FACE

XIX.--LETTERS

XX.--AN INTERVIEW IN THE WOODS

XXI.--FIRE AND WATER

XXII.--AMONG THE BREAKERS

XXIII.--DEAD AND GONE

XXIV.--HOME IN A STORM

XXV.--THE SUNSHINE OF THE HOUSE

XXVI.--SUNSHINE AND STORMS

XXVII.--COURTSHIP IN THE KITCHEN

XXVIII.--THE DEAD SECRET

XXIX.--TOM FULLER'S LETTER

XXX.--THE WIDOW'S FASCINATIONS

XXXI.--THE HEIR COMES HOME

XXXII.--THE GAUNTLET BRACELETS

XXXIII.--SEARCHING FOR THE BRACELET

XXXIV.--BELOW STAIRS

XXXV.--MRS. MELLEN AND HER COUSIN

XXXVI.--LURED INTO DANGER

XXXVII.--THE AFTER STRUGGLE

XXXVIII.--A HALF UNDERSTANDING

XXXIX.--TRIFLES LIGHT AS AIR

XL.--TWO FACES IN THE GLASS

XLI.--SECRECY IMPOSED ON TOM FULLER

XLII.--THE RIDE AND ITS CONSEQUENCES

XLIII.--KINDLY ANXIETIES

XLIV.--ALMOST DEFIANCE

XLV.--THE TIGER IN HIS DEN

XLVI.--THE PAWNBROKER'S SHOP

XLVII.--TEASING CONTINUALLY

XLVIII.--THE PET MESSENGER

XLIX.--ELSIE FINDS THE BRACELET

L.--IN THE TEMPEST

LI.--THE OLD CEDAR TREE

LII.--WOODMAN, SPARE THAT TREE

LIII.--CLORINDA'S GHOST STORY

LIV.--THE SABLE FORTUNE HUNTER

LV.--IN THE NET

LVI.--THE SECRET TELEGRAM

LVII.--KITCHEN GOSSIP

LVIII.--THE INTERCEPTED TELEGRAM

LIX.--FORCED HOSPITALITY

LX.--WAITING FOR THE HOUR

LXI.--THE MIDNIGHT SEARCH

LXII.--UNDER THE CEDAR

LXIII.--FACE TO FACE

LXIV.--BURIED OUT OF SIGHT

LXV.--THE HUSBAND RELENTS

LXVI.--GONE

LXVII.--UTTER LONELINESS

LXVIII.--PLANS AND LETTERS

LXIX.--ELSIE PROMISES TO BE FAITHLESS

LXX.--ALMOST A PROPOSAL

LXXI.--FUTILE PLEADINGS

LXXII.--TOM FULLER RETURNS

LXXIII.--A FEAST AND A LOVE FEAST

LXXIV.--THAT MONEY IN THE BANK

LXXV.--UNEXPECTED DEVELOPMENTS

LXXVI.--THE CONFESSION

LXXVII.--SEARCHING

LXXVIII.--IN BENSON'S TAVERN

LXXIX.--RECONCILIATIONS

LXXX.--TOM ACCEPTS THE SITUATION

A NOBLE WOMAN.

CHAPTER I.

A PROPOSAL.

She was eighteen years old and would graduate in a few weeks, yet Elsie
looked like a child, lying there in that little white bed, with her
golden curls scattered on the pillow and the soft whiteness of her neck
and hands shaded by the delicate Valenciennes with which her night robe
was profusely decorated. A quantity of hot house flowers lay scattered
on the counterpane, where the girl had flung them, one by one, from a
bouquet she was still tearing to pieces. A frown was on her pretty
forehead, and her large violet eyes shone feverishly. It was seldom
anything half so lovely appeared in the confined sleeping rooms of that
highly fashionable boarding school. Indeed, since its foundation it is
doubtful if a creature half so beautiful as Elsie Mellen had ever slept
within its walls.

Just as the girl had littered the whole bed with flowers, which she
broke and crushed as a child breaks the toys he is weary of, the door of
the room opened, and a young lady entered, with a plate of hot-house
grapes in her hand. She was older than the sick girl by two or three
years, and in all respects a grave and most womanly contrast. Calm,
gracious and dignified, she came forward with an air of protection and
sat down by the bed, holding out her grapes.

"See what your brother has sent you."

The girl started up and flung back the hair from her face.

"From Piney Bend," she exclaimed, lifting one of the purple clusters in
her hand, and crowding two or three of the grapes into her mouth at
once, with the delicious greed of a naughty child. "Oh, how cool and
nice. Dear old Grant, I wonder when he is coming."

"Sometime to-day, the messenger said," answered the young lady, and a
soft peach-like bloom swept over her face as she spoke.

Elsie was looking at her friend; and a quick, mischievous light came
into her own face.

"Bessie," she murmured, in a voice mellowed and muffled by the grapes in
her mouth. "Don't tell me anything--only I think--I think--oh! wouldn't
it be fun?--there, there, how you are blushing."

"Blushing, how foolish! But I am glad to see you well enough even to
talk nonsense."

"Nonsense! look here, Miss Prim: if you're not in love with my brother
Grantley Mellen, I never was in love with anybody in my life."

"Elsie!"

"There, there! I shan't believe a word you say--more than that, I
believe he's in love with you."

No blushes burned that noble face now, for it grew white with a great
surprise, and for a moment Elizabeth Fuller's heart ceased to beat.

Could this be true! These light, careless words from a young girl seemed
to shake the foundation of her life. Did she love the man, who for three
weeks had been a daily visitor in that sick room, whose voice had been
music to her, whose eyes had been so often lifted to hers in tender
gratitude. Could her heart have proved so cruelly rebellious? Then the
other impossible things the girl had hinted at. Elsie had not meant it
for cruelty, but still it was very cruel, to startle her with glimpses
of a heaven she never must enter. What was she but a poor orphan girl,
teaching in that school in order to pay for the tuition which had
refined and educated her into the noble woman she unconsciously was. Of
course Mr. Mellen was grateful for the care she had taken of his
beautiful sister, and that was all. Elsie was almost well now, and would
leave the school that term. After that there was little chance that she
would ever see Grantley Mellen again.

"What on earth are you thinking about?" questioned Elsie, still busy
with her grapes. "Just tell me if we are to be sisters,--and I'm set on
it--you shall know all my secrets; it'll be so nice to have some one
that won't tell,--and I'll know yours. To begin, dear old Bessie:
_somebody_ sent me these flowers, and I hate 'em. It's my way. So many
at once, it stifles me. I wish he could see 'em now; wouldn't he just
long to box my ears--there, that's my first secret."

"But who is the man, Elsie?" enquired Miss Fuller, really disturbed by
this first confidence; for the girl was her room-mate, and had been
placed particularly under her care.

"Oh, that's my second secret--I'll tell you that when you're Grant's
wife. You haven't told me about your own adorer yet."

"How could I? One does not talk of lovers till they come."

"Oh Bessie Fuller; what a fraud you are! Just as if he hadn't been under
this very window again and again: just as if the flowers that get into
our room, no one can guess how, did not come from him. Why, half the
girls in school have seen him prowling round here like a great,
handsome, splendid tiger!"

"What are you talking of, Elsie?"

"No matter; I shan't tell Grant, he must think himself first and
foremost--what a lovely sister-in-law you will make."

"Elsie, my dear girl----"

"Don't interrupt me--don't say you wouldn't have him: that you like the
other fellow better, and all that. I tell you Grant is a prince, and you
shall be his princess. He's awful rich, too; our horrid old uncle left
him everything. I haven't got the value of a hair bracelet all my
own--that's another secret. The girls all think we share and share
alike, and I want them to keep up the idea; but you are different. Don't
you see it would be horrid hard for me if my brother should marry some
close, stingy thing, that might even grudge me a home at Piney Bend; but
with you--oh Bessie! Promise me that you will marry him."

Here Elsie flung down the stem of her grapes, and reaching out her arms,
threw them lovingly around Elizabeth's neck.

"Promise me, promise me!"

"You foolish darling! Lie down and be quiet, or I shall think you
light-headed again."

"But you shall, I declare you shall!--Hush! there is some one at the
door. Come in!"

A servant opened the door and informed the young ladies that Mr. Mellen
was in the parlor.

"Tell him to come up," said Elsie.

The servant went out, and Elsie sat up among her pillows, twisting that
splendid mass of hair around her head. As she stooped forward, her eyes
fell on the litter of broken flowers, and she called out eagerly,

"Oh Bessie, do sweep them up; throw them out of the window, under the
bed, anywhere, so that he does not know about them. There would be no
end to his questions, if he saw so much as a broken rose bud."

Elizabeth swept up the scattered flowers with her hands and cast them
through the open window, scarcely heeding what the girl said about them,
in the agitation of the moment. As she turned from the open sash,
Grantley Mellen came into the room. He was indeed a grand and noble
looking man, with dignity in his manner, and character in his face;
evidently possessed of strong but subdued passions, and a power of
concentration that might engender prejudices difficult to overcome. That
he was upright and honorable, you saw at a glance. When he sat down by
that fair young creature, and took her hand in his, the tenderness in
his voice and eyes thrilled Elizabeth to the heart. Elsie it simply
gratified.

"Why Bessie," she said, with threatening mischief in her eyes, "you
haven't spoken to Grant yet."

"Because he was occupied with you," answered Elizabeth with grave
dignity, that kept down the rebellious spirit in Elsie's eyes. "Now I
will shake hands with Mr. Mellen and go down to my class."

With a gentle, but not altogether unembarrassed greeting, the young lady
went out of the room, leaving the brother and sister together.

Two days after this scene in Elsie's chamber, Elizabeth Fuller stood in
one of the parlors of the establishment with her hand locked in that of
Grantley Mellen; startled, trembling, almost terrified by the great
happiness that had fallen upon her. He had asked her tenderly,
earnestly, and with a thrill of passion in his voice, to become his
wife.

The girl had not answered him: she literally could not speak; her large
gray eyes were lifted to his, wild with astonishment one moment, soft
with exquisite love light the next.

"Will you not speak to me?"

She attempted to answer him, but smiles rather than words parted her
lips; and tears, soft as dew, flooded the joy in her eyes. What did the
man want of words after that?

They sat down together on the nearest couch, and scarcely knowing how,
she found her heart so close to his, that the two seemed beating
together in a wild, sweet tumult. The glow of his first kiss was on her
lips; he was telling her in earnest, broken words, how fondly, how
dearly he loved her. Nobly would she feel herself mated when she became
the mistress of his home.

There was something besides smiles on those beautiful lips now. The
heart has its own language, and in that she had answered him.

"Do I love you?" she said; "who could help it? Is there a woman on earth
who could refuse such happiness? I forget myself, forget everything,
even the poor pride that might have struggled a little against the
disparity between us which seems lost to me now. I did not think it
would be so sweet to accept everything and give nothing."

"You certainly love me and no other living man!" he said in answer to
her sweet trustfulness. "Tell me that in words! tell me in looks! Make
me sure of it."

"Love you! Indeed, indeed I do. Never in my life have I given a thought
of such feelings to any man. If you can find happiness in owning every
pulse of a human soul, it is yours."

"I believe it and accept the happiness; now my wife--for in a few weeks
you must be that--let us go up to Elsie. She must be made happy also,
for the dear child loves you scarcely less than I do."

A thought of something like shame shot through the joy of the moment,
with Elizabeth. Had Elsie suggested this?

"Will she be pleased? Will she be surprised?"

"I hope so, I think so!" was Mellen's frank answer; "for hereafter, my
sweet wife must be a guardian angel to the dear child, for she has been,
till now, the dearest creature to me on earth."

"I, too, have loved her better than anything," said Elizabeth.

"Have I not seen that? Yes, I am sure we shall make Elsie perfectly
happy. She has dreaded the loneliness of my home. Now it will be bright
as heaven for her and for me."

CHAPTER II.

TOM THE GROOMSMAN.

Music in the Central Park! Such music as made the flowering thicket,
covered with late May blossoms, thrill in the soft air and glow out more
richly from the sweet disturbance. It was a glorious afternoon, the
lawns were as green as an English meadow, and my observation of
beautiful things has no higher comparison. All the irregular hills,
ravines, and rocky projections were so broken up with trailing vines and
sweet masses of spring-flowers, that every corner and nook your eye
turned upon, was like a glimpse of paradise.

This was the still life of the scene, but above and beyond was
congregrated that active, cheerful bustle which springs out of a great
multitude bent on enjoyment--cheerful, luxurious, refined, or otherwise,
as humanity is always found. Carriages dashed in and out of the crowd,
the inmates listening to the music or chatting together in subdued
voices: groups of smiling pedestrians wandered through the labyrinths of
blooming thickets, or sat tranquilly on rustic seats sheltered by such
forest trees as art had spared to nature. The whole scene was one of
brilliant confusion; but out of the constantly shifting groups, forms so
lovely that you longed to gaze on them forever, were now and then given
to the beholder; and equipages vied with each other that might have
graced the royal parks of London or Paris without fear of criticism.

Just as the sun began to turn its silver gleams into gold, the music
ceased with a grand crash. The final melody was over, and the swarm of
carriages broke up, whirled off in different directions, and began to
course about the ring again, or drive through the various outlets
towards Harlem, Bloomingdale, or the city, which lay in the soft
gathering haze of the distance.

Among the stylish equipages that disentangled themselves from the crowd
was a light barouche, cushioned with a rich shade of drab which had a
pink flush running through it, and drawn by a pair of jet-black horses.
The carriage was so perfect in its proportions and so exquisitely neat
in its appointments, that it would have been an object of general
admiration during the whole concert, had not its inmates carried off
public attention before it had time to settle on the vehicle.

The eldest, a woman of thirty-two or three, elegantly dressed and
generally recognized, seemed to be the mistress, for it was her gloved
hand which gave the signal for moving, and the coachman always looked to
her for directions.

A slight gesture indicated home, the moment she saw her equipage free
from the crowd, but the lovely young creature on the front seat uttered
a merry protest and gave a laughing counter-order, threatening the elder
lady with her half-closed parasol, till the point lace which covered it
fluttered like the fringed leaves of a great white-hearted poppy.

"Only a short drive," she said; "you can't want to go into the house,
dear Mrs. Harrington, such a heavenly day as this."

"But, my love, I have forty things to do!"

"All the more reason why you should neglect every one of them, since it
is not possible for you to do them all," replied the young girl, with a
laugh and a pretty wilful air that few people could have resisted.
"Elizabeth, are you tired?"

The young lady whom she addressed had been leaning back in her seat by
Mrs. Harrington, quite regardless of this laughing contention, looking
straight before her in a smiling, dreamy way, which proved that the
brightness of the scene and the spell of the music had wiled her into
some deep and pleasant train of thought.

Her friend spoke twice before she heard, laughing gayly at her
abstraction, and Mrs. Harrington added--

"Do come out of dreamland, dear Miss Fuller; I am sure I cannot manage
this wilful little thing without your help."

The young girl shook her parasol again in a pretty, threatening way as
she said--

"You are not tired, Elizabeth?"

"Tired! Oh no; it is very pleasant," she replied, in a voice that was
low and musical with the sweetness of her broken reverie.

"See, you are in the minority, Mrs. Harrington," cried Elsie Mellen.
"You had better submit with a good grace."

"Oh, I knew Elizabeth dared not side against you; she spoils you worse
than anybody, even your brother."

"But it's so nice to be spoiled," said Elsie, gayly; "and you must help
in it, or I shall do something dreadful to you just here before
everybody's eyes."

She clenched her hand playfully, as if to carry her threat into instant
execution, and Mrs. Harrington cried out--

"I promise! I promise! James, take another turn."

The man turned his horses with a broad sweep, taking the road around the
largest lake. Here the spoiled beauty ordered him to stop. She wanted to
look at the swans, "such great, white, lovely drifting snowballs as they
were." Mrs. Harrington made no objection, but leaned back with a
resigned smile on her lips.

A person possessed of far more imagination than Elsie Mellen ever
dreamed of, might have stopped on the very road to paradise to gaze on
that pretty, Arcadian scene.

The lake was one glow of silver, broken up in long, glittering swaths by
troops of swans that sailed over it with leisurely gracefulness, now
pausing to crop the short grass from the sloping banks, or ruffling
their short white plumage, and stretching their arched necks for
payments of fruit whenever they came near a group of children, or saw a
rustic from the country, who was sure to delight in seeing the birds
feed.

The sunshine came slanting in from the west, cooling half the park with
shadows, and lighting the rest with gleams of purplish gold. The paths
around the margin of the lake, and all the sloping banks were alive with
gayly dressed people, and a single boat, over which a flock of gay
parasols hovered like tropical birds, mirrored itself in the water.

"Now see what you have gained by obeying my orders," exclaimed Elsie,
casting her merry eyes over the scene. "I declare the swans look like a
fleet of fairy boats. How I would like to sail about on one! There, that
will do James, drive on."

"Home?" inquired the man.

Before his mistress could answer, Elsie broke in--"Yes, Mrs. Harrington,
since you are properly submissive, we will go home, if you wish."

"Oh, I only proposed it because we have so much to do. I should enjoy a
longer drive. Indeed, now that you have suggested it, we will take at
least one turn."

"That's a darling," cried Elsie; and, without further ceremony, she
ordered the coachman to take the Bloomingdale road, laughing out
something about dying for old sheep instead of lambs. "But I want to
stop at Maillard's," protested Mrs. Harrington, "and I then must see
about--"

"Oh, never mind, we shall have time enough," exclaimed Elsie. "Drive
like the wind, James, the moment you get beyond these horrid policemen.
I wouldn't have anybody pass us for the world."

The coachman obeyed, and directly those two black horses were dashing
along the road in splendid style, leaving care and prudence far behind
them.

Elsie was in her element, wild as a bird and gay as the sunset. She
talked and laughed incessantly, saying all sorts of merry things in a
childish fashion, that kept Mrs. Harrington in explosions of laughter,
more natural than she often indulged in, while Elizabeth Fuller leaned
back in her seat, listening, absently sometimes, to their graceful
banter, glancing at the young girl with affectionate admiration of her
youthful loveliness, but oftener losing herself in the pleasant train of
thought which had absorbed her all the afternoon.

Three persons more unlike in appearance than these ladies, it would have
been difficult to find; but a casual observer would probably have been
most attracted by the buoyant loveliness of Elsie Mellen.

She was eighteen,--but seemed younger with her fair curls, her brilliant
bloom, and the childish rapidity with which smiles chased each other
across her face. She looked the very personification of happiness, with
a bewitching _naiveté_ in every word or movement, that made her very
childishness more captivating than the wisdom of older and more sensible
women.

Mrs. Harrington was a stylish, dashing widow, with a suspicion of rouge
on her somewhat faded cheeks, and an affectation of fashionable
listlessness which a look of real amiability somewhat belied. She was
one of those frivolous, good-natured women, who go through life without
ever being moved by an actual pleasure or pain, so engrossed by their
petty round of amusement, that if they originally possessed faculties
capable of development into something better, no warning of it ever
touches their souls.

Really the most noble and imposing person present was Miss Fuller. The
contrast between her grave, sweet beauty and the frivolous loveliness of
the other two, was striking indeed. Sometimes her large gray eyes seemed
dull and cold under their long black lashes, and the dark hair was
banded smoothly away from a forehead that betokened intellectual
strength; the mouth was a little compressed, giving token of the
reticence and self-repose of her nature, and a classical correctness of
profile added to the quiet gravity of her countenance.

But it was quite another face when deep feeling kindled the gray eyes
into sudden splendor, or some merry thought softened the mouth into a
smile--then she looked almost as girlish as Elsie herself.

But grave or smiling, it was not a face easy to read, nor was her
character more facile of comprehension, even to those who knew her best
and loved her most.

She looked very stately and queen-like, wrapped in her ample shawl and
leaning back in her seat with a quiet grace which Mrs. Harrington
attempted in vain to imitate. Indeed, the effort only made the ambitious
little woman appear more fussy and affected than ever.

"Here comes Tom Fuller," cried Elsie, suddenly. "Was there ever such an
ungraceful rider! Just look at him, Bessie, and laugh, if he is your
cousin. I insist upon it!"

"Oh, I think he's such a love!" cried Mrs. Harrington. "Deliciously
odd."

"I'll tell him you said that," cried Elsie; "just to see him blush."

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed the widow, clasping her hands as if she thought
Elsie was about to stop the carriage and inform him then and there.
"What would he think?"

The young man at whom Elsie was laughing quite unrestrainedly, rode
rapidly towards them, and when he saw Elsie, his face glowed with a
mingled expression of pleasure and embarrassment that made her laugh
more recklessly than ever.

He made a bow almost to the saddle, nearly lost his hat, and did not
recover his presence of mind until the carriage had dashed on, and he
was left far behind to grumble at his own stupidity.

"It is too bad of you to laugh at him," said Elizabeth Fuller, a little
reproachfully.

"Why, darling, he likes it," cried Elsie, "and it does him good."

"I am sure his devotion to you is plain enough," said Mrs. Harrington,
with a sentimental shake of the head. "Hearts are too rare in this world
to be treated so carelessly."

"Oh, don't!" exclaimed Elsie. "You'll be repeating poetry next! Tom is a
nice man, just a great awkward lump of goodness; but I must laugh at
him. Dear me, what a groomsman he will make! Bessie, I know he will step
on my dress."

"I hope so," Elizabeth replied, good naturedly; "I shall consider you
served right."

"Oh," cried Mrs. Harrington, roused by a fear she was fully capable of
appreciating, "it would be such a pity to have all that beautiful
Brussels point torn--do caution him, my dear."

"No," said Elsie, with mock resignation, "Bessie insists upon having him
for groomsman, and I shall let him put his foot through my flounces with
perfect equanimity, by way of showing my affection for her. Talk of
giving your life for your friends, what is that in comparison to seeing
your flounces torn!"

Her companions both laughed, but Elizabeth said seriously, "When you
know Tom better, you cannot help respecting him; he is my one relative,
and I love him dearly."

"Of course," said Elsie, "and I mean to be his cousin, too; but it is my
cousinly privilege to laugh at him."

"Perhaps he will not be content with a cousinly regard," said Mrs.
Harrington, mysteriously.

Elizabeth glanced quickly at Elsie, with a little trouble in her face,
but the girl laughed, and replied--

"Oh yes, he will; Bessie is his ideal--he will never think of poor
little me."

"Family affection is so sweet!" added Mrs. Harrington. Elsie made a
grimace, and hastened to change the conversation, for there was nothing
she dreaded so much as the widow's attempt at romance and sentiment.

CHAPTER III.

A FRIGHT AND A RESCUE.

For some time the ladies rode on in silence. Then Elsie broke into a fit
of ecstasy over the horses.

"They are so perfectly matched," she said. "Brother Grant needn't have
been doubtful about them; he sha'n't persuade you to change them, shall
he?"

"They are beautiful creatures," Bessie observed, absently.

"Naturally, Mr. Mellen was anxious that they should be entirely safe,"
said Mrs. Harrington, theatrically, "for he has trusted his dearest
treasures--his sister and his betrothed wife--to me; and if there is
danger, it is for them as well as me."

"What a pretty speech!" said Elsie. "I know you got it out of a novel!"

Elsie had a gay scarf wound about her neck, and began complaining of the
warmth.

"I would not take it off," Mrs. Harrington urged, "you will be certain
to get cold."

"There is no danger," replied Elsie; "I shall smother, wrapped up in
this way."

"But you must keep it on!"

"Indeed, I won't; there!"

They had a playful contention for an instant, then Elsie snatched the
scarf from her neck with a triumphant laugh, and held it up beyond Mrs.
Harrington's reach.

A sudden rush of wind carried the light fabric out of her hand, and it
sailed away like a gorgeous streamer. Elsie gave a little cry, but it
was frozen on her lips. One of the horses had been restive from the
first. The scarf floated over his head, curved downward, and one end got
entangled with his bridle. The shy, spirited creature gave a wild bound,
communicated like terror to his companion, and away the frenzied pair
dashed, taking the coachman so completely by surprise, that he was
helpless as a child. It was one of those brief occurrences which pass
like lightning to lookers-on, but seem an eternity to the persons in
danger. Mrs. Harrington's shrieks rang out sharp and shrill; Elsie gave
one shuddering moan, and crouched down in the bottom of the carriage,
hiding her face in Elizabeth's dress.

Elizabeth Fuller was deathly pale. She realized the full terror of their
situation. She uttered no shriek, but clasped her arms around Elsie, and
strove to speak a few reassuring words to Mrs. Harrington, which were
drowned by the woman's terrified shrieks.

Elizabeth looked desperately down the road over which the horses were
rushing like wild desert steeds. The carriages in sight were turned
quickly on one side, and their inmates seemed uncertain how to assist
them. Any attempt to stop the frightened and infuriated animals
threatened certain death.

Elizabeth saw this, and her heart died within her. They were now at the
top of a long hill, keeping the road, but hurled onward like lightning.
At the foot of the hill was a loaded cart, its driver vainly striving to
whip his team out of the way. The brave girl saw this new danger, and
fell back with a groan. She knew that the carriage would be whirled
against that ponderous load, and dashed to atoms. Effort was hopeless,
she could only stretch forth her arms, draw Elsie close, close to her
cold heart, and pray dumbly that she might in mercy be permitted to die
for _his_ sister.

Still, in her anguish and terror, she looked out beyond the leaping
horses, as they thundered down the hill. The man had sprung from his
cart, and, with his whip in both hands, was lashing his overtasked
beasts in frantic terror. Beyond him came a person on horseback, riding
furiously. But they were close to the cart now. It was still more than
half across the road. Sick with dread, she closed her eyes, holding
Elsie close, and turning, as it were, to stone, with the shrieking young
coward in her arms.

In another instant there was a shock which threw them all off their
seats; and when Elizabeth could realize anything, or recover from the
deafening effect of Mrs. Harrington's cries, she knew that the horses
had been stopped--the peril was over.

The gentleman she had discovered through blinding clouds of dust, riding
swiftly towards the hill, had seen their danger, dismounted, and with
ready presence of mind, prepared to seize the horses the instant the
carriage struck against the cart.

One wheel was forced partially off, but there was no other harm done.
Elsie and Mrs. Harrington had both flung themselves on Elizabeth, so
that she could neither see nor hear; but the widow discovering that she
was still alive, made a little moan, and began to shake out her flounces
when she saw the gentleman who had rescued them standing by the side of
the carriage.

"You are safe, ladies," he said, opening the door; "you had better get
out and walk on to the hotel--it is only a few steps."

"How can we ever thank you!" sobbed Mrs. Harrington. "You are our
preserver--we owe you our lives!"

He smiled a little at her exaggerated manner, which would break out in
spite of her real terror, and helped her to alight from the carriage.

"We are saved," moaned Elsie, lifting herself from Elizabeth's bosom.
"I'm not hurt--I'm not hurt!"

She was lifted out of the carriage, and stood trembling by Mrs.
Harrington. For the first time, relieved of their weight, Elizabeth was
able to move and look up.

The stranger was standing by the carriage with his arm extended to
assist her. She partially rose--then, and without the slightest warning,
beyond a deep, shuddering breath, sank back insensible.

Elsie and Mrs. Harrington gave a simultaneous cry, but there was no
opportunity for the widow to go into hysterics, as she had intended,
since the stranger and the footman were fully occupied in lifting
Elizabeth from the broken carriage. Elsie was crying wildly, "Bessie!
Bessie!" and wringing her hands in real affright.

"She has only fainted," said the stranger hurriedly; "we will carry her
on to the hotel."

He raised the insensible girl in his arms, and carried her down towards
the inn, as if she had been a child; while her companions followed,
sobbing off their terror as they went.

Once in the house, and the stranger out of the way, Mrs. Harrington
recovered her wits sufficiently to give Elizabeth assistance, and
restore her to consciousness.

Elizabeth opened her eyes, gave one glance around, and closed them
again.

"Are you hurt?" cried Elsie.

She shook her head.

"What made you faint so suddenly?" demanded Mrs. Harrington. "The danger
was over."

Elizabeth made a strong effort at self-control, sat upright, and tried
to answer.

"I can't tell--I--"

"Do you know that gentleman?" asked Mrs. Harrington.

"Why, how can she?" said Elsie.

"Well, she fainted just as she looked at him."

Elizabeth controlled herself, found strength to rise, saying in reply to
Mrs. Harrington's repeated inquiries--

"How should I know him?--what folly!"

But she was trembling so violently, that they forced her to lie down
again.

"Stay with her, Elsie," said the widow, "I will go and see how we are to
get home."

She went out of the room, and in the hall encountered the gentleman just
as she had expected.

She overwhelmed him with protestations of gratitude, to which he
listened with no great appearance of interest, though Mrs. Harrington
was too completely dazzled by his brilliant appearance and manner to
perceive the absent, preoccupied way in which he received her.

"I don't know how we are to get home," she said.

"Your coachman has engaged a carriage from the hotel-keeper," he
replied; "it will be ready in a few moments. Your own horses are not
hurt, luckily."

"I don't know what Mr. Mellen will say!" she exclaimed. "He warned me
not to keep the horses."

The stranger turned quickly toward her, with a sudden flush on his face.

"May I know whom I have had the pleasure of assisting?" he asked.

"I am Mrs. Harrington," she replied, "of ---- street. I am so--"

"And your friends?"

"Miss Mellen, the sister of Grantley Mellen; and the other lady is his
betrothed wife."

"She! That--"

"Yes, yes! Dear me, if any accident had occurred, how terrible it would
have been! They are to be married next week," continued the widow,
hurriedly. "Mr. Mellen is out of town, and will not be back till just
before his wedding. Oh, I shudder to think! Dear, dear sir, how can I
thank you!"

The servant came up that moment to say that a carriage was ready to take
the ladies back to the city, and the gentleman escaped from her flood of
meaningless gratitude.

Mrs. Harrington ran back to call her friends, and found Elizabeth quite
composed and strong again.

"He's the most magnificent creature!" exclaimed the widow. "And you
don't know him, Elizabeth?"

"Have I not said so? Come, Elsie."

As she passed into the hall, Elizabeth hurried on, leaving Mrs.
Harrington to repeat her thanks, and Elsie to utter a few low, and
apparently thankful words, to which he listened with more interest than
he had done to all the widow's raptures.

They were in the carriage: the door closed; the stranger gave his
parting bow, Elizabeth leaned further back in her seat, and they drove
on, leaving him standing in the road.

"His name is North," said Mrs. Harrington. "Such an adventure! What will
Mr. Mellen say?"

"We won't tell him yet," Elsie replied; "it would only frighten him. Be
sure and not mention it, dear Mrs. Harrington."

"Oh, of course not,--just as you like. But what a handsome man that was!
North--North? Who can he be? I have never met him!"

"Whoever he is, he has saved our lives," said Elsie.

"Yes, yes! But, dear Miss Fuller, how oddly you acted!"

"Do put up your veil, Bessie," added Elsie.

Elizabeth obeyed, showing her face, pale and tremulous still.

"I was very much frightened," she said; "I think my side was hurt a
little--that was why I fainted."

She made no other answer to their wondering questions, and they drove
rapidly back to Mrs. Harrington's house.

The stranger stood upon the porch of the hotel, looking after the
carriage so long as it was in sight, with a strange, inexplicable
expression upon his handsome face.

After a time, he roused himself, mounted his horse, and rode slowly back
to the city.

CHAPTER IV.

HIGH FESTIVAL AT PINEY COVE.

On the shores of Long Island, where the ocean heaves in its wildest and
most crystalline surf, a small cove had broken itself into the slopes of
an irregular hill, after generations of beating storms and crumbling
earth, taking a crescent shape, and forming one of the most picturesque
bits of landscape to be found along the coast. The two points or
promontories that stretched their green arms to the ocean, were clothed
with thickly growing white pines, scattered with chestnuts, and a few
grand old oaks. The country sloped beautifully down to this bright sheet
of water, and swept around it in rocky points and broken groves, giving
glimpses of rich grass-land, more luxuriantly cultivated than is usual
to that portion of the island. As you looked on the scene from the
water, a house was visible on the hillside, and came in full view as the
shore was approached. It was a noble stone mansion, old as the hills,
people were used to say, and solid as their foundations. The house had
been a stately residence before the Revolution, and, without an
earthquake or a ton of powder, would remain such for a century to come.

Whatever the body of the house had been in the good old times, when
ornament was little thought of, it was now rendered picturesque by lofty
towers, and additional wings with oriel windows and carved balconies in
one direction; while the other wing clasped in a conservatory, of which
nothing could be seen from the distance but wave upon wave of rolling
crystal emerald, tinted like the ocean by the wealth of green plants
they covered.

This was the residence Grantley Mellen had inherited from a maternal
uncle just after his first struggle in life commenced. It was backed by
many a fruitful field and broad stretch of timber-land, which altogether
went under the title of Piney Cove.

Grantley Mellen, since he became possessed of the estate, had completed
the work his uncle commenced when he built the two grand towers, and a
more picturesque building could not well be imagined, with its broad
lawn, its clumps of forest trees, and that magnificent ocean view, which
was broken only by the pine groves on the two points.

This was by no means the only house visible from the cove. As you turned
the southern point, a village was seen down the coast; and about half
way between that and the pines was a wooden house, brown and
weather-beaten, standing unsheltered on the bleak shore. Back of this
house, shutting out all prospect but that of the ocean, was a tall
cliff, covered with ragged yellow pines and stunted cedars, from which
on stormy nights many a quivering flame had shot upward, luring ships to
their ruin. Still, with this grim protest against the name looming
behind it, the lonely old house was called "The Sailor's Safe Anchor,"
and was known all along the coast as a fishing-lodge and small tavern.

But once within the cove, you saw no sign of habitation save the mansion
house and its appurtenances.

Grantley Mellen had been some weeks at the cove, renovating and
preparing the house for the reception of his bride; for it was
understood that he intended henceforth to make it his permanent
residence. But the wedding-day was near, and he had gone up to the city,
leaving the last preparations to the care of a singular class of
household servants, one of his uncle's philanthropic importations from
the South, where he had owned a plantation, and emancipated all its
slaves except a half dozen, that would only accept liberty on condition
that they might follow the old man to his northern home.

Grantley had accepted this sable household with the general inheritance;
for, spoiled and pampered as family negroes are apt to be, they had
proved generally faithful and obedient.

Though a very reverential and submissive person when her master was
present, Clorinda, who had appointed herself housekeeper of the
establishment, was apt to get on to a very high horse indeed when there
was no superior authority to hold her in check; and, on this particular
occasion, she was absolutely what she declared herself--"chief cook and
bottle-washer."

This sable functionary was very busy two or three mornings before the
time set for her master's wedding, not only in the general preparations
for that event, but with a grand idea of her own, which she was
earnestly carrying into effect. If the house was going into the hands of
a new mistress, the colored persons of the establishment had resolved to
commemorate the event in advance with a grand entertainment.

To this end, Clorinda, who appointed herself lady patroness in general,
had betaken herself to Mr. Mellen's library with Caleb Benson, the
high-shouldered, bald-headed occupant of "The Sailor's Safe Anchor," and
the person whose prerogative it had been to supply fresh fish to the
family at Piney Cove. Besides this, he performed a good deal of work in
the grounds, and made himself generally useful.

This morning Benson had come up to the house at Miss Clorinda's special
request, in order to assist in the literary department of the coming
entertainment. Neither Clorinda nor any of her dark compeers could read
or write, but invitations must be sent out after the most approved
fashion; and Clorinda had a fancy that the neighborhood of so many books
would be a great help, so she led Caleb with august ceremony into the
spacious library, and laid a quantity of pink note-paper and yellow
envelopes, all covered and embossed with silver, on the table before
him.

"Jes set down, Mr. Caleb, and write dem tings out special," she said,
rolling up a great leathern chair, and patting its glossy green cushions
enticingly. "Set down, Caleb, an' write, for I know yer kin."

Caleb laid his cap on one chair, and his stout walking-stick across
another. Then he rubbed the hard palms of his hands fiercely together,
and sat down on the edge of Mr. Mellen's chair, that threatened to roll
from under him each moment.

"Now, Miss Clo, what is it you want of me? I'm on hand for a'most
anything."

"I knows you is, and ales wuz, Caleb; that's why I trusted yer wid de
delicatest part ob dis entertainment. 'Member its premptory to de
weddin'."

"Preparatory, isn't that the correct word, Miss Clo?"

"Well, take yer chice, if you ain't suited, Caleb Benson."

"Wal, wal; don't git out to sea afore the tide's up, old woman."

"Ole woman! Ole woman yerself, Caleb Benson!" retorted Clorinda.

"Jes so!" answered the fisherman, seizing upon the largest steel pen to
be found, and grinding it on the bottom of a bronze inkstand. Clorinda
put both hands to her mouth, and would have cried out; but, remembering
how few teeth she had to be set on edge, thought better of it, and stood
in glum silence while Caleb made his preparations.

That remarkable functionary had a piece of business before him which
threatened to task the resources of his genius to their full extent, but
he was not the man to shrink from the responsibility which his desire to
retain a high place in the powerful Clorinda's good-will had induced him
to accept.

"Now, then," said Caleb, giving his chair another hitch, dipping his pen
afresh into the inkstand, and holding it suspended over the paper, with
a threatening drop slowly collecting on the nib. "Now we'll get under
weigh just as soon as you give the signal."

"Tak car ob de ink!" shrieked Clorinda, pulling the paper from under his
hand in time to preserve it from the great blot of ink that descended on
the table-cover instead. "Dat's a purty splotch, now, ain't it; yer a
nice hand, Caleb Benson!"

"Taint much, nobody'll ever notice it," said Caleb, wiping it off with
his coat-sleeve. "Don't raise a breeze about nothin', Clorindy."

"Don't talk to me 'bout breezes," she retorted, in an irritated tone,
for Clorinda, I am sorry to say, had not even a fair portion of the
small stock of patience which usually falls to our sex. "I 'clar to
goodness dere ain't nothin' so stupid as a man. I jis hate de hull sect
like pison, I duz."

"Oh, no you don't, Clorindy," he replied, "you hain't got so old yet but
what you can hold your own with the youngest of 'em when there's a fancy
mulatter chap round."

"What doz yer mean by ole!" cried Clorinda. "I tells you what, Caleb
Benson, ef yer only undertuk this job to be a aggrawatin' and insultin'
me, you and I's done! I ain't gwine to stand sich trash, now I tells
yer! Is dis yer thanks fur all I'se done? Who got ye de run ob de house,
I'd like to know; who sot ye up for selling better fish than anybody in
de neighborhood; who nebber said nothin' when de soap-fat all
disappeared, and you said it had melted in de sun; who fixed up
mince-pies fur you; who--"

There is no telling to what extent Clorinda might have carried her
revelations, but the old man interrupted her with all the excuses he
could think of at so short notice.

"I was just funning, Clorindy; don't go off the handle. In course I want
to obleege you. Thar, thar! Now what do you want to have wrote? We ain't
going to quarrel--old friends like us."

"Ain't we!" cried Clorinda, folding her arms. "Then jis you keep a civil
tongue, dat's all. Times is changed, and der's a new misses a comin';
but you may all onderstand dat I rules de kitchen yet, and I'se gwine
to."

"Sartin, sartin! Wal now, about these here billet ducks," said Caleb,
cunningly; "I must hurry up, you see, or I shan't get round afore
night."

Clorinda forgot her injured feelings in excitement about the party, and
ordered him to commence work without farther delay.

"Wal," said Caleb, spreading out the paper again, "I'll leave a blank
for the names, that'll save trouble. I reckon you want somethin' like
this--'Miss Clorindy and Miss Victory's compliments--'"

"What's Vic got to do wid it, I'd like to know?" Clo burst in; "it's my
party, just 'member dat. It's enough to hev her company, widout her
settin' up for a hostage."

"Any thing to suit," said Caleb, patiently. "Wal, then I'll say that
Miss Clorindy hopes to have the pleasure of Mr. so and so's company, and
wants to see you to a little tea drinkin' this evening."

"Lord!" cried Clo. "If ye hain't got no more larnin' dan dat, I'd better
find somebody else! Do yer tink I got pink paper and silver-sprigged
'welopers to write sich trash on? Tea drinkin' indeed! Why dis here's to
be a rigler scrumptious, fash'nable 'tainment! I want yer to say, 'Miss
Clorindy consents her most excruciating compliments, and begs to state
that, owing to de 'picious ewent ob de master's weddin', she takes dis
opportunity to 'quest de 'stinguished company ob Mr. Otheller Jones for
dis evenin', to a reparatory 'tainment; and she would furder mention dat
dare will be plenty ob weddin'-cake, wid a ring in it, ice cream in
pinnacles, red and white, and a dance in de laundry to fiddles.' Dar,
dat's somethin' like."

"Yes," said Caleb, quite breathless; "now tell it to me as I get ahead,
'cause it's a mighty long rigmarole."

"Oh," added Clorinda, "den at the bottom you must put--' P. S.--Yaller
gloves and 'rocur pumps, if convenient.'"

That last touch of elegance quite upset Caleb, and he began to think
that if Clorinda was black, and couldn't write her name, she really was
a wonderful woman. Clo was so softened by his applause that they got on
very harmoniously, and the invitations were written out in Clorinda's
peculiar phraseology and in Caleb's largest hand. As it was an affair of
importance, he put capitals at the beginning of nearly every word,
sometimes in the middle and altogether the writing made such a show,
that Clorinda was delighted.

"Don't forget de P. S.," said she.

"Yes," said Caleb, making a tremendous flourish. "P. S.--Yaller gloves
and 'rocur pumps, if convenient."

Clo inspected the first note as carefully as if she could read,
expressed her approbation, and urged him on, till, with much labor,
Caleb completed the requisite number, put them safely in their gorgeous
envelopes, and directed them to the persons Clorinda mentioned.

"Now, jis be as quick as you kin," she said; "I'se got to go back to see
to tings--can't trust dat Vic, no how! Wal, I guess Mr. Dolf'll see de
difference 'tween folks and folks."

Benson knew that Dolf, Mr. Mellen's own man, was a special weakness of
Clorinda's, though it was only her reputation for accumulated wages
which induced that dashing yellow individual to treat her with any
attention.

Caleb received his last instructions, and started on his mission, which
was successfully fulfilled. Then he took his way homeward after going
back to the house to acquaint Clorinda with the result, which was equal
to her expectations, and that was saying a great deal.

As he approached the little tavern, he saw a gentleman standing on the
steps, with a colored servant guarding a pile of guns, fishing-rods, and
other tackle, with which idle men frequently came down from the city to
endure Caleb's humble fare for a while, and gratify their masculine
propensity for destruction.

But this gentleman was a stranger to Caleb, and he looked at him
enviously, though with the approbation which his appearance would have
elicited from more refined judges.

"I suppose you are Caleb Benson," the gentleman said, throwing away the
end of a cigar, as the old man mounted the steps.

"Wal, they call me so, sometimes," replied Caleb; for the instincts of
his New England birthplace had not deserted him, and he never answered a
question in a straightforward manner, if he could help it.

"Some friends of mine told me I could find very comfortable quarters
with you," pursued the stranger. "I have run down to see the place, and
take a day's duck shooting. I want to engage rooms, and leave my traps
here, so that I can come over whenever I feel like it."

"I want to know,--mean to have a good long shute do you!" said Caleb.
"Wal, I guess I could fix you up, if you ain't too particular."

"I am not at all particular what I pay," replied the gentleman; "I
suppose that is satisfactory."

"I ain't going to say 'tain't," returned Caleb, his eyes beginning to
twinkle at the prospect of a liberal guest, who meant to come
frequently.

"I reckon you'd like to see what I can do in the way of rooms, Mr.,
Mr.----Wal, I don't think I quite ketched your name."

"Mr. North," said the stranger, smiling at the man's shrewdness.

He stood for a few moments talking with Caleb, and though the old fellow
was not easily pleased, he was quite fascinated by the stranger's
manner; and, having a very vague idea of princes, was almost inclined to
think that this splendid-looking creature might be one who had strayed
over from his native kingdom on a fishing excursion.

"Now let me see the rooms," said Mr. North. "I suppose my man may as
well carry the traps up stairs now--the place is certain to suit me."

Caleb looked at the stylish colored individual who was leaning, in a
graceful attitude, over the luggage, and a brilliant idea struck him.

"I say you," he called, "I've got a ticket that'll just suit you,
Mr.----What's your name?"

"If you are redressing me," replied the sable gentleman, majestically,
"my name is Mr. Julius Hannibal."

"Want to know!" said Caleb. "Wal, here's an invite that was just meant
for a fine-looking chap like you."

Caleb drew one of the notes from his pocket, and held it out. Hannibal
took it with considerable dignity, doubtful how to receive such
unceremonious compliments.

"You are in luck, Ju," said his master. "What's it all about, Mr.
Benson?"

"Why, Mr. Mellen--he's one of our rich men down here--is going to be
married this week, so his servants thought they'd have a blow-out
to-night, for fear they wouldn't get the chance after the new mistress
comes."

"Go, by all means," said North, almost eagerly. "Make all the friends
you can, Ju, for we shall be here a good deal--go, certainly."

Hannibal drew himself up, bowed to his master, and said to Caleb in a
stately way----

"I shall be most happy to mixture in the festive throng, but would most
'spectfully state to Miss Clorindy that morocur pumps is banished from
polite society, and only patting leathers is worn--but these is
trifles."

North took the note from his servant's hand, and could not repress his
merriment as he read it; but Caleb received that as a compliment, and
looked so conscious, that it was easy to discover what share he had
taken in the matter.

"Pinnacles of ice cream, and a dance in the landing," read Mr. North.
"Why choose the landing, Mr. Benson?"

"Laundry, laundry! I guess it's blotted a leetle."

"Oh yes--I see! Upon my word, quite magnificent! So Mr.--Mellen, did you
call him?--is to be married this week. Well, well, that fate overtakes
most of us, sooner or later. We will go up stairs now, if you please,
Mr. Benson."

The old man led the way up to the room, which was kept in readiness for
visitors of importance, and which had been made quite comfortable by the
various articles of furniture that the different occupants had presented
to Caleb, on leaving his house.

The bargain was not a difficult one, as Mr. North appeared quite willing
to pay Benson his own price, and the old fellow was only in doubt as to
the extent to which he might safely carry his extortion.

When they went down stairs again, the steamboat had just come in to the
landing, and Dolf, Mr. Mellen's man, was making his way to the tavern,
having come to the island to see that the house was in readiness, and
dazzle the eyes of the females by the wonderful new clothes which had
fallen to his share of the wedding perquisites.

"That's just the ticket," said Caleb; "Mellen's man'll take you over to
the place, Mr. Julius, and set you a goin'. I'm going there myself now,
but you'll have to fix your master up first, so you can come with Dolf."

While Julius was going through the ceremonies of an introduction, Mr.
North called him away, and seemed to be giving him some very particular
directions. When he came back, Dolf, who was greatly rejoiced at this
acquisition, said, anxiously,

"Won't he let you go?"

"Of course," answered Hannibal, but a little uneasily. "It was only
about a fishing-rod I left behind."

CHAPTER V.

A BALL IN THE BASEMENT.

The day wore on. Everything was in a state of preparation in the old
mansion-house. The last ovenful of cake had been placed by an open
window in the pantry, that its frosted surface might harden into beauty.
The ice-cream freezers, ready to yield up their precious contents, were
set away in a cool place, and Victoria, a pretty mulatto girl who had
come to the house an orphan child, was busy carving red and white roses
out of a little pile of turnips and delicately shaped blood-beets,
intended to ornament divers plates of cold turkey and chicken salad.
This pretty fancy work was carried on in the front basement or
housekeeper's room, while a bustle of preparation gave promise of great
things from the kitchen. Clorinda, the moving spirit of all this
commotion, rushed from basement to kitchen, and then to pantry and
store-room, in a state of exhilaration that set fresh currents of air in
circulation wherever she went. This was the great day of the faithful
servant's life, and she felt its importance in every cord of her heart.

"Now," she called out, addressing Victoria with a pompous lift of the
head, "yer can come up stairs and help about thar. Them roseys ain't so
bad but that I've seen wuss; but there's 'nuff of 'em, so cum 'long o'
me, and shut up de draw'n'-room winder-blinds."

Victoria ran up stairs, two steps at a leap, and, in a breath, was
shutting out the beautiful sunset, and quenching a thousand flashes of
arrowy rays that scattered gold over the plate-glass.

"Now," said Clorinda, as the last shutter was closed, "yer can take the
spy-glass and see if any pusson is comin' up from the pint."

Victoria was only too glad. She sprang across the tessellated pavement
of the hall, and seizing the glass, swept the shore with a slow movement
of her slender person from right to left.

"Nary a pusson coming," she said, laying down the glass, with a
disappointed air.

"Don't talk," snapped Clorinda, snatching up the glass and levelling it
fiercely at the ocean. "Jes like yer, now--can't see yer hand afore yer
face. There's a boat put inter the cove whilst yer was looken, and here
am Caleb Benson."

"So thar am," cried Victoria, snatching the glass, "acomin' full split
across the medder. Now for it!"

The lithe limbed mulatto gave a hop on to the portico, and another bound
to the soft grass of the lawn, whence she ran, like a deer, to meet our
sea-loving friend, with the high shoulders, who was crossing towards the
house at a far brisker pace than was usual to him.

"Hav yer give the instergations?" cried Victoria, out of breath with
swift running. "Am the folks a coming to our party?"

Caleb looked wonderfully grave, and attempted to shake his head; but Vic
saw, by the gleam in his eyes, that it was all pretence, and clapping
her hands like a little gypsy as she was, dashed into a break-down on
the grass, calling out, "Hi, dic-a-dory, I told yer so--I told yer so!"

"Well, what am all dis muss 'bout?" exclaimed Clorinda, sailing out to
the lawn with a broad straw flat overshadowing her like an umbrella.
"Well, Caleb, I 'low ebbery ting am pernicious 'bout de party."

Caleb, who was ah old fisherman, reared at Cape Cod, and not to be put
out of his way easily, occupied plenty of time before he answered. The
afternoon was warm, so he took the oil-cloth cap from his head, and
wiped its baldness vigorously with an old silk handkerchief. Then he
deposited the handkerchief in the crown of his cap, and settled himself
into his garments with a shake, sailor fashion.

Clorinda's broad flat vibrated with its wearer's impatience, and
Victoria was stamping down the grass, and menacing the old man with her
fist during the whole of his slow performance.

"Now," she said, "now."

"Wal, the long and the short of it is, they're all a coming, especially
from Squir Rhodes. Miss Jemima wasn't willing at first, but the Squir
sot in and said his colored people hadn't much chance for fun anyhow,
and shouldn't be kept back from what come along in a nat'ral way."

"Squir Rhodes was ales a pusson as I s'pected," said Clorinda. "Let's
see how many of 'em will count up."

She made rather bungling work in counting her fingers, going over them
three or four times, and getting terribly puzzled in the end.

In the midst of her confusion, Victoria gave a little cry of dismay, and
made a rush for the house, where she frantically tore off her apron and
tucked it under one of the hall mats.

Clorinda, filled with indignation by this strange proceeding, turned in
search of the cause, and lo! there was Dolf, Mr. Mellen's own man,
crossing the lawn, with two other gentlemen of color, evidently from the
city.

Clorinda snatched the broad straw flat from her head, and began to
arrange her Madras turban with both hands, thus unhappily exposing some
tufts of frosty gray that had managed to creep, year after year, into
her wool. After this rather abrupt toilet, she drew herself up with a
grand air, and marched forward to receive the strangers in a glorious
state of self-complacency.

"Mr. Dolf, yer welcome as hot-house peaches--and these gemmen, may I
'quest an interdiction?"

Dolf had just been informing his companions that the lady approaching
them was not to be sneezed at in any particular whatever, as she ruled
the roost of Piney Cove, and had, everybody said, laid up lots of rocks;
besides, as for cooking--well, he said nothing, it was not necessary;
they would see what Clorinda was in that line when the supper came on.
She had learned down South where people knew how to live.

This speech prepared the strangers to receive their sable hostess with
great distinction, and when she launched a stupendous courtesy at them
in acknowledgment of their elaborate bows, the mutual admiration that
sprang up among the whole group then and there, was an oasis in the
desert of human nature.

"Miss Clorinda--Mr. Sparks, of the Metropolitan Hotel; Mr. Hannibal,
private attendant of an upper-crust gentleman, who is going to stop at
the Sailor's Safe Anchor, fishing and shooting."

Clorinda had just recovered herself from one courtesy, but she took the
wind in her garments and fluttered off into a couple more without loss
of time.

"I 'low de neighborhood am obligated to any gemmen as brings sich
pussons inter de serciety ob Piney Cove. If yer hasn't had deceived an
invite from Mr. Benson, dat white pusson yer sees up yunder, remit me de
ferlicity."

Clorinda took two buff envelopes from her bosom as she spoke, and gave
them to Mr. Sparks, of the Metropolitan, and Mr. Julius Hannibal,
private, with a smile that flitted across her face like smoke from a
furnace.

"It speaks ob pumps and yeller gloves as bein' indispenserable, but dem
as comes promiscus as yer friends dus, Dolphus, can't be spected ter
imply."

The gentlemen smiled in bland thankfulness, exhibiting a superb display
of ivory and second-hand white kids in the operation.

"You didn't expect me," whispered Dolf, joining Clorinda when she turned
to conduct the party to the house, "but the hart will pant after clear
water. I couldn't stand it three days longer; so when the master told me
to come over and see that every thing was ready, I jumped at it. Hope
you're not offended at my bringing these fellows?"

"'Fended!" exclaimed Clorinda, stepping upon the grass as if it had been
egg-shells, that she had resolved not to crush. "When was yer Clo ebber
fended wid yer, Dolphus?"

"Poor fellows," said Dolf, looking back at his friends, "They see my
ferlicity and are ready to burst with envy."

"Am dey?" exclaimed Clorinda, bridling--"poor souls; but no pusson can
be spected to cut up inter half a dozen, so dey am bound ter suffer."

The whole group had reached the front portico by this time. Vic, who had
stolen behind the hall-door and stood watching their approach through
the crevice, came forth now, blushing till the golden bronze on her
cheeks burned red. Clorinda flamed up at the sight.

"What hab yer done wid yer apron, chile? jes march right 'bout an' get
it ter once. Who ebber hearn bout a chile ob yer age widout apron?"

Victoria's black eyes flashed like diamonds; she drew aside, leaning
against the wall, with the grace of a bronze-figure, half-frightened out
of her wits, but defiant still. What right had Clorinda to tell about
her apron, or drive her down stairs? She cast an imploring glance at
Dolf, but he looked resolutely away.

"Come in, gemmen, out ob sight ob dis obstinit chile," cried Clorinda,
almost sweeping poor little Vic down with a flourish of her skirts.

"No," interposed gentlemanly Dolf, who had a genius for keeping out of
storms. "The gentlemen were just saying, as we came up, how much they
would like a walk towards the woods. So with your permission, Miss
Clorinda, we will leave you to the feminine duties of the toilet; though
beauty when unadorned is most adorned."

"'Cept when de gray hairs will peek out. Hi! hi! look dar!"

These audacious words were uttered by Victoria, whose pouting wrath
could no longer be restrained.

The two city gentlemen fell to examining their gloves with great
earnestness. Dolf made a hasty retreat through the door, calling on them
to follow him, and Clorinda left five handsomely defined finger-marks on
Victoria's hot cheek before she darted off to a looking-glass, and fell
into a great burst of tears over the state of her treacherous turban.

"Now," said Vic, gathering herself up from the wall, and rubbing her
cheek, down which great hot tears were leaping with passionate
violence--"Now I'se gone and done it, sure; she won't let me--"

"Vic! Vic!"

It was the treacherous voice of Dolf, who came stealing in from the
portico.

"Vic, don't be so audacious, you lovely spitfire; go this minute and
make up with her, or we've lost all chance of that new cotillion I was
learning you."

"I can't! I won't!" burst forth the pretty, bronze fury, stamping down
the mat and her apron under it. "She's a--a--she's fat cattle, thar!"

Dolf snatched the little sprite from the rug, and stopped her mouth
with--no, it wasn't with his _hand_. And I'd rather say no more about
it.

Five minutes after, Victoria went demurely in search of Clorinda, found
her sitting before the glass in utter humiliation, and protested that
the whole thing was nonsense. That she hadn't seen a gray hair, and if
the turban was awry, it must have happened when Clorinda ran up stairs
in such hot haste. Victoria was sorry: oh, very, very sorry. Would Miss
Clo only overlook it this once, and begin to dress for the ball?

Clorinda's heart swelled like a rising tide under Vic's hypocritical
condolence, but she could not be quite convinced about the turban; she
was a woman of resources, however, and felt that the evil was not
without its remedy. So she kindled an immense quantity of wax-lights,
crowded them before her looking-glass, and at once commenced the
mysteries of a full toilet. The result was so satisfactory when she took
a survey of her pink barege dress, covered with innumerable small
flounces, and the gorgeous white gauze scarf, glittering with silver,
which formed a turban, with long sweeping ends falling to the left
shoulder--that she melted at once towards the girl who had helped to
make her so resplendent.

"Jes see what splendiferous idees that chile Miss Elsie hab, Vic," she
cried, shaking the flounces into place over her enormous crinoline. "Now
'serve she never wore dis sumptious dress more en once, but sent it down
here good as new; 'sides de turban, jes see it shine. Yes, Vic, I
forgives yer, so don't rub dem knuckles in yer eyes no more."

Vic darted away, and in a marvellously short time came back glorious,
her hair braided in with scarlet ribbons, and a dress of several
gorgeous colors fluttering with every joyous movement of her slender
person. She was pluming herself before the glass when Clorinda started
up.

"What am dat?"

"Dat? why it am a carriage. Oh, golly, golly, they'm coming," cried Vic,
wild with delight; and away the two darkies went down the great
staircase and into the hall, where the honors of the house were extended
with astonishing elegance.

Two or three wagons sat down their sable loads, and directly the sounds
of a brace of fiddles rang though the basement story, and the laundry
floor vibrated to the elastic tread of dancers, whose natural love of
music gave grace and spirit to every movement. The two fiddles poured
out triumphant strains of music, and in every particular Clorinda's ball
was a success.

At last Clorinda disappeared from the laundry, and Dolf followed her
into the supper-room, where he fell into raptures over the gorgeousness
of the table.

"Yes," said the housekeeper, modestly, "but how am we to get 'long
without wine; Marse Mellen carried off de keys, and without dat--"

"Jes look here!" cried Dolf, holding up a key which had been resting in
his pocket; "catch me unprepared; I thought about the wine."

Clorinda almost embraced Dolf in her delight, but in his haste to reach
the wine-cellar, he did not seem to observe the demonstration.

When her lover came back with his arms full of long-necked bottles,
Clorinda's happiness was supreme, and directly after there was a rush of
feet and abrupt silence with the two fiddlers. The company had gone in
to supper.

After the rush and bustle had subsided a little, Dolf placed himself at
the head of the table, with a corkscrew in one hand and a bottle in the
other.

"Oh, my!" whispered Virginia, "I hope dar's lots of pop in it."

A rushing explosion, and the rich gurgle of amber wine into the crowding
goblets satisfied her completely.

Dolf lifted his glass and prepared himself for a speech.

"Ladies of the fair sect and gentlemen--"

That moment Mr. Julius Hannibal, who had allowed himself to be crowded
towards the door, stole out and went softly up stairs. With the stealthy
motion of a cat, he crept along the hall and opened the front door.

A man came out from the shadows of the portico, and glided into the
hall. It was Mr. North, Hannibal's master.

CHAPTER VI.

THE WEDDING.

A crowd of carriages stood in front of the church--a throng of
richly-dressed persons filled it, with such life and bustle as sacred
walls never witness, save on the occasion of a grand wedding. Mrs.
Harrington had done her pleasant work famously. Not a fashionable person
among her own friends, or a distinguished one known to bridegroom or
bride, had been omitted. Thus the stately church was crowded. Snowy
feathers waved over gossamer bonnets; lace, glittering silks, and a
flash of jewels were seen on every hand, fluttering in the dim religious
light around smiling faces and gracefully bending figures.

A buzz of whispered conversations rose from nave to gallery; for a large
portion of that brilliant throng had never seen the bride, and curiosity
was on the _qui vive_ regarding a person so utterly unknown to society,
who had carried off the greatest match of the season.

In one of the front pews a friend of Mrs. Harrington was sitting with a
group of her own confidential acquaintances. Of course she knew all
about it, and could tell them why Mr. Mellen had chosen a wife so
utterly unknown to their set.

Certainly Mrs. C. knew all about it--had the particulars from her sweet
friend, Mrs. Harrington, who was, they all knew, a sort of lady
patroness to the affair. Would she tell? Of course--why not? There was
no secret about it now, and it might be ten minutes before the bridal
party came in.

"Well, this was it. Mr. Mellen was--"

Oh they all knew about Mr. Mellen; he had been in business down town
before that worthy old gentleman his uncle died, and left him so
enormously rich that there was no guessing how many millions he was
worth. Did they know his sister? Of course: what a sweet pretty creature
she was! Strange that the old uncle forgot to make her an heiress,--cut
off a relative whom he had almost adopted, and left everything to
Mellen, who did not expect it. Sweet Elsie was quite overlooked, and had
nothing on earth but her beauty. But the bride, the bride, what about
her?

"Well," said Mrs. C----, coming out of this storm of whispers smiling
and flushed, "there is no great mystery in the bride. Indeed, so far as
she was concerned, everything was rather common-place--such people had
been done up so often in romances that it was tiresome."

"You don't mean to say that she was that eternal governess who is
continually travelling through magazines and marrying the rich young
gentleman of the house?" cried a voice, almost out loud.

"No, no, nothing quite so bad as that," answered Mrs. C----, with a low
soothing "hush," and shaking her head till all the pink roses on her
bonnet fluttered again. "She came from somewhere in New England. The
father was thought to be a rich man. At any rate he gave her a splendid
education, and travelled with her in Europe nearly two years, when she
was quite a missish girl. He also educated her cousin, the young man who
is to be groomsman, and gave him a handsome setting out in life; but
when the father died there was nothing left--all his property mortgaged
or something--at any rate Elizabeth never got a cent, and her cousin
would have been poor as a church-mouse but for the money which had set
him up in a splendid business. He wanted to make that over to her at
once."

"Generous fellow!"

"You may well say that," continued Mrs. C----, hushing down the
enthusiasm of her friends with a wave of her whitely gloved hand. "She
would not take a cent of his money, but came here to the very school
where she had been educated, and hired out as a teacher; it is said--but
I do not vouch for it--that her bills at the school were left unpaid,
and she worked the debt out."

"Is it possible!"

"Dear me, how noble!"

"But how did she get acquainted with Mr. Mellen?" cried a third voice;
"make haste, or they will be upon us before we know a word about it."

"His sister, Miss Elsie Mellen, was a pupil in the school. Her love for
Miss Fuller was perfect infatuation. The brother worshiped her--sweet
creature, who could help it?--and so the acquaintance began in the
parlor of a boarding school, and ends--Hush, hush!"

There was a slight commotion at the door, followed by the soft rustling
of silks and turning of heads. Then a gentleman of noble presence, calm
and self-possessed, as if he were quite unconscious of all the eyes bent
upon him, came slowly up the broad aisle with the object of all this
conversation leaning on his arm.

Certainly the bride gave no evidence of her low estate in that rustling
white silk, which shone like crusted snow through a sheen of tulle; or
in the veil of Brussels lace that fell around her like a fabric of
cobwebs overrun with frostwork. You could detect intense emotion from
the shiver of the clematis spray, mingled with snowy roses, in her black
hair; but otherwise she seemed quiet and remarkably self-sustained.

Following close upon this noble pair, came a tall, loose-jointed young
man, glowing with pride of the lovely creature on his arm; and, really,
any thing more beautiful, in a material sense, could not well be
imagined than that youthful bridesmaid. Like the stately girl who had
passed before her, she moved in a cloud of shimmering white, with just
enough of blue in the golden hair and on the bosom to match the violet
of her eyes.

Once or twice Tom Fuller missed step as they were going up the aisle,
when Elsie would make a pause, look ruefully at her gossamer skirts, and
only seem relieved when her partner stumbled into place again. Then she
followed the bride, her cheeks one glow of roses and smiles dimpling her
fresh, young mouth, as if she were the Queen of May approaching her
throne.

The bridal-pair knelt at the altar, and a solemn stillness fell upon
that brilliant multitude as the vows which were to unite that man and
woman for all time were uttered. Even Elsie looked on with shadowy
sadness in her eyes; as for Tom--the noble-hearted fellow made a fool of
himself of course, and was compelled to shake the tears surreptitiously
from his eyes, before he dared to look up from the long survey he had
been taking of his patent-leather boots.

It is almost frightful to remember how few moments it takes to bind
immortal souls together in a union which may be for happiness, and,
alas, may be for such misery as eternal bondage alone can give.

The feeling of awe befitting that sacred place had scarcely settled on
the gay assembly, when the altar was deserted, and Grantley Mellen led
his wife out of the church. Agitation had brought a faint glow of color
to her cheek, softened the mouth into its sweetest smile, and whenever
the clear gray eyes were lifted, one could see the timid, shrinking
happiness, which made their depths so misty and dark.

Grantley Mellen was a proud, somewhat stern man, and at the church-door
he betrayed, in spite of himself, some annoyance at the _eclat_ which
Mrs. Harrington had given to the affair, in spite of his express wishes.
But whenever he looked at the lovely girl at his side, or felt the
clinging touch of her hand upon his arm, his face cleared and softened
into an expression of such tenderness as changed its entire character.

Elsie followed close, dexterously keeping her dress from under Tom's
feet; indeed, she looked so lovely and fairy-like, that it made the
awkwardness and embarrassment of her great, honest-hearted companion
more apparent.

Tom Fuller knew that he appeared dreadfully out of place playing a part
at this imposing ceremony, but he had never in all his life refused a
request that Elizabeth made, and during the last three months, the
mischievous sprite by his side had kept his blundering head in a state
of such constant bewilderment, and so stirred every chord in his great,
manly heart, that he would not have minded in the least stumbling over
red hot ploughshares for the pleasure of walking with her even the
length of a church aisle.

The group had reached the porch and lingered there a moment, waiting for
the carriages to draw up. The shadows were all gone from Grantley
Mellen's face now; he bent his head and whispered a few words, that made
Elizabeth's cheek glow into new beauty. Suddenly her glance wandered
towards the crowd on her left--a sudden pallor swept the roses from her
cheek--her hand closed convulsively on Mellen's arm; but in an instant,
before even he had noticed her agitation, it had passed--she walked on
to the carriage graceful and queen-like as ever.

Standing among the throng at which she had cast that one glance, stood
the man who had rescued her from danger only a few days before. He was
gazing eagerly into the faces of the newly made husband and wife, with
an expression upon his features which it was not easy to understand. But
after that quick look, Elizabeth never again turned her head, and the
stranger shrank back among the crowd and disappeared.

The guests were gathered about the sumptuous table which Mrs. Harrington
had prepared, and the fair widow herself, in a dress which would have
been youthful even for Elsie, was in a state of flutter and excitement
which baffles description.

She was gay and coquettish as a girl of sixteen; but there was enough of
real kindliness in her character to make those who knew her forgive
these girlish affectations and the little delusion under which she
labored--that certain specially-favored people, like herself, never did
get beyond eighteen, being so sensitive and fresh of soul, that age
never reached them.

I doubt if there ever was a wedding reception that did not prove a
somewhat dull affair, and though this was as nearly an exception as
possible, Mellen seized the first opportunity to whisper Elizabeth that
it was time to prepare for their departure.

"And so I shan't see you for a whole week," said Tom Fuller, ruefully,
as he accompanied Elsie out of the room, when she followed Elizabeth up
stairs to change her dress. "What shall I do with myself all that time?"

"A whole week!" repeated she, laughing merrily; "it's quite dreadful to
contemplate--I only hope you won't die, and put poor Bessie into
mourning before the honeymoon is over."

"Oh, you are laughing at me," said Tom, heaving a sigh that was a
perfect blast of grief.

"How can you fancy that?" cried Elsie; "I thought I was showing great
sympathy."

"You always do laugh at me," urged Tom, "and it's downright cruel! I
know I am awkward, and always do the wrong thing at the wrong moment,
but you needn't be so hard on a fellow."

"There, there!" said Elsie, patting his arm as she might have smoothed a
great Newfoundland dog; "don't quarrel with me now! Next week you are
coming down to Piney Cove, and you shall see how nicely I will entertain
you."

"Shall you be glad to see me--really glad?" pleaded Tom, red to the very
temples.

"Oh, of course," cried Elsie, laughing; "you are a sort of cousin
now--it will be my duty, you know."

Elsie danced away, leaving him to pull his white glove in a perplexed
sort of way, by no means certain that he was satisfied with being
considered a relation, and treated in this cavalier manner.

CHAPTER VII.

THE FIRST CLOUD.

Mrs. Harrington had run up stairs for an instant, and stopped Mellen and
his bride on the landing for a few last words.

"I hope you are satisfied, Grantley," she said; "I have done my best; I
do hope you are pleased."

"My dear friend, everything has been perfect," he answered.

"I can't thank you for all your kindness to me," Elizabeth said, holding
out her hand; "but believe me, I feel it deeply."

"My dear, don't speak of it! Grantley and Elsie are like relatives to
me," cried Mrs. Harrington, "and I love you so much already! You looked
lovely--what a mercy we came off so well from our fright--"

"There is no time for pretty speeches," broke in Elsie, giving her a
warning glance, and pulling Elizabeth towards their dressing-room; "go
back to your guests, Mary Harrington; what will they do without you.
Besides, you must cover our retreat. We don't want to be stared at when
we go out."

But Mellen stood still after they had entered the chamber, and detained
Mrs. Harrington.

"What fright?" he demanded; "what did you mean?"

She was too thoroughly confused to remember her promise.

"Oh, nothing, nothing!" she said; "I have sold the horses, so it doesn't
make any difference."

"What do you mean?" he asked. "Have you had an accident?"

"No, no; the gentleman saved us--such a splendid creature! But it was so
odd. The moment Elizabeth looked in his face she fainted dead
away--courageous as a lion till then--just like a novel, you know. But
she said she never saw him before; it was really quite interesting."

Grantley Mellen turned suddenly pale; doubt and suspicion had been his
familiar demons for years, and it never required more than a word or
look to call them up.

He controlled himself sufficiently to speak with calmness, and Mrs.
Harrington was not observant; but he did not permit her to return to her
guests until he had heard the whole story.

"Don't mention it," she entreated; "I promised Elizabeth not to tell;
she thought you would be frightened, and perhaps displeased."

Mrs. Harrington hurried down stairs, and Mellen passed on to the chamber
which had been appropriated for his use. But his face had not recovered
its serenity, and Master Dolf, who presided over his toilet, did not at
all approve of such gravity on a man's wedding-day--having drank quite
champagne enough in the kitchen to feel in as exuberant spirits as was
desirable, himself.

The leave-takings were over; Tom Fuller had given his last tempestuous
sigh as Mellen drove off with his sister and his bride towards the home
where they were to begin their new life.

The journey was not a tedious one; the swift train bore them for a
couple of hours along one of the Long Island railroads, to a way
station, where a carriage waited to carry them to the quiet old house in
which they were to spend the honeymoon.

There was to be no journey, both Mellen and Elizabeth wished to go
quietly to the beautiful spot which was to be their future home, and
spend the first weeks of their happiness in complete seclusion.

The drive was a charming one, and the brightness of the Spring day would
have chased even a deeper gloom from Mellen's mind than the shadow which
Mrs. Harrington's careless words had brought over it.

From the eminence along which the road wound, they caught occasional
glimpses of the silvery beach and the long sparkling line of ocean
beyond; then a sudden descent would shut them out, and they drove
through beautiful groves with pleasant homesteads peeping through the
trees, and distant villages nestled like flocks of birds in the golden
distance.

The apple-trees were in blossom, and the breeze was laden with their
delicious fragrance; the grass in the pastures wore its freshest green,
the young grain was sprouting in the fields, troops of robins and
thrushes darted about, filling the air with melody, and over all the
blue sky looked down, flecked with its white, fleecy clouds. The
sunlight played warm and beautiful over this lovely scene, and through
the early loveliness of the season, the married pair drove on towards
their new life.

At a sudden curve in the road, they came out full upon the ocean, and
Elizabeth, unacquainted with the scene, uttered an exclamation of wonder
at its dazzling loveliness.

Below them stretched a crescent-shaped bay, with a line of woodland
running far out into the sea; away to the right, at the extremity of the
bay, a little village peeped out; its picturesque dwellings were dotted
here and there, giving a home look to the whole scene. At the end of the
shady avenue into which they had turned, the tall roofs and stately
towers of the Piney Cove mansion were visible through the trees.

"The dear old house!" cried Elsie, clapping her hands. "The dear old
house!"

Grantley Mellen was watching his wife, and a pleased smile lighted his
face when he saw how thoroughly she appreciated the beauty of the place.
He did not speak, but clasped her hand gently in his, and held it, while
Elsie uttered her wild exclamations of delight. They drove up to the
entrance of the house.

"Welcome home!" exclaimed Mellen, and his face glowed with tenderness as
he lifted his wife from the carriage and conducted her up the steps,
Elsie following, and the servants pressing forward with their
congratulations, headed by Clorinda: and for the first few moments,
Elizabeth was conscious of nothing but a pleasant confusion.

From the hall where they stood, she could look out upon the ocean which
rolled and sparkled under the sunshine. She could even hear the waves
lapsing up to the grounds which sloped down to the water's edge in a
closely shaven lawn, broken by stately old trees and blossoming
flower-beds. The view so charmed her with its loveliness, that at first
she hardly heeded the magnificence of the different apartments through
which they led her.

There were quaint, shadowy old rooms, full of odd nooks and corners, and
heavy with antique furniture, where one could idle away a morning so
pleasantly; and in the modern portion of the dwelling, a long suite of
drawing-rooms, with a library beyond, which had been fitted up with
every luxury that wealth and refined taste could devise.

"Be happy," Grantley Mellen whispered, when his wife tried to find words
to express her delight. "Be happy--peace, rest and affection is all I
ask."

He looked in her face, eager for the smiling surprise which he had
expected to find there. It was sadly grave. She too had her after
thought.

CHAPTER VIII.

THE BRIDE'S WELCOME HOME.

Elsie took Elizabeth up the broad flight of steps which led from the
hall, and conducted her to the suite of rooms that had been prepared for
her reception. "I had them arranged close to my little nest," she said,
"because I knew Grantley would never be content unless I was within
call. I hope you will like them, Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth answered that they were beautiful, as indeed they were. But it
was a grand, lonely splendor that she looked upon, which almost chilled
her. The chamber was large and richly furnished. Every thing was massive
and costly. The carpet soft as a flower-bed and as brilliant in tints.
Wherever she turned, her eyes fell on exquisite carvings reflected by
limpid mirrors; curtains of richly tinted satin shut out a perfect view
of the ocean, and Elizabeth could not help remarking that the principal
windows faced northward, away from the bloom and glory of the grounds.
Even her dressing-room, which was in one of the octagon towers, looked
out on the only barren spot in view--a storm-beaten grove of cedars that
stood, ragged and bristling with dead limbs, on the beach.

Spite of herself, Elizabeth was chilled. She loved the morning sunshine
like a worshiper, and felt as if all the grandeur which surrounded her
was shutting it out from her own portion of this new home.

"Did Mr. Mellen arrange these rooms?" she asked in a faltering voice.
"Was it his taste?"

"Dear me, not at all," answered Elsie. "He exhausted himself in fitting
up my snuggery. The rest was left to me. I had _carte blanche_, you
know, as to money; and it was splendid fun going about and ordering
things. Don't you remember how much I used to be away from school?"

Elizabeth smiled, and made an effort to appear thankful and pleased.

"See what close neighbors we are," said Elsie, lifting a curtain that
seemed to drape a window, but revealing a door which she pushed open.

Elizabeth stepped forward, and in contrast with the rich gloom of her
own chamber, saw a suite of the brightest, sunniest rooms, that ever a
capricious beauty inhabited.

The dressing-room which she entered, was hung with bright, cerulean
blue, overrun with what seemed to be a delicate pattern of point-lace.
The carpet was thick, soft, and almost as white as ermine, with a
tangled vine of golden water-lilies and broad, green leaves running over
it, as if the water they grew in had been crusted with snow, and the
blossoms, soft, fresh, and bright, frozen upon the surface. The couch,
easy-chair, and general furniture, were of polished satin-wood,
cushioned with delicate azure silk shot and starred with silver. A
luxurious number of silken cushions lay upon the couch, chairs, and even
on the floor; for two or three were heaped against the pedestal, on
which a basket of flowers stood, and upon them lay a guitar, with its
broad, pink ribbon hanging loose. Every table was loaded with some
exquisitely feminine object of use or beauty, till the very profusion
was oppressive, light and graceful as every thing was.

Two of the windows were open, and their lace curtains held back, one by
a marble Hebe that mingled her cold stone flowers with the lace; the
other by a Bacchante, whose garland of snow-white grapes was seen dimly,
through the transparent folds it gathered away from the glass.

Through these open windows came glimpses of the flower-garden, green
slopes on the lawn, and farther off the wind swept up perfumes from a
distant orchard, and sifted it almost imperceptibly through the delicate
network of the curtains. Back of this boudoir was a bed-chamber, and
beyond that a dressing-room. Elizabeth could see through the open door a
bed with hangings of blue and white, with all the objects of luxury
which could please the taste of a pampered and fanciful girl.

"Grantley chose these rooms for me long ago, before he went to Europe,"
said Elsie, looking around with quiet complacency. "He would not hear of
my giving them up; besides, I knew you would like something a little
darker and more stately," she said. "Are you pleased with the house,
Bessie?"

"Very, very much. I did not expect any thing so magnificent," she
answered. "It overpowers me."

"I had not seen it for years," said Elsie, "till I came down with Grant
to decide about the new furniture. Now you must be happy here. You ought
to be! Just contrast this place with that old barn of a school; it makes
one shudder to think of it! You must be happy, Bessie, for I hate
discontented people."

"I trust so, dear; I believe so; we shall all be happy."

"Oh, you can't help it," pursued Elsie; "Grant is always a darling! But
you must love and pet me, you know, just as he does."

"You exacting little thing!" said Elizabeth, lightly.

"Yes, but you must," she urged; "you never would have had all this but
for me."

"No," murmured Elizabeth; "I should never have known Grantley but for
you."

"I told him that day, you know, just what I had set my heart on,"
pursued Elsie, shaking her curls about, and chattering in her careless,
graceful way. "I said I loved you like a sister, and I should die if I
was separated from you. That settled it."

Elizabeth had seated herself in a low chair, with her back towards the
window; she looked up quickly as Elsie paused.

"Settled it?" she repeated.

"Yes, exactly!"

Elsie flung herself on the carpet at her sister's feet, and caught one
of her hands, playing with the wedding ring so lately put on that
delicate finger, in her caressing fashion.

"How do you mean?" asked Elizabeth, quietly, though there was a sudden
change in her face which might have struck Elsie could she have seen it.
"Settled it; how do you mean?"

"Why he never had refused me anything in all his life," said Elsie; "it
was not likely he would begin so late! Nobody ever does refuse me
anything; now, remember that, Bess."

"Yes, dear! So you told Grantley you were very fond of me--"

"And that I wanted him to marry you--of course I did."

It was only Elsie's childish nonsense; Elizabeth felt how foolish it was
to heed it, and yet she could not repress a desire to question further.

"That was long after he came home, Elsie?"

"Yes; but I had written him all sorts of things about you; and you
remember when he came to the school to visit me, how I made you go down
without telling you who was there."

"Yes--I remember."

"He praised you very highly, and I told him what a dear you were; and
how sad it was for you to have lost all your fortune and be obliged to
teach."

The color slightly deepened on Elizabeth's cheek; was it possible that
in the beginning Grantley Mellen had been interested in her from a
feeling of pity and commiseration?

Her engagement had been a brief one; during it, the days had passed in a
constant whirl of excitement and happiness, and she had found little
time to question or reflect: up to the last hour there had been no
shadow on her enjoyment--she had resolutely swept aside everything but
her deep happiness.

But it was strange that in the very first flush of her married life this
conversation with Elsie should come up. She knew it was only the girl's
heedlessness and pretty egotism that made her talk in this really cruel
fashion, she was sure of that; still her nature was too proud and
self-reliant, for the idea that Mellen had been first attracted towards
her from sympathy at her lonely condition, to be at all pleasant.

But Elsie was going on with her careless revelations, playing with the
rings which Mellen had put one after another on those delicate fingers
during their engagement, making each one precious with kisses and loving
words.

"So, when I saw how sorry he was for you, I knew that I should have my
own way. I longed to see this dear old house open once more; it had been
given up to the servants ever since he hurried off to Europe; and I
wanted you for my companion always, you darling."

"It was fortunate for your wishes that Grantley's heart inclined in the
direction you had marked out," said Elizabeth.

"Oh," exclaimed Elsie with hasty recklessness, and her usual want of
thought, "Grant had no heart to give anybody; all his love was centred
on me; after the experience he had years ago, I don't suppose he could
ever love any woman again--he is just that odd sort of character."

Elizabeth gave no sign of the blow which struck her this time cruelly on
the heart; she drew her hand away from Elsie, lest its sudden coldness
should rouse some suspicion of the truth in the girl's mind, and asked
in a singularly quiet voice--

"What experience, Elsie?"

"Oh, I didn't mean to say that," she replied; "I am always letting
things out by mistake; Grant would be really angry with me; don't ever
mention it to him."

"I will not; but what experience has he had that can prevent a husband's
giving his heart even to his own wife?"

"Dear me, I oughtn't to tell you; but you'd surely find it out sometime;
only promise me not to open your lips."

"I promise," replied Elizabeth, a cold, gray shadow settling over her
face, out of which all the bloom had faded.

"He had a friend, a cousin you know, that our rich old uncle had partly
adopted, whom he was very, very fond of," pursued Elsie, "and he was
engaged to be married into the bargain. This man treated him
dreadfully--ran off with the girl Grant loved, and cheated him out of a
great deal of money--money that he could not afford to lose, for he was
not rich then. Grant was nearly mad. I was a little thing, but I
remember it perfectly. When his uncle died he sent me to school, and
started to Europe; he has been there all these four long years; but his
cousin was punished; his uncle gave everything to Grant."

And of all this grief, this disappointment, he had never told her one
word. Elsie spoke the truth--he had married her that his sister might
have a companion, and his house a mistress.

A prouder woman than Elizabeth Mellen never existed; but she sat
motionless and gave no sign, while her brief dream of happiness fell
crushed and broken at her feet under this revelation.

"There," cried Elsie, "that's all, so don't ever think about the thing
again. What a fortunate creature you are! how happy we shall be, shan't
we, dear?"

She attempted to throw her arms about Elizabeth in her demonstrative
way, but the woman rose quickly, and avoided the caresses which would
have stifled her.

"It is time to dress," she said; "I am going to my room."

She passed into her chamber with that dreary chill at heart, which, it
seemed to her, would never leave it again! How could she endure that
fearful pang of humiliation and self-abasement that wrung her soul, and
would grow stronger with every proof of kindness that her husband could
give?

No love--no heart to give her under all his goodness and attention. She
kept repeating such words to herself--they would never cease to ring in
her ears--there could be no pleasure so entrancing that they would not
mar it by their whispers--no grief so deep that they would not torture
her with the recollection that she was powerless to comfort or aid the
man who had made her his wife.

But she must bear it all in silence; hers was one of those deep,
reticent natures which could resolve on a painful thing and carry out
her determination to the very end. She would weary him with no sign of
affection.

The playful exactions of a young wife, which are so pleasant to a loving
husband, must be carefully avoided. He must be allowed to endure her
without revolt--not finding her much in his way.

That was the first thought upon which she settled, even while this
earliest whirl of pain and tremble made her head dizzy and her heart
sick.

She heard Elsie's voice ringing out in a gay song: she went mechanically
on with her dressing, listening to that merry song in the midst of her
bewildering thoughts with a dreary feeling of desolation.

If she could have sat down in the midst of her new life, and died
without further trouble or pain--that became her one thought! If that
man who was her husband, and his sister could enter the room and find
her dead, they might feel regret for a time, but very soon even her
memory would pass away from that old house, and out of their hearts,
where she had so shallow a resting-place, and in the grave she might
find quiet.

Elsie came dancing in, and exclaimed--

"Oh, you are dressed! I hear Grant on the stairs. May I open the door?"

Elizabeth was seemingly quiet, but the change in her manner would have
been apparent to any one less self-engrossed than Elsie.

"Open it," she answered; "I am ready."

Grantley Mellen entered the room, and led them both away down stairs;
but he felt the sudden tremor in his young wife's hand, the sort of
shrinking from his side, and his suspicious mind caught fire instantly.
He noted every change in her face, every sad inflexion in her voice, and
at once there came back to him the conversation he had held with Mrs.
Harrington.

Could Elizabeth have known this man? Was there a secret in her past of
which he was ignorant? The bare idea made his head reel; though he might
banish it from his mind for a season, the slightest recurrence would
bring it back to torture him with inexplicable fear and dread.

So their new life began with this shadow upon it--a shadow imperceptible
to all lookers on, but lying cold and dim on their hearts nevertheless,
slowly to gather substance day by day till it should become a chill,
heavy mist, through which their two souls could not distinguish each
other.

CHAPTER IX.

COUSIN TOM VISITS PINEY COVE.

Grantley Mellen was still a young man, only thirty-three, though the
natural gravity of his character, increased by certain events in his
life, made him appear somewhat older.

His father had died many years before, and as Elsie had told his bride,
an uncle had left him in the possession of a fine property, which had
increased in value, till he was now a very wealthy man.

His mother died when Elsie was a girl of about fourteen, and on her
death-bed Grantley Mellen had promised to act the part of parent as well
as brother to the young girl. He had never once wavered in his trust,
and the love and tenderness he felt for her were beautiful and touching
to witness.

He was never suspicious, never severe with her, though these were the
worst failings of his character. Elsie was to be treated as a child; be
petted, and indulged, and allowed to live in the sunshine, whatever else
might befall himself or others.

Although her health was good, she had always been rather delicate in
appearance, and that made him more careful of her. He was haunted with
the fear that she was to fade under their family scourge, consumption,
though in reality she was one of those frail looking creatures who are
all nerves--nerves, too, elastic as tempered steel; and who always
outlive the people who have watched them so carefully.

It was true Grantley Mellen had met with a humiliating disappointment in
his early youth, which had embittered all his after years, and increased
the natural jealousy of a reticent disposition almost to a monomania.
These were the facts of his history:

He had a college friend of his own age, a cousin twice removed, whom
from boyhood he had loved with all the strength and passion which made
the undercurrent of his grave, reserved character. He had helped this
young man in every way--befriended him in college, been to him what few
brothers ever are.

The time came when Mellen found the realization of those dreams which
fill every youthful soul: he loved, with all the fire and intensity of a
first passion. His cousin was made the confidant of this love; he shared
Mellen's every thought, and seemed heartily to sympathize with his
feelings.

It is an old story, so I need not dwell upon it. Both friend and
betrothed wife proved false. There came a day when Grantley Mellen found
himself alone with a terrible misery, with no faith left, no trust in
humanity to give a ray of light in the darkness of his betrayal.

The friend whom he had trusted eloped with his affianced bride, and
cheated him out of a large sum of money. With that sudden treachery and
bitter grief, Mellen's youth ended.

He left Elsie at school and went away to Europe, wandering about for
years, and growing more saddened and misanthropic all the while.

He returned at last. Elsie was eighteen then. She had a school-friend,
to whom she had been greatly attached; a girl older than herself, and so
different in every respect, that it was a wonder Elsie's volatile
character had been attracted to her, or that her liking had been
reciprocated.

This was the state of events when Mellen returned from Europe. Elsie's
account of her friend interested him in the unfortunate girl. When he
made her acquaintance that sympathy deepened into a feeling which he had
never thought to have for any woman again,--he loved her, and she was
now his wife.

It was a restless, craving affection, which threatened great trouble
both to himself and its object. He had no cause for jealousy, but his
suspicious mind was always on the alert--he was jealous even of her
friends, her favorite studies--he wanted every look and thought his own,
yet he was too proud to betray these feelings.

Elizabeth's character was not one easy to understand, nor shall I enter
into its details here. The progress of my story must show her as she
really was, and leave you to judge for yourself concerning it, and the
effect it had upon her life.

She was singularly reticent and reserved, but impetuous and warm-hearted
beyond any thing that the man who loved her dreamed of. He saw her gay,
brilliant, fond of society, yet apparently content with the quiet life
he was determined to lead. Still there was something wanting. He felt in
the depths of his heart that he was not master of her whole being. That
sometimes his very kisses seemed frozen on her lips, and she turned from
his protestations of love with sad smiles, that seemed mocking him. And
she, alas, the woman who believes herself unloved by her husband, is
always in danger--always unhappy.

The first weeks of this strange honeymoon had passed, and Tom Fuller was
able to gratify the chief desire of his honest soul, and rush down to
the island to bewilder himself more hopelessly in the spell of Elsie's
fascinations, like a great foolish moth whirling about a dazzling light.

She had never scrupled to laugh at him and his devotion, even to
Elizabeth herself; but just now she was not sorry to see him. The
stillness of the house and the seclusion of those slow love weeks, was
not at all in unison with her taste, and she was already regretting that
Mellen had not allowed her to accept Mrs. Harrington's invitation to
remain with her during the first period of that dreary honeymoon.

Mellen and Elsie were standing on the porch when Fuller drove up to the
house, and dashed in upon them with such an outpouring of confusion and
delight that it might have softened the most obdurate heart.

"I couldn't stop away another day," he cried, wringing Mellen's hand
till it ached for half an hour after.

"We are very glad to see you," replied Mellen; "very glad."

"I am much obliged, I'm sure," exclaimed Tom, "and you're just a trump,
that's the truth."

"I suppose that's the reason you keep him so carefully in your hand,"
interposed Elsie, laughing.

Tom was instantly covered with confusion, and let Mellen's hand drop. He
knew there was a joke somewhere, but for the life of him he could not
see where it come in.

"You are beginning to laugh at me before you have even said 'How do you
do?'" cried he, ruefully.

"And am I not to laugh at you, if I please?" exclaimed Elsie. "Shake
hands, you cross-grained old thing, and don't begin to quarrel the
moment we meet."

Tom blushed like a girl while he bent over the little hand she laid in
his, holding it carefully, and looking down on it with a sort of
delighted wonder, as if it had been some rare rose-tinted shell that his
fingers might break at the slightest touch.

But Mellen was not looking at them; he stood there wondering if this man
could have been of any consequence in Elizabeth's past. Could she have
loved him, and been prevented from marrying him in some way? No, it was
impossible; he felt, he knew that it was so; but the idea would come
into his mind nevertheless.

"When you have done examining my hand, Mr. Tom Fuller, please give it
back," said Elsie. "It don't amount to much, but, as the Scotchwoman
observed of her clergyman's head, 'it's some good to the owner.'"

Tom dropped the little hand as if the pink fingers had burned his palm.

"I'm always the awkwardest fellow alive!" cried he, dismally. "And how
is Bessie, dear girl?"

Mellen roused himself.

"I will call her," he said; "she is quite well, and will be delighted to
see you."

He went into the house in search of his wife, and Elsie began to tease
her unfortunate victim, a pastime of which she never wearied. It seemed
to her the funniest thing in the world to make that great creature blush
and stammer, to lead him on to the perpetration of absurd things, to
laugh at him, to bewilder his honest head; for any pain he might suffer,
she considered it no more than she did the sorrows of a Fejee Islander,
or the chirp of her canary.

"Have you come down here prepared to be agreeable?" she asked.
"Remember, I expect you to devote yourself completely to my service--to
wait on me like the most devoted of knights."

"I'd stand on my head if you asked it," answered Tom, impetuously.

"How deliciously odd you would look!" cried Elsie; "you shall try it
some day; I only hope it won't leave you with a brain fever, but then it
couldn't, Tom,--where is the capital for such a disease to come from?"

"You may tease me as much as you like," said Tom, "if you'll only say
you are glad to see me."

"Oh, you will be invaluable," replied Elsie; "I was getting bored with
watching other people's love-making. Can you row a boat and teach me to
play billiards, and be generally nice and useful?"

"Just try me, that's all!" said Tom.

"Don't be afraid. I shall put you to every possible use; you may be
quite certain that your position will not be a sinecure."

"Then you'll make me the happiest fellow alive!"

"You don't know what you are saying; you don't know what your words
mean," cried Elsie, with one of her bewildering glances.

"Indeed I do! Oh, Miss Elsie, if you only could--"

Elsie interrupted him, as her sister came out on the portico, followed
by Mellen. "There is Bessie!"

Elizabeth was rejoiced to see honest Tom; he was the only relative she
possessed, and she loved him like a sister. She was thoroughly
acquainted with his character, and honored him for the sterling goodness
concealed by eccentricities of manner which made him so open to laughter
and misconception.

"I'm so glad to see you!" cried Tom, shaking hands all round again, and
growing redder and redder, to Elsie's intense delight. "I've been like a
fish out of water since you all came away; I just begin to feel like
myself again. Bessie, old girl, are you glad to see me?"

"We shall always be glad to see you, Tom," Elizabeth said, glancing at
her husband.

"Indeed we shall," he said; "you will always find a room at your
service, and a sincere welcome."

No, Elizabeth never could have cared for him--the idea was simply
absurd--he would never think of it again, never!

"I can't tell you how much obliged I am," said Tom, twisting about as if
his joints were out of order, and he was trying to set them straight.

"Your chamber is ready," said Elizabeth; "we expected you to-day."

"He doesn't need to go up now," interposed Elsie; "that checked coat is
bewitching, and he is going to take me out to row. Come along, Don
Quixote--come this instant!"

Elsie ran off, and he followed, obedient as a great Newfoundland dog.

Elizabeth looked after them a little sadly, and smothered a sigh of
anxiety. She saw what Elsie was so heedlessly doing, and knew Tom well
enough to understand how acute his sufferings would be once roused from
his entrancing dream.

So things went on during the whole time of his stay, and there was no
help for it. Elsie made him a perfect slave, and Tom no more thought of
disputing her wildest caprice, than if he had been some untutored fawn,
made captive to the spells of a Dryad.

Elsie saw plainly enough that he loved her, but she regarded that part
of the affair very lightly. She was accustomed to being loved and
petted--it was her right. The idea that it could be cruel or
unprincipled to encourage this young fellow as she did, never entered
her mind. Indeed, if the misery she was bringing upon him had been
pointed out to her, she would only have laughed at it as a capital jest,
a source of infinite amusement.

When Tom Fuller went back to town, Elsie was taken with a strong desire
to visit dear Mrs. Harrington. Tom was a sort of cousin, now, and would
make a capital escort. Besides, she was sure Grantley and Elizabeth
would be much happier alone. Perhaps Mellen thought so too. At any rate,
he made no objections, and Elsie went.

The husband and wife were alone. The days were so pleasant--those long,
golden, June days!--they might have been so happy in the solitude of
that beautiful spot, but for the chasm which lay between the souls of
these married people, scarcely perceptible as yet, but widening every
hour!

Elizabeth watched her husband incessantly. She tortured every evidence
of affection into a forced kindness, an attempt to hide his want of
love; he was trying to make all the atonement in his power, to give her
everything that could make life pleasant, except the place in his heart
which was her right. How her soul revolted against the thought!

She was mortally hurt and grieved that he could have deceived her. If he
had only spoken the truth, only left her to decide whether she could be
content to accept an outer place in his regard, to make his home happy,
to guard and cherish his sister--if he had only left this decision in
her hands, the matter would have worn a different aspect.

But that he should have been silent--that even now he should guard his
secret, practising this daily deception, and meaning to let it lie
between them all through life--was a never-ceasing thorn in her heart.

Mellen, in turn, was watching her; watching her with that morbid
suspicion which made the groundwork of his character. Observant of the
change in her manner, and trying always to account for it, but only
making himself restless and anxious to no purpose.

He had loved her, he did love her, and the only reason she was, as he
supposed, ignorant of the humiliating story of his past, was because he
had put it resolutely out of his mind; and it hurt his pride too much to
go over the detail of the deceit and treachery from which he had
suffered, even in his own thoughts.

Elsie's absence was prolonged to a fortnight, and when she returned,
Mrs. Harrington and Tom Fuller came back with her.

The girl was in more joyous spirits than ever; more bewitching and
beautiful, if possible; and Elizabeth could see plainly that Mellen's
love for her fell little short of absolute idolatry.

She was not jealous. If Elsie had been her own sister, she could not
have become more attached to her than she had grown during their year of
companionship. But it was very hard to see of what love her husband was
capable, and to remember that no part of it could be won for her; that
between her soul and his, rose the image of that false woman, whose
treachery had steeled his heart against such love as she thirsted for.

Tom Fuller was a more hopeless lunatic than ever; but Elsie had begun to
grow impatient of his devotion. She often treated him cruelly now. The
poor fellow bore it all with patience, and still clung to his beautiful
dream, unable to realize that it was a baseless delusion, which must
pass away with the summer that had warmed it to its prime.

The weeks passed on with all-seeming pleasantness, and in many respects
they were pleasant to both husband and wife, though the secret thoughts
in the minds of both, kept them aloof from the perfect rest and
happiness to which they had looked forward during that brief courtship.

But a sudden change and a great break were nearing their lives, and
unexpectedly enough they came.

Mellen owned a large mining property in California, an immense fortune
in itself, and ever since his return from Europe, he had been much
occupied with a lawsuit that had sprung up concerning the title. He had
sent out his man of business, but the case did not go on satisfactorily,
and letters came which made his presence there appear absolutely
imperative.

He could not take his wife and sister; the discomforts to which they
would be exposed, the dreadful fears where Elsie was concerned, from her
apparent delicacy, entirely prevented that idea.

He informed them that he might be obliged to go; he had written other
letters by the steamer; the answer he might receive would decide.

Elizabeth pleaded to go with him, but Elsie frankly owned that she could
not even think of a sea voyage without deathly horror. Mellen pointed
out to his wife the necessity there was that she should remain with
Elsie, and she submitted in silence.

"He married me to take care of her," she thought; "I will do my duty--I
will stay. Perhaps this absence will change him: but no, I am mad to
hope it. Elsie says he never changes. That woman's memory must always
lie between his heart and mine." So she turned to her dull weary path of
duty, and gave no sign.

CHAPTER X.

SHADOWS OF A SEPARATION.

October comes, and scarcely four months after his marriage, Mellen was
compelled to leave his wife and home, it might be for a year. Elizabeth
grew white and cold when this certainty was forced upon her, yet she
made no protestation, and uttered nothing like regret or complaint.
Grantley was chilled through and through the heart by this. He had been
so lonely, had longed for the warmth and happiness of love with such
intense yearnings, that her calm stillness wounded him terribly. Was she
of marble? Would nothing kindle affection in that proud heart? Had he
married a beautiful statue?

No wonder Elizabeth was proudly cold. She did not believe in the
necessity of this journey. His indifference had grown into dislike, she
thought, and, yielding to inevitable repulsion, he was going away to
avoid her.

But Elsie was loud in her expressions of grief. She had floods of tears
to give--protestations and caresses without end. Her sweet voice was
constantly reproaching Elizabeth for want of feeling. She was forever
hovering about her brother in atonement, as she said, for his wife's
coldness. But the roses on her cheek were always fresh, and her blue
eyes never lost a gleam of their brightness, while Elizabeth grew thin
and white beneath the withering ache of a famished heart.

"Oh, the desert of these months! Oh, my God, my God, I shall perish
without him! Alone here--all alone with this child--what will become of
me! How shall I endure, how resist this wild clamor of the heart?"

Elizabeth had flung herself upon the couch in her own room, her face was
buried in the purple cushion, and she strove to smother the words, which
sprang out of a terrible pain which had no business in that young heart.
As she lay, convulsed and sobbing, on the couch, the door opened, and
her husband came into the room. The thick carpet smothered his
footsteps, and he stood by the couch before she knew it--stood there a
moment, then fell upon his knees, and softly wound his arm around her.

"Elizabeth, my wife."

She started up with a cry; her face was wet with tears; her large grey
eyes wild with sorrow. He lifted her to his bosom, put back the thick
waves of hair that had fallen over her face, and kissed her forehead and
her lips with gentle violence.

The pride went out from her heart as she felt these passionate kisses
rained on her face. She clung to him, trembling from the new joy that
possessed her.

"Is it for me that you are weeping, sweet wife? are you sorry to part
with me?"

"Oh, yes, yes! you are my life, my salvation."

"Ah, how hard you make it for me to go!"

"And you must? you must?"

"It is inevitable; my duty to others demands it; but it shall not be for
long."

The door of Elsie's boudoir was opened, the curtains held back, and the
smiling young creature looked in. Elizabeth saw her, struggled out of
her husband's arms, and sat with the wet eyelashes sweeping her cheek,
which was hot with blushes.

"Oh, ho! one too many, am I?" she cried, entering without ceremony.
"Why, sister Bessie, I haven't seen you blush so since that day when
Mrs. Harrington would insist on it that you recognised a certain
person."

Elizabeth was so confused by the sudden rush of joy sweeping through her
whole being, that she did not remark this speech; but her husband did,
and withdrew his arm gently from her support. She looked up, and saw
that he was changed within the minute.

"I'm glad to find you looking so amiable," said Elsie, going up to the
glass, and threading her curls out into fluffy and beautiful confusion;
"for I've thought of something that would make this place delightful,
just as you are going away, Grant. Besides," she added, looking down and
coloring a little, "people will get such ideas into their heads, and say
such things. It is quite necessary to let them see how very happy you
and Bessie are together, or they never will believe that you are not
running away from her."

"What!" demanded Mellen almost sternly,--"What are you saying, Elsie?"

"Oh, it's dreadful; I've been crying about it half the night; but a
splendid ball, or something of that sort, will put everything on velvet.
Nothing like champagne and the _et ceteras_ to stop people's mouths."

"A ball! Why, Elsie, what is your mind running on?"

"The idea is dreadful, I know; and just as you are leaving us, when
every moment is precious as a grain of gold. But it's really necessary.
If you go off without seeing people, Grant, they will be sure to say
that you and Bessie have quarreled, and all sorts of horrid things about
her being melancholy, and you--well it's no use repeating these
speeches, but the ball we must have. Bessie shall entertain them like a
princess; as for poor little me, I'm good for nothing but dancing."

She gave a waltzing step or two, and whirled herself before the mirror
again.

"Well, who shall we invite?" she said, gazing at the pretty image that
smiled back her admiration. "I made out a list this morning in my room;
shall I bring it?"

She ran into her room and came out again with a handful of engraved
cards, some of them already filled in.

"I knew, of course, that the ball was to be, so had the cards struck
off. Tom Fuller brought them down. Just add what names you please,
Bessie, and we will leave the rest to Mrs. Harrington."

"Why, Elsie!" began Mrs. Mellen.

"Well, what is it?"

"How can you think of--"

"Oh, it's settled, so don't discuss it. What! looking cross? Why, Grant
dear, I--I--did not think you would be offended."

"But I am, Elsie."

She dropped into a chair, pressed both hands to her side, and shrunk
away into a grieved, feeble little thing, that had been crushed by a
single blow.

"Why, Elsie!"

Her eyes filled with tears, and she covered them with both hands.

"I am not angry, child, only surprised."

"But you will be--you will be very angry when I tell you that some of
the invitations are sent out. Oh, I wish I were dead!"

Her lips quivered like those of a grieved and half-frightened child. Her
cheeks were wet, and their color had left them.

"Oh, Grantley, Grantley, don't--don't look at me in that way. Dear
Bessie, tell him how sorry I am."

Mellen was walking the floor in considerable agitation. He had hoped for
a little peace in his own home--a few days of tranquil confidence with
his wife. Now everything was broken in upon. There would be nothing but
confusion up to the very hour of his starting.

Elsie watched him furtively, and with sidelong glances. She knew how
terrible his anger was when once aroused.

"Oh, if my poor mother had lived."

"Peace, Elsie! I will not have that sacred name dragged into an affair
like this. Have your way, but remember it is the last time that you must
venture on the prerogatives of my wife."

Elsie left the room really frightened, and sobbing piteously, but the
moment she found herself in her boudoir a smile broke through her tears,
and she laughed out.

"Well, I don't care, we shall have the ball. I wonder if Bessie put him
up to that. Hateful thing, he never scolded me so before. Her
prerogatives, indeed."

As for Grantley Mellen, this untoward intrusion had broken up the happy
moment which might have given him an insight into all that his wife felt
and suffered. The interview which had promised such gentle confidence
only ended in mutual irritation.

CHAPTER XI.

THE BALL.

The evening of the ball arrived; the house was crowded, and for the
scores it was impossible to accommodate, Mellen had made arrangements in
his usual lavish way, for a conveyance back and forth in a steamer
chartered for the occasion.

The old house was a beautiful sight that evening. The long suite of
drawing-rooms were flung open, and in the far distance a noble
conservatory, half greenness, half crystal, terminated the view like
some South Sea island flooded with moonlight.

It was not alone that these noble rooms were shaded with richly-tinted
draperies, and filled with costly furniture; any wealthy man's house may
offer those things; but Mellen had thrown his fine individual taste into
the adornments of his home. Antique and modern statues gleamed out of
the general luxuriousness. Pictures that made your breath come
unsteadily broke up the walls, and groups of bronze gave you surprises
at every turn. The works of art, sometimes arrayed in one long dreary
gallery, were here scattered in nooks and corners, completing each room
with their beauty.

And all this was kindled up into one brilliant whole. There was no
crowding in those rooms. Each rare object had its peculiar light and
appropriate space. A master mind had arranged every thing.

In these almost palatial saloons Elizabeth stood by her husband,
receiving their guests as they came in.

Elsie was in brilliant spirits that night, and her buoyant gayety formed
a singular contrast with the quiet repose of Elizabeth.

Tom Fuller followed the pretty elf about everywhere in spite of her
cruel rebuffs, for he was sadly in her way that night; and when she
refused to dance with him, peremptorily ordering him away to entertain
dowagers, or perform any similar heavy work, he would take the post she
assigned him, and watch her with fascinated eyes as she floated down the
dance or practised her wiles on every man who approached, just as she
had once thought it worth while to entrance him.

On that evening Tom Fuller woke to a consciousness of the truth; he
understood the confusion and bewilderment which had been in his mind for
weeks past; he loved this bright young creature with the whole force of
his rugged nature, and began dimly to comprehend that she cared no more
for him or his sufferings than if his heart had been a football or
shuttlecock.

He captured Elizabeth, and there, in the midst of the lights and gayety,
told her of his wrongs, with such energy that it required her constant
effort to prevent him from attracting general attention.

"I love her," he burst out, "I do love her! She might run my heart
through with a rusty bayonet, if she would only care for me."

The beginning was not at all coherent, but Elizabeth perfectly
understood what he meant. Several times during the past weeks she had
attempted to open his eyes to the truth; but he would neither see nor
hear, and had insisted upon rushing on to his fate like a great
blundering bluebottle into a spider's web.

"Do you think there's any hope, Bessie, do you? I ain't handsome, and I
ain't disgustingly rich; but I'll give her all my heart! I'll work for
her, die for her; I'd lay my own soul down for her to walk over, only to
keep her little feet dry, upon my honor I would."

Elizabeth drew him into a window recess, and tried to soothe his
agitation.

"Poor old Tom!" she whispered; "poor dear old Tom!"

"I know what that means," he said, choking desperately; "you don't think
there is any hope. You know there is not!"

"I have tried to talk to you, Tom, but you wouldn't listen--"

"Yes, I know, I know! It's my own fault--I'll--I'll turn up jolly in a
little while--it's only the f-first that's hard!"

And Tom blew and whistled in his efforts to keep his composure, in a way
that was irresistibly ludicrous. In the midst of his distress the poor
fellow could not help being comical. Even in the suffering which was so
terribly real to him he made Elizabeth smile.

"I'm a great fool!" he exclaimed. "Just pitch in and abuse me like
smoke, Bessie, I think it would do me good."

"Only wait till to-morrow," she said, "I will talk with you then--we
shall be overheard now."

"Oh, I can't help it if the whole world hears," he groaned; "I can't
wait! The way she's going on with those dashing young fellows drives me
mad! Why couldn't I have been a dashing fellow too, instead of such a
great live-oak hulk! I can't stir without stumbling over somebody, and