He was turning away--that action deprived her of all self-control--she
caught his arm, crying:

"Don't touch that tree--don't go near it."

He stopped and looked at her in blank amazement; she saw the danger in
which her impetuosity had placed her--dropped his arm and tried to
appear composed again.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "The tree is not a human being
that I am going to assassinate."

She forced herself to laugh; even then the woman's self-mastery was
something astounding.

"I was a little theatrical," she said; "but I can't bear to have the old
tree touched."

"Why, marm, it'll die if it ain't," put in Jarvis, who considered that
he had been silent quite long enough.

"You don't know anything about the matter!" cried Elizabeth, sharply.

The old man drew himself up, and looked so indignant that she felt sure
he would oppose her now with might and main.

"I mean," she added, "you don't know how I feel about it, I want the
poor thing left alone."

The old man relinquished his erect attitude and looked somewhat
mollified.

"If it's yer whim, marm, that's another thing, but I thought I'd lived
too long in this neighborhood for anybody to accuse me of not knowing a
thing when I pretended to, especially about trees."

"Oh, no, no," interrupted she; "I always knew that you were a universal
genius, a better gardener than half the professed ones."

"Wal, I don't know about that," said Jarvis, his face beaming all over
with satisfaction, for the old man was peculiarly susceptible to
flattery.

"Then you won't touch the tree?" cried Elizabeth, turning again towards
her husband.

Mr. Mellen had been watching her while she talked; he was growing more
and more angry now, thinking that she only wished to interfere
unwarrantably with his plans.

"You will leave the tree till spring?" she continued.

"I shall have the earth loosened," he answered, "I don't choose to
sacrifice the tree to a mere caprice."

"It is not a caprice," she exclaimed, forgetting herself once more. "I
ask you not to touch it--I beg you not to touch it!"

"Might I ask the reason of your extraordinary conduct?" he began; then
remembering old Benson's presence, checked himself quickly.

"I think it the best thing for the tree," he added.

"But Jones did not think so, and he ought to know."

"I fancy he said that to avoid the work."

"No, no! In the spring you can do it--not now--not now."

"By spring it will be too late; the earth must be dug away now."

She clasped her hands under her shawl, resolved to make one effort
more--a respite must be found--for a day, at least.

She looked out toward the tree--the lower part of it was hidden, where
they stood, by a thicket of shrubs and bushes, but the stately top
towered up dark and solemn, waving in the morning breeze and seeming to
whisper an omen of dread to her half maddened senses.

"Not to-day," she exclaimed; "at least do not touch it to-day."

His suspicious mind, so wildly on the alert since the strange events of
the past week, was now fully aroused by the singular earnestness and
trouble of her manner.

There was another secret! It was no desire to contradict him which
actuated her--there was something at the bottom which he could not
understand--a new phase of the mystery with which he had felt himself
surrounded from the first moment of his arrival, and which had gathered
and darkened so rapidly during the past week.

"Leave the tree at least to-day," pleaded Elizabeth.

"I can't send for Jarvis and put him off without a reason," he said; "he
has plenty of work on his hands."

"It can't make no difference, Miss Mellen," the old man joined in;
"'tain't no use to put it off--anyhow I couldn't come again till the
last of the week."

"Let it go till then," she said, eagerly; and new life stole over her
face at the bare hope of obtaining that delay.

"This is sheer folly," said her husband. "Go in--go in. You will catch
cold--the grass is damp. Come, Jarvis, get your spade."

"It won't hurt the tree a spec, Miss Mellen," said he; "don't feel
oneasy about it--I'll be as tender of it as if it was a baby."

He moved away as he spoke, and left the husband and wife together.
Elizabeth was pale even through her artificial bloom--no matter what he
thought, she must obtain some delay.

"Grantley," she cried, "don't touch the tree--I ask it as a favor--you
will not refuse--let it stand as it is."

He gave one look at her face and turned his head away to hide the
expression of anger and doubt which crept over his own.

"Can you give any reason?"

"No, no! It is one of my fancies--only gratify it--let the tree alone
for a day or two at least."

Fierce passion shook Mellen like a sudden tempest. His first impulse was
to drag her into the house and force from her lips the secret and the
mystery which surrounded her, but he controlled the impulse and
answered:

"As you please. I will leave it for the present."

With this curt concession Mellen walked away, and Elizabeth went back
into the house. She paused to rest a few moments in the library; her
limbs were shaking so violently that they refused to support her. She
was roused by the sound of her husband's voice in conversation with old
Benson--he might come in and find her there.

She started up like a wounded animal that concentrates its dying
strength in one wild effort for escape--hurried from the room and up the
stairs into her own chamber.

Elsie was still lying on the sofa; she sprang up as Elizabeth entered.

"Will he leave it?" she cried. "Will he leave it?"

"Yes, he has promised."

Elizabeth sank in a chair, so broken down by agony that it might have
softened the heart of her deadliest enemy could he have seen her then.

"Saved again!" cried Elsie. "Don't despair, Bessie--it will all end
right."

"Saved!" repeated Elizabeth. "Have you thought what must be done before
I can breathe again?"

Elsie gave a cry and hid her face.

"Be still!" said Elizabeth. "I will do it--be still!"

"Don't let me know--don't tell me--I should die of fright!"

"Think of me, then," she returned. "In the night--alone with
that----what can I do?"

Elsie interrupted her with another cry and her old appealing wail.

"You are killing me! You are killing me!"

"Be still," repeated Elizabeth, in the same awful voice. "Be still!"

CHAPTER LIII.

CLORINDA'S GHOST STORY.

Mellen set old Benson about some other duties and went into the library.
While he stood at one of the windows, looking gloomily out on the autumn
landscape, he heard the voices of 'Dolf and his spinster inamorata in
the area below.

"What's marster gwine to have done to de tree?" Clo asked.

"He's afeared it's deceasin'," replied Dolf, pompously, "and he wishes
to perwent."

"Don't come none o' yer furrin lingo over me," said Clorinda, angrily.
"Can't yer say what he's gwine to do, widout any of dem dern outlandish
Spanish 'spressions."

"'Twarn't Spanish, lubly one," said 'Dolf, greatly delighted at the
effect his grandiloquent language had produced. "Sometimes I do 'dulge
in far away tongues jist from habit; its' trabeling so much, you know."

"Don't know nothin' about it, and don't want to," interrupted Clorinda.
"Ef yer can't answer a civil question as it outer be, yer needn't stay
round dis part of de house."

"Don't be ravagerous," returned Dolf. "Any question ob yours it is my
delight to answer, only propose it."

"I does, plainly enough. What's marster gwine to have done to dat ar ole
tree?"

"Hab de airth dug up," said Dolf, deeming it wiser to use a more simple
phraseology; "he's 'feared it's dying."

Mellen was about to order them away from that part of the house--the
veriest trifle irritated him now--when Clorinda's next words made him
pause.

"I wish he'd hev it dug up by the roots," she said; "I do 'lieve dat ar
tree is haunted."

"Haunted!" screamed Dolf, who possessed a large share of the
superstition of his race. "Now what does yer mean, Miss Clorindy?"

"Jes' what I ses," replied she sharply; "I ain't one ob de kind dat
tittervates up my words till dey haint got no sense left."

"But I never heerd of a haunted tree," said Dolf, gaining new courage as
he remembered that it was broad daylight. "Haunted houses I've heerd on
in plenty; but a tree----"

"Oh, mebby yer don't know eberything yet!" said Clo, viciously.

Clo had been rather short with her lover of late, having interrupted
several private flirtations of Victoria, with the faithless one.

"Do tell me what yer mean, Clorindy," pleaded Dolf, his eyes fairly
started out of his head with curiosity.

"Oh, mebby you'd better go to Vic," she retorted, "she's a heap cuter
dan what I be. I ain't coffee-colored, I'se only a nigger."

"Now, Miss Clorindy!" cried Dolf, understanding that this was an
occasion when flattery and soft words were absolutely necessary. "You
know I'se ales in for de genuine article."

"Don't know nothin' ob de sort," said Clo. "I kint flirty and flighty
about like some folks; but, anyhow, I ain't fool enough to put all my
wages on my back. I guess marster cud tell what I've got in de bank."

That allusion to her golden charms drove the youthful graces of Victoria
quite out of Dolf's head. He grew more tender and submissive at once.

"Yer's de pearl ob de creation!" he cried enthusiastically.

Mellen stamped his foot passionately, furious with their nonsense,
upbraiding himself that he could listen to the conversation of his own
servants, yet unable to move away without hearing the revelation which
Clorinda evidently had to make.

After a little more persuasive eloquence which began to restore
Clorinda's good-humor, Dolf said:

"But do tell me what yer means 'bout de tree?"

"No," said Clorinda, mysteriously; "it's one ob dem tings as is best not
talked 'bout. I don't run and tell all I sees and hears."

"Jis' confide in my buzzom," said Dolf, tenderly.

"Men is so duberous, 'specially dem as brags 'bout der mean white blood,
which comes out coppery any how," said Clorinda.

"Yer knows I'se de most faithful and constance ob my sect," cried Dolf.
"Yer may speak freely to me."

"I 'spose yer'd say de same to Vic."

"Neber, Miss Clorindy! What, dat silly, giggling girl--don't tink it!"

His persuasions met with their reward at last; he pleaded again:

"Jis' tell me what yer means 'bout de tree bein' haunted?"

She yielded to his flattery and her feminine desire to tell all that she
had seen or imagined about the old cedar.

"Mebby 'twas two months 'fore you came back," she said, in the tone of a
person trying to be exact in her recollection of events.

"What was?" cried Dolf, impatiently, "de hauntin'?"

"Ef I'm gwine to tell you my story I'll do it in my own way," said
Clorinda, majestically.

"In course, in course," returned Dolf. "I begs pardon for de 'ruption.
Jis' go on, sweetest Miss Clo'."

"I tells yer dar's been somethin' agoing on in dis house," pursued
Clorinda. "Dat ar bracelet losing was all of a piece wid what went
afore. Missus was awful mad at me for saying so, but I don't care. She's
queer--stuck up like. There's Miss Elsie, sweet allers as a young
kitten!"

"Yes, yes," Dolf said, ready to agree with anything in order to get at
the heart of Clorinda's mystery.

"Afore ever dat ring was lost I seed a man in de house in de dead ob de
night--a man and a woman!"

"Good gracious!" cried Dolf.

"I'd had de toothache, and ben down to de kitchen fire a smokin'
pennyryal, and awful sick it made me. I was gwine up de back stairs,
when I heard steps in de hall. I looked in and I seed a man and woman
plain. I had de candle in my hand. I screeched right out, and shut my
eyes, and let de candle fall. When I opened 'em again missus had come
out of her room, wid a shawl over her and a lamp in her hand.

"'What yer doin' dar?' says she.

"I up and telled her 'bout de man and woman, and she larfed in my face.

"'Whar be dey?' says she. 'Dar's nobody here but us.'

"'Twarn't no use to say nothin', she flew off into one o' her tantrums,
and scolded me like all possessed. I don't like her, anyhow, and dat's
all 'bout it!"

"But is dat all?" questioned Dolf, in a disappointed tone.

"No, it ain't all; jis' wait and don't go off de handle afore you knows
which end you've got hold on."

"But de tree, Clorindy," said Dolf; "tell me 'bout de tree."

"I'se comin' to dat," replied Clo, growing eager again. "I'd ben down to
see Dinah Jameson, at de cross roads; it was real late; we'd had a
prayer meetin' and I kinder forgot myself in de refreshin' season----"

"Yes," said Dolf, fearing she would go off in a long digression and lose
sight of the all-important topic, "dey is refreshin'; as preserves is to
de taste so is meetin's to de spirit--soothin', yer know."

"Jis' so," said Clorinda.

"Wal, yer was comin' home," suggested Dolf.

"Yes; two or tree on 'em came with me to de gate and dar dey left me. I
heeled it up de avenue jis' as hard as I could, but when I got near de
house I thort, suppose missus should see me, she's a pokin up at all
hours, she'd scold me like smoke. I jis' cut out ob de road to take de
path trough de thicket, and came in sight ob de ole cypress tree."

Clorinda broke off abruptly to recover her breath and to allow her
narrative to have its full effect upon her listener.

"Go on; oh, do go on!" cried Dolf.

Could the pair have seen the face leaning over the balcony, straining to
catch every word, they might almost have thought that one of the ghosts
they so dreaded had started up before them.

"I came in sight ob de cypress tree," recommenced Clo, working up her
story to a climax with great art.

"Yes, yes," said Dolf again. "In sight ob de tree----"

"I seed somethin' all in white a couchin' down dar, a throwin' up its
arms and moaning like. I jis' give one yell and danced away. When I got
to de house, what do you tink? dar was missus. Whar she come from I
don't know, and she give me goose again for screaming; but la! she was
white as a dead woman all de while."

"What could it all a ben?"

"I don't know more'n you. The next morning she sent for me, and she
telled me she'd hev to send me away ef I didn't quit dat habit of bein'
up so late and skeerin' de gals wid stories 'bout ghosts; so I jis' held
my tongue."

"And had you ebber seed anytink more?"

"Laws, I wouldn't go near dat tree after dark for all de money on Long
Island! I tells you dar's sometin' queer somewhar."

"So dar is," assented Dolf, in a perplexed manner, "dar is, sure."

"Don't yer say nothin', 'cause I'd get my walkin' papers ef yer did. But
ef you're so mighty wise, jis' tell me what yer makes ob all dis
mysteriousness?"

"Clorindy," said Dolf, in a solemn voice, "ghostesses is a subject
'taint proper to talk on, and the queernesses ob our marsters and
misseses is not tropics for us."

"A body must wonder, I s'pose, black or white," said Clo, angrily.

"But dat's all you've seen?"

"Dat's all, and it's 'nuff and more too."

Grantley Mellen stepped back into the library and closed the window. He
had need to be alone. Every day, every hour, the mystery which had
intruded into his home deepened and took more appalling shapes.

CHAPTER LIV.

THE SABLE FORTUNE HUNTER.

The pair of sable retainers went on with their conversation, totally
unconscious of a listener, and when the interest connected with that
subject had culminated, diverged to themes more intimately connected
with their own affairs.

One of the chief desires of Dolf's soul was to find out exactly how much
money Clorinda had in the bank, but he had never been able, with all his
arts, to bring her to that degree of confidence necessary to make him a
partner in that dearest secret of her life.

The other servants and her friends in the neighborhood gave very
contradictory accounts concerning the amount, and Victoria openly avowed
her belief that--

"De whole ting was just gammon--didn't b'lieve she had no money no
whar--she know'd she was so old dat it was her only chance of ketchin' a
beau, so she tried it on; dat was 'bout all it 'mounted to."

But Dolf was too wise to be influenced by Victoria's sneers, and had
lately convinced himself that the sum was larger than he at first
supposed. In that case Dolf felt the extreme folly of allowing a fancy
for Victoria to stand in the way of his interest. Already he had
incurred Clorinda's serious displeasure; it had required a vast amount
of eloquence to reconcile matters after his indiscretion with the
strange young woman at old Mother Hopkin's, besides, his flirtations
with Victoria were a constant bone of contention between them.

Dolf felt certain that if he only came directly to the point and made
Clorinda a bona fide offer of his hand with his heart in it, she would
forgive him; but it required a good deal of resolution to make up his
mind to that step.

Clorinda was not prepossessing in her appearance,--that her most partial
friends would have been forced to admit; probably in her youth she might
have had her attractions, but now that years, avarice, and a not very
patient temper had worn their furrows in her face, it really required
all the glitter of her reported wealth to make her endurable in Dolf's
mercenary eyes.

Then her color and her frizzed locks, at which Victoria sneered so
openly--that was a tender point with Dolf; he had the general contempt
for the jetty hue which one is certain to find among those of the bronze
complexion.

Dolf stood there looking at Clorinda and revolving all those things in
his mind, while she washed her vegetables and made herself busy as
possible at the kitchen dressers.

"Dis life is full of mysteriousness, Miss Clorindy," he said in a
meditative tone.

Clorinda snipped off the tops from the carrots she was preparing for her
soup, and assented.

"Dar ain't much wuth livin' for," she said gloomily.

Dolf was frightened at once; when Clo got into one of her desponding
humors she became very religious without delay; and he trembled with
fear that she would condemn him to Methodist hymns and a prayer-meeting
that very night.

"Don't say dat, Miss Clorindy, now don't!" he exclaimed pathetically.
"You's de light ob too many eyes for sich renumerations--you lights der
hearts as de sun does de sky at noonday."

Clorinda relented; with all her firmness and numerous other grim
virtues, she was a thorough woman at heart, and never could withstand
flattery adroitly administered.

"Go 'long wid yer poety nonsense," said she, giving a coquettish toss to
her head that made her gorgeous bandanna flutter as if suddenly
electrified. "Go 'way wid sich, I say."

"Don't call it nonsense, sweet Miss Clorindy," urged Dolf; "when a
gemman disposes de tenderest feelins' ob his bussom at yer feet, don't
jist at 'em."

To be called by such endearing epithets in two consecutive sentences,
softened Clorinda greatly; this time something uncommon must be
coming--Dolf certainly was in earnest.

"I don't see nothin' at my feet," said she, with a little giggle.

"Yes, yer does, Miss Clorindy," pleaded Dolf; "yes, yer does--now don't
deny it."

"La!" said Clorinda, in a delightful flurry, "you men is so confusin'."

"I don't mean ter be confusin', Miss Clorindy," said Dolf; "it's far
from my wishes--leastways wid you."

There was a tender emphasis on the concluding pronoun which quite upset
Clorinda. She allowed the carrots to fall back in the pan of water, and
seated herself on a stool near by--if anything serious was coming she
would receive it with dignity befitting the occasion.

Artful Dolf, profound in his knowledge of the sex, read her thoughts
without the slightest difficulty, and chuckled inwardly at the idea that
any female heart could resist his fascinations. Still he was in a
condition of great perplexity; he had no intention of committing himself
until he had learned the exact price Clorinda could pay for the
sacrifice he was prepared to make of his youth and good looks. On the
other hand, he was sorely puzzled how to obtain the desired information
without laying his heart at her feet. All his craft in that direction
had signally failed; in that respect Clorinda was astute enough to be
fully his match.

But he must say something; Dolf could not afford to lose time in
misunderstandings, particularly as he had lately discovered that the
sable parson whose meetings she attended, was becoming seriously devoted
in his attentions.

"Ah! Miss Clorindy," he said, "de sect is all resemblous in one
particular."

"What do yer mean?" inquired Clo, and her voice softened in response to
the tenderness in his.

"In yer cruelty," said Dolf, "yer cruelty, Miss Clorindy."

"Laws, nobody ebber sed I was cruel," returned the matter-of-fact Clo.
"I wrings de necks ob de chickens and skin de eels alive, 'cause it's a
cook's lookout, but I hasn't got a speck ob cruelty in me."

Dolf shook his head, then dropped it on one side with an air which he
had found very effective in former flirtations.

"In course yer'll deny it--it's de way ob de sect, but de fact is dar."

"I don't know what yer mean," said Clorinda, beginning to resume a
little of her usual rigidity; "if yer ain't a talkin' Spanish now, it's
jist as bad."

"I alludes to de coquettations in which yer all indulge."

"I don't," said Clo; "I leaves all sich foolishnesses to silly things
like dat Vic--I hasn't no patience wid 'em."

"Oh! Miss Clorindy, Miss Clorindy!"

"Dat's my name, fast 'nuff; yer needn't go shouting it out dat ways."

"When I'se seed wid my own eyes," said Dolf.

"What has yer seen? Jis' 'ticlarise--I hate beatin' round de bush."

Clo really believed that Dolf was getting jealous; the bare idea filled
her with a delicious thrill--triumphs of that sort were sufficiently
rare in her experience to be exceedingly precious.

"But I don't know what yer mean," she went on, "no more'n de man in de
moon."

"Dar it is!" said Dolf. "Why, I b'lieves dat ar's de only reason de sect
looks at de moon, cause dar's a man in it."

"Oh, he's too far off," returned Clo, with a prolonged chuckle at her
own wit; "too high up for much use."

"Bery good," said Dolf, "bery good indeed! Yer's in fine spirits to-day,
Miss Clorindy."

Here Dolf sighed dolefully.

He certainly was in earnest this time--Clo felt assured of that. She
forgot the half-washed vegetables, the unseasoned soup, and tried to
pose herself with becoming dignity.

"I don't see why," she said, in sweet confusion. "But any how yer didn't
prove nothin' 'bout my bein' coquettious."

"Dar it is!" cried Dolf. "It all goes togeder."

"Oh, laws," cried Clo, "as ef dat ar would set you a sighin'; I knows a
heap better'n dat, Mister Dolf."

"Yer don't do me justice, Clorindy," said Dolf, seriously, putting on an
injured look; "yer neber has done me justice."

"Why, what have I done now?" demanded Clo, beginning to play with her
apron string.

"Clo! I say, ole Clo!"

Victoria, who was getting impatient with her confined position behind
the laundry door, where she had done jealous duty as a listener, now
dashed in upon the lovers, and broke up the conversation just as it
reached a most interesting point.

"I say, ole Clo, them perserves are a bilen over; you can smell 'em
here."

CHAPTER LV.

IN THE NET.

The day was wearing slowly on; a day more terrible in its moral darkness
and suspense than perhaps had ever before descended upon that old house.

Mr. Mellen was engaged with a succession of visitors on business, with
whom he remained shut up in the library; Elsie took refuge at first in
her own chamber, but either nervousness or a desire to talk drove her
again to Elizabeth's room. Their dressing-rooms were separated by
Elizabeth's chamber, so Elsie flung the door open and ran into her
sister's room, exclaiming:

"You must let me stay; I can't be alone."

Elizabeth only replied by a gesture; she was walking slowly up and down
the floor as she had been during all the morning; it was entirely out of
her power to accept one instant of physical rest. She left the door open
and extended her promenade through the second chamber into Elsie's, and
then back, pacing to and fro till she looked absolutely exhausted, but
never once pausing for repose.

They were undisturbed, except when one of the servants knocked at the
door for orders, and at each request for admittance Elsie would give a
nervous little cry.

"Tell them not to come any more," said she, lifting both hands in
nervous appeal.

"They must have their orders," Elizabeth replied; "come what may,
everything must go on as usual to the last moment."

Elsie shivered down among her cushions and was silent. She had pulled
the sofa close to the hearth, gathered a pile of French novels about
her, and sat there trying her best to be comfortable in her feeble way.

"If you would only sit down," she exclaimed, at length.

"I cannot," replied Elizabeth; and resumed her dreary walk.

Then there came more interruptions; Victoria wished to know if they
would have luncheon.

"Marster's got in de library wid dem men--'spect missus don't want to go
down."

"What is she talking about?" questioned Elsie from her sofa.

"Luncheon," said Elizabeth; "will you have it up here?"

"As if one could eat--"

A warning gesture from Elizabeth checked her.

"You may bring the luncheon up here," Elizabeth said to the girl.

Victoria went out and closed the door.

"I believe they would come if we were dying, to know if we would take
time to eat," cried Elsie.

"Everything must go on as usual," was Elizabeth's answer.

"How can you stand there and talk so calmly to them!" cried Elsie. "It's
enough to drive one frantic."

"It is too late now to be anything but quiet--entirely too late."

Elsie began some shuddering complaints, but Elizabeth did not wait to
hear them; she had resumed her promenade, walking with the same
restless, eager haste, her eyes seeming to look afar off and unable to
fix themselves upon any object in the rooms.

"There is another knock," cried Elsie. "Oh, they'll drive me frantic!"

"Come in," Elizabeth said, sharply.

It was Victoria with the luncheon tray, and it seemed as if she never
would have done arranging it to her satisfaction.

"I brung yer some apricot jelly, Miss Elsie," she said; "I knowed you
had one of yer headaches."

But Elsie only moaned and turned upon her cushions.

"Dar's only cold chicken and dat patter," said Vic; "I took de ducks in
fur marster."

"There is quite enough," said Elizabeth; "you needn't wait."

"Yes, miss," returned Vic. "I hain't had no time yet to sweep de room
Miss Harrington had--Clo, she's ugly as Cain, ter day."

"It makes no difference," said Elizabeth, while Elsie threw down her
book in feverish impatience.

"Yes, miss, but tain't pleasant," returned Vic, with her most elegant
curtsey. "I likes to do my work reg'lar and in time, missus knows dat;
but when Clo gets into one o' her tantrums she sets ebryting
topsy-turvey, 'specially when dat yaller nig', Dolf, come down feering
wid de work."

"Then keep out of the kitchen," cried Elsie; "don't quarrel."

"Laws, Miss Elsie," said Victoria, with all the injured resignation of
suffering innocence; "I neber quarr'ls wid nobody, but I defy an angel
to git along wid Clo! She's jest de most aggravatin' piece dat eber wore
shoe leather! She's so mad 'cause she's gettin' ole dat she hates a
young girl wuss nor pison, she does."

Vic was now fairly started on the subject of her wrongs, and hurried on
before Elsie could stop her, with all the energy of a belated steam
engine. Elizabeth had walked into the other room, and Victoria took that
opportunity to pour out her sorrows with the utmost freedom to Elsie.

"Miss Elsie, sometimes I tinks I can't stand it. I wouldn't nohow, if
twarn't fur my affection fur you--you and miss," Victoria hastened to
add diplomatically, fearful that her mistress might be within hearing
and that the omission would be turned to her disadvantage. "Clo, she
gits agravatiner ebery day, and sence Dolf come back she's wurs'n a bear
wid a sore head."

"Oh, you make mine ache," cried Elsie.

"Laws, miss, I wouldn't for the worl'."

"Then go along, and let me sleep, if I can."

"Sartin, miss; but let me do somethin' for yer head," said Victoria, out
of the goodness of her heart.

"No, no; I only want to be let alone."

"If yer'd only let me bathe it wid cologny," persisted Vic.

"I don't want it bathed," fretted Elsie.

"Laws, miss, it does a heap o' good! Pennyryal tea's good--"

"Oh, do go away!" groaned Elsie.

"In course I will, miss; but I'd like to do something fur ye--yer looks
right sick."

"Then just go away, and don't come up again for the next two hours."

"Yes, miss, I'll jest--"

"Go out!" shrieked Elsie.

"I'se only fixin' yer cushins," said Vic. "Dear me, Miss Elsie, yer
allers says I'm right smart handy when yer has dem headaches."

"Oh, I can't bear anybody to-day."

"Dear me, ain't it a pity! Now, miss, I knows what 'ud be good for
yer--"

"Elizabeth," groaned Elsie, "do come and send this dreadful creature
away!"

This time Victoria deemed it prudent to make a hasty retreat, for she
stood in a good deal of awe of her mistress. She went out, reiterating
her desire to be useful, and really very full of sympathy, for she was a
kindhearted creature enough, except where her enemy, Clorinda, was in
the question.

"They'll kill me, I know they will!" moaned Elsie.

Elizabeth did not pay the slightest attention to her complaints, and she
relapsed into silence. Finally, her eye was caught by the luncheon
temptingly laid out. There lay a mould of delicious apricot jelly in a
dish of cut crystal, shining like a great oval-shaped wedge of amber;
the cold chicken was arranged in the daintiest of slices, and there was
custard-cake, Elsie's special favorite.

She made an effort to fancy herself disgusted at the bare sight of food,
and turned away her head, but it was only to encounter the fragrant odor
from the little silver teapot, which Victoria had set upon the hearth.

"Could you eat anything, Elizabeth?" she said, dejectedly.

"No, no; I am not hungry."

"But you never touched a morsel of breakfast, and you ate nothing all
yesterday."

"I can't eat now--indeed I can't," was Elizabeth's reply.

"Oh, nor I!" moaned Elsie. "I feel as if a single mouthful would choke
me."

She glanced again at the tray, and began to moan and weep.

"Oh, dear me! This day never will be over! Oh, I wish I were dead, I do
truly! Do say something, Bessie; don't act so."

But Elizabeth only continued her incessant march up and down the floor,
and Elsie was forced to quiet herself.

She rose from the sofa at last, stood by the window a few moments, but
some magnetism drew her near the luncheon-tray again. She took up a
spoon and tasted the apricot jelly.

"I want things to look as if we had eaten something," she said, giving
Elizabeth a wistful glance from under her wet eyelashes.

"You had better try and eat," said her sister.

"One ought, I suppose," observed Elsie. "I think I will drink a cup of
tea--won't you have some?"

Elizabeth shook her head, and with renewed sighs Elsie poured herself
out a cup of tea and sat down at the table.

"Oh, this wretched day! I'd rather be dead and buried! Oh, oh!"

In an absurd, stealthy way, she thrust her spoon into the apricot jelly
again, and stifled her moans for a second with the translucent compound.

"I wish I could eat; but I can't!"

She put a fragment of chicken on her plate, made a strong effort and
actually succeeded in eating it, while Elizabeth was walking through the
other rooms.

"I've tried," she said, when her sister appeared in the doorway again,
"but I can't, it chokes me."

She drank her tea greedily.

"I am so thirsty; I believe I've got a fever."

But Elizabeth was gone again, and Elsie stood staring at the paté--a
magnificent affair, she knew it was--one of Maillard's best, full of
truffles and all sorts of delicious things. She felt something in her
throat, which might have been hunger or it might have been weakness; she
chose to think it the latter.

"I feel so weak," she said, when Elizabeth returned on her round; "such
a sinking here," and she put her hand in the region where her heart
might be supposed to beat.

"You had better lie down," her sister said, absently.

That was not the advice Elsie wanted or expected, and she cried out,
spasmodically:

"How can I keep still! Oh, I wish I had some drops, or something to
take!"

She moaned so loudly that it disturbed Elizabeth, who became impatient.

"Drink your tea," she said, "and eat something; you cannot go without
food."

"Well, I'll try," said Elsie, resignedly. "I wish you'd sit down and
have a cup; perhaps I could eat then."

"Not now," replied Elizabeth.

The very sight of food was loathsome to her. She had hardly touched a
morsel for two days.

After a good deal more hesitation, Elsie attacked the paté, and the
jelly, and the pickles, and the custard-cake, and some crisp little
wafers, and, finally, made an excellent meal; all the while declaring
that she could not eat, that every mouthful choked her, that she
believed she was dying. To all these complaints Elizabeth paid no more
attention than she did to the meal that sensitive young creature was
making.

Elsie went back to her sofa, feeling somewhat comforted, and prepared to
take a brighter view of things. It appeared possible now for her to live
an hour or two longer--a little while before she had declared that her
death might be expected any moment.

"Do come and sit down, Bessie," she said, as Elizabeth entered, for
about the hundredth time. "I'll give you the sofa; you must be tired
out."

"No; I am not tired."

"But I am sure you have been for three hours march--march--march! Do sit
down."

Elizabeth only turned away in silence, but Elsie felt so much relieved
after her creature comforts, that she could not forbear attempting to
inspire her sister with a little of the hope which had begun to spring
up in her own narrow heart.

"Oh, Bessie," she cried, "I feel as if this would get over somehow, I do
indeed."

"But how? may I ask how?"

"Oh, I can't tell; but there'll be some way, there always is; nothing
ever does happen, you know."

Elizabeth did not reply. She was thinking of the books she had read, in
which women's ruin and disgrace were depicted with such thrilling force,
of the accounts in almost every daily journal of families broken up,
their holiest secrets made a public jest; of terrible discoveries
shaking a whole community with the commotion, and dragging all concerned
before the eyes of the whole world in scorn and humiliation. Yet Elsie
could say:

"Nothing ever does happen!"

She was thinking that perhaps in a few hours her beautiful home might be
agitated by a discovery, mysterious and full of shame as any of the
occurrences in the novels she was recalling; only a few hours and she
might be driven forth to a fate terrible as that of the unhappy women
whose names she had shuddered even to hear mentioned.

Not for one instant did she delude herself. She knew that the crisis was
at hand, the fearful crisis which she had seen approaching for weeks.
This time there would be no loophole of escape--this last respite was
all that would be granted her; and even now that she had gained that
much, there seemed every hour less probability of her being able to turn
it to advantage.

Then the task before her, the thing she had to do, a work at which the
stoutest man's heart might have quailed, alone in the dead of night,
with the fear of discovery constantly upon her, and the horror of an
awful task frenzying her mind!

She clenched her hands frantically as the scene presented itself, in all
its danger, to her excited fancy. She saw the night still and dark,
herself stealing like a criminal from the house; she saw the old cypress
rising up weird and solemn, she heard the low shiver of its branches as
they swayed to and fro; she saw the earth laid bare, saw----

The picture became too terrible, she could endure no longer, and with a
shuddering moan sank upon her knees in the centre of the room:

"God help me! God help me!"

Elsie sprang off the couch and ran towards her with a succession of
strangled shrieks.

"What is the matter? What ails you? You frighten me so. Are you
sick--did you see something? Is he going that way?"

But the woman neither saw nor heard; her eyes were fixed upon vacancy,
an appalling look lay on her haggard face, which might well have
startled stronger nerves than those of the girl by her side.

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!" shrieked Elsie, in genuine terror which there
was no mistaking.

"I must do it," muttered the woman; "I must do it!"

"Oh, Bessie, dear Bessie! Get up! Don't look so! Oh, for heaven's sake!
Bessie, Bessie!"

Elsie threw herself upon the floor beside her sister, crying and
shrieking, clinging to her, and hiding her face in her dress. Her
agitation and wild terror recalled Elizabeth to her senses. She
disengaged herself from Elsie's arms and staggered to her feet.

"It's over now," she said, feebly, with the weariness of a person
exhausted by some violent exertion; "I am better--better now."

"Oh, you frightened me so."

"I will not frighten you again. Don't cry; I am strong now."

"What was the matter? Did you see anything?"

"No, no. I was only thinking; it all came up so real before me--so
horrible."

"But it may be made safe yet," urged Elsie. "If you can escape this
time--only this once."

She did not connect herself with the trouble which might befall her
sister. Even in that moment of anguish, her craft and her selfishness
made her remember to keep present in Elizabeth's mind the promise she
had made.

"Only this once," she repeated.

"It is too late," returned Elizabeth. "I knew the day would come--it is
here!"

"But he can't discover anything, Bessie, when everybody is abed."

"Have you thought what I must do?" she broke in. "The horror of
appealing to that man is almost worse to bear than exposure and ruin."

Elsie wrung her hands.

"Don't give way now. You have borne up so long; don't give way when a
little courage may save everything."

"I shall not give way; I shall go through with it. But, Elsie, it will
all be useless; the end has come, deception cannot prosper forever."

"No, it hasn't! I'm sure it hasn't! Think how many secrets are kept for
ever. It needs so little now to make all secure; only don't give way,
Bessie--don't give way."

"Be quiet, child; I shall not fail!"

Elizabeth walked away and left the girl crouching upon the floor, went
to the glass and looked at herself. The rouge Elsie had rubbed on her
cheeks burned there yet, making the deathly pallor of her face still
more ghastly; her eyes gleamed out of the black shadows that circled
them so full of agony and fear that she turned away with a shudder. Her
hair had fallen loose, and streamed wildly about her shoulders. She
bound it up again, arranged her dress and recommenced her restless walk.

"Get up, Elsie," she said; "some one may come in."

Elsie took refuge on her sofa, and sobbed herself into a sound slumber,
while Elizabeth, in her haggard anxiety, moved up and down, wounded by
cruel reflections which wrung her soul and left it dumb, with a passive
submission, born rather of desperation than endurance.

CHAPTER LVI.

THE SECRET TELEGRAM.

Elizabeth at last paused, and in her bitter anguish stood for minutes
regarding Elsie as she lay asleep upon the sofa. She approached and bent
over her. The girl had brushed her long fair curls back from her face,
and they fell over the cushions in rich luxuriance, a feverish color was
on her cheeks, lighting up her loveliness, and her whole appearance was
so pretty, so singularly childlike, as she lay there, that it seemed
impossible, even then, that she could have anything in common with the
trouble that oppressed Elizabeth.

Elizabeth stood for a long time regarding her, and many changes passed
over her face as she did so, but they all settled into a look of
determination, and she turned away. Whatever was to be borne she would
endure alone; she would keep her promise to the very letter. If ruin and
disgrace came they should fall on her alone. Why attempt to involve that
fair young creature in it?

She went to a cabinet in the corner of the room, opened a little drawer
and took out a package of letters. They were those her husband had
written to her during his long absence.

She drew an easy-chair near to the sofa and sat down, with her face
turned towards Elsie, opened one or two of the epistles and read
passages from them. One of the pages ran thus:

"Whatever may happen, no matter how long my absence may be protracted, I
know that you will take care of Elsie. If the worst should happen--if
death should surprise me in this far-off land, I know that you will
fulfil for me the promise I made my dying mother, and be a parent to
that desolate girl.

"Forgive me if I pain you by writing so sadly. I do not believe that any
misfortune will happen to me; something tells me that I shall reach home
in safety, and find love and happiness once more awaiting me there.

"But the charge I have in Elsie's future is always present to my mind. I
never can forget the words that my dying mother spoke; they are with me
night and day, and have been since the hour when they died on her pallid
lips.

"It rejoices my heart to think how different from most girls our little
Elsie is. If any harm were to reach her I think I should go mad;
disgrace to one whose blood was kindred to that in my veins would kill
me. You may think this pride a weakness, but it is too deeply rooted in
my nature ever to be eradicated. When I look about the world and see
girls disgracing themselves by improper marriages, elopements, often
social crimes, which must blight their lives and those of all connected
with them, I think what I should do under such circumstances.

"Elizabeth, I could not endure it. You are my wife; I love you more
deeply than you know of; but I tell you that I could better bear sorrow
which came to me through my wife, than the weakness or dishonor of one
who claimed my name by right of birth. It is an inherited pride, which
has, I know, come down from father to son, and will go with me through
life.

"But Elsie is safe--in your hands quite safe. I rest upon that thought.
I remember her loveliness, her innocence, her sweet childish ways, and I
am at peace again, knowing that you will care for her."

This was the letter Grantley Mellen had written during his long exile,
and his wife sat reading it in the presence of that sleeping girl.

After a time Elizabeth folded up the letters, kissed them passionately,
and laid them away.

"Perhaps it is the last time," she murmured. "The last time! I must not
think of it. Oh, my God, how will this day pass?"

She began walking up and down the rooms again, treading softly that she
might not disturb Elsie's slumber. This time her movements had some
purpose. She went into her dressing-room, took her riding dress from a
wardrobe and hastened to put it on. She grew cold, and her poor hands
shivered as she drew on her gauntlet gloves, and tied the veil over her
hat. In passing through the next room, the unhappy woman lingered a
moment to look on that sleeping girl, and her soul filled itself with
the cruel desolation of this thought.

"He will not feel it so very much when it is only me on whom disgrace
falls," she thought, with mournful satisfaction. "For her at least I
shall have done my best. I have struggled so hard to keep the fair
creature he loves from harm. When I am swept from his path, like a black
cloud that had no silver lining for him, he will be happy with her. I
ought to be comforted by this. Yet, oh, my God! my God! this thought
alone makes the worst of my misery. They will be so happy, and without
me!"

In passing down stairs Elizabeth met Dolf, moving dejectedly up from the
basement story where Vic had so maliciously disturbed his love making.
He stood aside to make room for his mistress, who addressed him in her
usual calm fashion.

"Go to the stables," she said, "and order my groom to bring Gipsy round;
he need not trouble himself to attend me. I shall ride alone."

Dolf hurried down the hall, and his mistress went into her little
sitting-room, opened her desk and wrote some words on a slip of paper
which she folded and thrust under the gauntlet of her glove. Then she
stood by the window watching till her horse was brought round.

He came at last, a light graceful animal, so full of life, that he
fairly danced upon the gravel, and flung the sunshine from his arched
neck with the grace of a wild gazelle. He whinnied a little, and put out
his head for a tribute of sugar, which Bessie always gave him before she
mounted the saddle. But she had nothing of the kind for him now;
scarcely touching the groom's hand with her foot, she sprang upon his
back and rode slowly away, turning him upon the turf which was like
velvet, and gave back no sound. Thus, with an appearance of indolent
leisure, she passed out of sight.

There was nothing remarkable in this. Elizabeth had been in the habit of
riding around the estate, without escort, during the two years in which
her husband had been absent, so the groom went back to his work and
thought no more of the matter.

Elizabeth rode forward, without any appearance of excitement, until a
grove of trees concealed her from the house; then she put her horse upon
the road, and ran him at the top of his speed to the edge of the
village.

Once among houses she rode on leisurely again, and stopped at the post
office to enquire for letters,--getting down from her horse, an unusual
thing with her. There was a telegraph station connected with the post
office, and while the man was searching his mail, she took the slip of
paper from her glove, and laid it with some money before the operator.

The telegram was directed to that hotel near the Battery, which has
already been described.

CHAPTER LVII.

KITCHEN GOSSIP.

The day was passing--that long, terrible day--in which the moments
seemed to lengthen themselves into hours, while with every one the gloom
about the old house deepened and pressed more heavily down.

Grantley Mellen was in his library still, it had been a busy day with
him; it appeared as if every creature within reach who could invent a
plea of business had chosen that time to trouble him with it.

He was alone at last, and that was well; he was literally incapable of
enduring any farther self-restraint.

He rang the bell and gave strict orders to Dolf:

"Let no one else in to-day; I have letters to write; I will not see
another human being."

Dolf bowed himself out, and took his way to the lower regions, to
communicate to Clo and Victoria the commands his master had given. Those
three servants kept themselves aloof from the few others employed for
tasks which they considered too menial for the dignity of their
position, and these gaping youths and girls were strictly forbidden to
enter the apartment in which Clo had installed herself.

They were perfectly well aware, those three sable dignitaries, that
something was wrong in the house; servants always do know when anything
out of the common routine happens, and no pretence can blind their
watchful eyes.

"Marster says he won't see nobody more," said Dolf, as he entered the
room where Clo was rolling out her pie-crust, and Victoria busily
occupied in watching her.

"I wonder what's come over 'em all," said Vic. "Der's missus was a
walkin' up an' down like a crazy woman--"

"She didn't eat no breakfast," interrupted Dolf, "an' she never teched a
thing yesterday; now she's just done gone out a riden' all alone."

"An' Miss Elsie stretched out on de sofa, lookin' as if she'd cried her
pretty eyes out," went on Victoria. "Says she's got a headache--go
'long; tell dat to blind folks! It's my 'pinion der's more heart-ache
under dem looks dan anythin' else."

"Dat's jis' what I tink," assented Dolf.

Clorinda, from her station at the pastryboard, gave a sniff of doubtful
meaning, tossed her head till her frizzed locks shook, brought her
rolling-pin down on the board with great energy, and remained silent for
the express purpose of being questioned.

"What does yer tink 'bout it, Miss Clorindy?" asked Dolf.

Vic looked a little spiteful at hearing this appeal to Clo, but she was
so anxious for anybody's opinion, that for once she forgot to quarrel.

"I tinks what I tink," said Clo, with another toss of her head and an
extra flourish of the rolling-pin.

"Oh!" said Dolf, quite discomfited.

"Jis' so," said Clorinda.

"Any pusson could have guessed dat ar," put in Victoria, in an irritated
way; "yer needn't make sich a mysteriousness."

"I shall make a mysteriousness or shall luff it alone, jis' as I tink
best," retorted Clo, "so yer needn't go a meddlin' wid my dumplin', Miss
Vic, 'cause yer'll git yer fingers burnt if yer does."

"Don't wanter meddle wid nothin' that recerns you," cried Vic, jumping
at the prospect of a quarrel, since there was nothing to be gained by
amicable words.

"Jis' give me any of yer sarse," said Clo, "and I'll mark yer face smash
wid dis ere dough, now I tells ye?"

"Don't lay a finger on me, cause I won't stand it," shrieked Vic; "yer a
cross ole, ole--dat's what's de matter."

"Go 'long 'bout yer business," shouted Clo, shaking her rolling-pin in a
threatening rage. "Dis ere's de housekeeper's room, an' yer hain't no
business here."

"Much business as you has, I guess; yer ain't housekeeper as I knows on;
yer only potwasher anyhow."

"Missus telled me to use dis room for makin' pies and cakes in till she
got anoder housekeeper, an' I'se gwine ter."

"I don't keer if she did, dat don't make yer housekeeper any more'n
stolen feathers makes a jackdaw an eagle."

"Now, ladies, ladies!" pleaded Dolf, fearful of the extent to which the
tempest might reach if not checked in time. "Don't let us conflusticate
dese little seasons of union by savagerousnesses; don't, I beg."

"Den her leave me alone," sniffled Vic.

"Larn dat gal ter keep a civil tongue in her yaller head if yer want
peace an' composion," said Clo.

"Dat ar's religion wid a vengeance," cried Vic; "a callin' names is
pretty piety, ain't it! I'll jis' see what Elder Brown says ter dat ar
de bery next time I sees him."

"Oh, yes!" said Clo, contemptuous; "yer allers glad ob a 'casion ter
gabble! How's a pusson gwine ter hab religion when dey's persecuted by
sich a born debil; wurs 'en dem in de scripture as was worrying de
swine."

"Laws!" said Vic, with a vicious sneer, "was yer roun wid dat drove
'bout dat time."

"I'll drove yer," cried Clo.

But Dolf interposed again, and luckily Clo's nostrils detected the odor
of burning pie-crust, and she rushed into the kitchen to see if the girl
had allowed her pastry to burn.

Dolf took that opportunity to soothe the angry Victoria, and succeeded
admirably.

"Now, Miss Clorindy," said Dolf, when she had relieved her feelings by
abusing Sally for her carelessness about the pies, and was once more
tranquilly occupied with her work; "now, Miss Clorindy, jis' glorify us
wid yer 'pinion 'bout de 'fairs ob dis dwellin' which we has all noticed
is more mysteriouser dan is pleasant."

"I ain't gwine ter talk, jis' ter be snapped up like a beetle by a
Shanghai," said Clo; "shan't do it, nohow."

Dolf winked at Victoria, and the artful maiden condescended to mollify
her fellow servant.

"Now don't be cross, Clo," said she, "it's bad enough ter hab
conflictions above stairs widout us a mussin'."

"Dem's my sentiments," cried Dolf, "and I knows fair Miss Clorinda
'grees wid dem--she coincidates, if yer'll 'scuse the leetle bit ob
dictionery."

Victoria made a grimace behind Clo's back, but said, graciously:

"I'se gwine ter gib yer dat ar blue handkercher Miss Elsie gub me, Clo,"
she said, "so now let's make up and be comfoble."

"I don't want ter fight," replied Clo, "'taint my way--only I knows my
persition and I 'spects ter be treated 'cording."

The handkerchief was something Clo had coveted for a long time, and the
gift quite restored her good-humor.

"Dat's as it orter be," said 'Dolf. "Peace and harmony once more
prewails, and we's here like--like--de Happy Family as used ter be at
Barnum's Museum," he added, finding a comparison at length, and quite
unconscious of its singular appropriateness.

"I'se gwine to mend dis tablecloth," said Vic, "and I'll set here to do
it--when I go upstairs I'll git yer the hankercher, Clo."

"Oh! laws," said Clo, "yer want it yerself--don't be a givin' away yer
truck."

"I'd ruther yer had it," observed Vic, "blue's allers becoming to yer,
ain't it, Mr. Dolf?"

She made another grimace, unseen by Clorinda, which nearly sent Dolf
into fits, but he restrained his merriment, and answered with the
gravity of a judge:

"Miss Clorindy overcomes whatever she puts on, but since yer wishes my
honest 'pinion, I must say I tink blue's about de proper touch fur her."

Clo grew radiant with delight, but she worked away resolutely, only
observing:

"Victy, dar's a leetle cranberry tart I jis' tuk out ob de oben--it's on
de kitchen table--I 'spect we might as well eat it, cause 'taint big
enough to go on de table."

"I'll fotch it," cried Dolf; "to sarve de fair is my priv'lege."

He darted into the kitchen, bore off the tart from before Sally's
envious eyes, and closed the door so that she could not be regaled even
with a scent of the delicacy.

"I've jis' done gone now," said Clo, "so I'll rest a leetle afore I
'gins dinner. I'll jis' taste de tart to see ef it's good--it kinder
eases my mind like."

"In course it does," said Dolf, and he cut the tart into four pieces,
having an idea that the last slice would revert to him in the end.

They ate the pie and talked amicably over it, while in the end Dolf
received the extra piece by earnestly pressing it on his companions, who
in turn insisted upon his eating it himself.

"Mebby Sally'd like a taste," he said, virtuously.

"Sally, 'deed no!" cried Clo. "It's nuff fur her ter see such tings
widout eatin' 'em--a lazy, good-fur-notin' piece."

"Den ter 'blige yer I'll dispose of it," said Dolf, and he did so in
just three mouthfuls.

"If yer wants my 'pinion 'bout what's gwine on," said Clo, suddenly, as
she rose to pile up the dishes she had been using preparatory to making
poor Sally wash them in the kitchen; "it's jis' dis yer! Dis trouble's
all missus!"

"Missus!" repeated Vic.

"Now what does yer mean?" cried Dolf.

Clo nodded her head several times with gravity and precision.

"Yes, missis," she repeated, with the firmness of a person who meant
what she said, and was fully prepared to defend her opinion.

"What's come over her?" asked Vic.

"Dat's jis' it," returned Clo; "now you've hit it prezact--yer might
talk a week, Victy, and not come inter de pint agin."

Victoria looked at Dolf, and he looked at her, but, however convincing
her own words might have seemed to Clorinda, there was nothing to throw
any light upon their minds.

"Yer's repeatin' wid yer usual knowledge," said Dolf, softly, "but can't
yer sperficate a leetle more clear."

"Mr. Dolf," said Clorinda, rolling up her eyes 'till only the whites
were visible, "when I lives in a house de secrets ob dat house is locked
in my bussom--"

"But ter feller domestics," put in artful Dolf.

"Jis' 'mong us," said Vic.

"I know, I feels dat, and so I speak," replied Clo. "I ain't gwine ter
say Miss Mellen is a favoright ob mine, 'cause she ain't--but she's my
missus. Her ways isn't my ways, dat's all I says, and I hain't
recustomed to bein' brung up so sharp roun' de corners as is her way ter
do."

"Tain't ter be 'spected," said Dolf.

"Mebby 'tis and mebby 'tisn't," returned Clorinda; "I only says I ain't
recustomed to it, dat's all."

"But what do yer tinks happened ter her ter put 'em all in sich a
to-do?" questioned Victoria.

"I ain't prepared ter say ezzactly," replied Clo, "but I tink she's
gwine crossways wid marster and dat lubly angel, Miss Elsie. Dar's a
syrup fur ye! She nebber gubs a pusson orders widout eben lookin' at
'em--she ain't so high and mighty dat de ground ain't good 'nuff for her
ter walk on! Not but what missus a mighty fine woman--she steps off like
a queen, and I tell yer when she's dressed der ain't many kin hold a
candle ter her, and as fur takin' de shine off, wal, I'd jis' like ter
see anybody do dat."

"It's all true," said Dolf, "as true as preachin'!"

"Mr. Dolf," said Clo, gravely, "don't take dem seriousnesses so
lightsome on yer lips."

"I won't," said Dolf, humbly, "I begs ter 'polegise--yer see in gazing
'bout de world a gemman 'quires some parts ob speech as seems keerless,
but dey don't come from de heart."

"I'se glad dey don't," observed Clorinda, "bery glad, Mr. Dolf."

"But what do yer tink missus has done?" demanded Victoria.

Such a straightforward question was rather a puzzler to Clorinda, so she
answered with a stately air:

"Der's questions I couldn't answer eben ter my most intemancies--don't
press it, Victy."

Victoria's big eyes began to roll wildly in their sockets; she was
astonished to find that Clo had for some time seen that things were
going wrong, when the fact had escaped her own observation, and, for the
first time in the course of their acquaintance, she felt a sort of
respect for her usual foe but temporary ally.

"Does yer tink dey's quarr'ling?" she asked.

"When I hears thunder," said Clo, sententiously, "I allers takes it
there's a storm brewin'."

Vic looked more puzzled than ever, and Dolf was not much better off,
though he tried to appear full to the brim with wisdom and sagacity.

"Yer 'members the night missus lost her bracelet, Mr. Dolf?" asked Clo.

"I does bery well."

"When missus bemeaned herself to shout out at me as if I'd been a
sarpint," cried Clo, viciously. "Wal, if ever I see thunder I seed it in
marster's face dat ar night!"

"Oh!" exclaimed Victoria, bundling up her work, "if you and Mr. Dolf has
got secrets to talk ober, I'd better go 'way."

"Who's a destryin' the harmony now?" shouted Clo. "It's raal sinful,
Victory, to give way to temper like you does."

"Oh, dat's all fine 'nuff. But I don't wish to stand in nobody's way.
I'd better take my work upstairs."

"Set still, set still, Miss Victory," urged Dolf. "Der's no secret. We
shall have de uttermost pleasure in making you 'quainted wid de pint in
question."

Clorinda did not look altogether pleased with his eagerness to explain;
she rather liked Victoria to suppose there was a secret between Dolf and
herself; it seemed like paying off old scores, and though in a friendly
mood, Clorinda was a woman still.

"'Splain or not, jis' as yer please," said Vic, tossing her head,
viciously, "it's quite 'material to me."

But Dolf gave a voluble account of what his master and mistress had said
and done the night the bracelet was lost, and ornamented the
conversation beautifully, calling on Clorinda to set him right if he
erred, and the points where Clo most loudly expressed her approval as
being the exact words spoken, were those Dolf embroidered most highly.

"Why, dar goes marster now," exclaimed Victoria, suddenly. "He's gwine
out to walk."

They all rushed to the window to look, as if there had been something
wonderful in the sight, and just then Sally rushed in with a cry:

"The soup's bilin' over, Clo; come--quick!"

CHAPTER LVIII.

THE INTERCEPTED TELEGRAM.

That afternoon confinement in the house became so irksome to Grantley
Mellen that he could support it no longer, so he put on his hat and
hurried out into the grounds.

Upon one point his mind was fully made up. The clue to the mystery
appeared to be in his hands; he would follow it out to the end now--he
would know the worst. If this woman had wronged him he resolved to sweep
her out of his life, even as he had done that false one in years gone
by.

That thought drove him nearly mad, it recalled that writing. Should it
prove the same! If this man had a second time thrust himself into his
life to blacken it with his treachery and hate! Terrible words died,
half uttered, on Mellen's lips, his face was fairly livid with passion,
a loathing and a hatred which only blood could wipe out.

Below the house the lawn and gardens led away into a grove, and towards
its gloom Mellen mechanically directed his steps under the cold, gray
sky. A chill wind was blowing up from the water, but he did not observe
it; in the fever which consumed him the air seemed absolutely stifling,
and he hurried on, increasing its excess by rapid movements.

He was in the grove, walking up and down, with no settled purpose,
striving only to escape those maddening thoughts which still clung to
him.

The wind was shaking the few remaining leaves from the trees and blowing
them about in rustling dreariness, the frosts had already touched the
grass and ferns, and though the place on a bright day would still have
been lovely, it looked bare and melancholy enough under that frowning
sky.

"It is like my life," muttered Mellen; "like my life, with an added
blackness coming up beyond."

Then his mood changed; again that fierce passion swept over his face,
leaving it dangerous and terrible.

"If that woman has deceived me," he cried aloud, "this time I will have
no mercy! She shall taste her degradation to the very dregs; there is no
depth of shame through which I will not drag her, though I ruin my own
soul in doing it! But it can't be! it can't be! It were death to believe
it! Oh, Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"

Every tender feeling of his nature went out in that last agonizing cry.
For the first time he realised all that this woman had been to him, how
completely she had woven herself with his life, and what a terrible
blank it would become if he were forced to tear her from it.

He made an effort to check those black thoughts, to invent excuses; he
was almost inclined to rush into the house, beg for the truth and
promise pardon in advance. Then he called himself a weak fool for the
idea that any excuse was possible.

"I will wait--I have the clue--it will all be made clear soon. I will
wait."

He clenched his hands with a groan that was half anguish, half rage, and
hurried more swiftly into the depths of the woods.

He came out upon a little eminence, from whence he could look down on
the paths and avenues leading towards the house, though the dwelling
itself was hidden by the thick growth of trees.

Along the high road he saw his wife riding at full speed toward the
woods, through which she passed with weary slowness, walking her horse
homeward, and looking anxiously down upon his reeking sides, and
smoothing his neck with her hand, as if troubled by those signs of hard
riding.

Where had the woman been? What deception was she practising now?

Mellen could see his wife's face plainly--for she passed near him quite
unconsciously. It was pale and wild with the fear of a hunted animal.

"Traitoress!" he muttered between his teeth, "she thinks to evade me."

He watched the slow progress of Gipsy as she walked toward the house,
taking the lawn, evidently because her rider feared to give warning of
her expedition by the sound of hoofs on the beaten track. He saw
Elizabeth dismount unaided, and go wearily into the house.

Where had she been?

Over and over Mellen asked himself this question, as he sat minute after
minute, pondering over the most bitter thoughts that ever haunted a
man's brain.

It might have been an hour after, when he saw a man coming up from the
direction of the village, walking forward with great rapid strides.
Instantly his suspicions fell upon this new object. He was always
keen-sighted enough, but just then the thought in his mind made his
vision still quicker and more clear.

Without pausing for an instant's reflection he darted down the hill--as
he approached the figure it disappeared. On into the woods Mellen
followed the intruder, and before he could look around grasped his arm
with a clutch so firm that there was no shaking it off.

"Rascal!" he cried, "what are you doing here? Answer me, or I'll shake
you to pieces!"

The man struggled violently, but Mellen was like a giant in his passion,
and swung him to and fro as if he had been a child.

"Let me alone!" cried the man. "I ain't a doing no harm!"

"What are you prowling about my house for, then? Do you know that I am
master here? I shall take you indoors, and keep you till I can send for
a constable. Take care, no resistance; what is your business here?"

"I wasn't prowling round," pleaded the man, gasping for breath in
Mellen's hard grasp; "I thought these woods was public property."

"Then you shall be taught. You had some errand here--speak out, or by
the Lord I'll kill you!"

"Don't--don't! You're choking me!" groaned the wretch.

"Then speak! What are you doing here--whom do you want to see?"

"Just let me go and I'll tell you," pleaded his prisoner. "I can't speak
while you're throttling me."

Mellen loosened his grasp on the man's throat, but still held him fast.
His hold had been a fearful one--the man was actually breathless.

"Will you speak now?" he demanded, with terrible menace in his voice.

The man began to breathe more freely; but, though shaking with fear, he
answered sullenly:

"I hain't got nothin' to tell; I was going to the house yonder, and took
a short cut through here."

"What business have you at the house? Tell me the truth, for I will
know."

The man could both see and feel that he was in horrible earnest; he
might easily have supposed himself in the power of an insane man--and
for the moment Mellen was little better.

"How do I know that you have a right to ask?" questioned the man.

"I am the master of that house. Now will you speak?"

"Yes," faltered the man, "I'll tell you. It's a telegram that I was
carrying to the lady; nothing wrong in that I hope."

"No harm, certainly; give the telegram to me. I will deliver it."

The man gave up the telegram. The envelope which contained it was
sealed, but Mellen tore it open without a moment's hesitation. Even as
he unfolded the paper, his hand faltered--in the very height of his rage
he could not think of the woe its contents might bring, without a sharp
pang.

He read it slowly, standing there motionless, unable, at first, to take
in the full extent of his crushing anguish. "_Have no fear. I will be at
the old spot, prompt to help you. All shall be prepared._"

This was the telegram. There was no signature--it needed none. Mellen
knew only too well who the writer was, knew it as thoroughly as he did
the woman for whom it was intended.

For a full half hour Grantley Mellen was a madman. The fever and the
insanity passed at length; he lay upon the ground, staring up at the
cold sky, the telegram still clutched in one hand, the other dug deeply
into the earth, in a wild conflict of passion that shook him to the
soul. He raised himself and looked about; it seemed as if he had been
suffering in a fearful dream--he glanced down at the paper--that brought
conviction back.

He sat there for a long time revolving vague plans in his mind, and
deciding upon the course he would pursue.

"Meet craft with craft," he muttered; "their own evil weapons."

He rose from the ground, arranged his dress, and walked towards the
house.

"Not a sign, not a word which can betray," he said aloud. "I will meet
her with a duplicity equal to her own,--wait--a little longer--only a
little longer."

He walked towards the house, and again Victoria called out to her
companions:

"Here comes marster as fast as fast can be."

But Clorinda's thoughts were now centred upon her dinner, and she had no
time even for gossip.

"Get away from dat window and go 'bout your work," cried the dark
spinster, austerely; "what hev yer got to do wid de marster's outgoin's
or incomin's? Beat dese eggs into a foam rite off, for I'se in a hurry.
Mr. Dolf puts one back so."

Victoria cast one more glance through the window, for the wild agony on
her master's face rather alarmed her. But Clorinda called out in a voice
so shrill that it was not to be disregarded, and she was constrained to
undertake the task assigned her without more delay.

CHAPTER LIX.

FORCED HOSPITALITY.

While Mellen stood on the veranda in front of the house, Mr. Rhodes came
up the avenue. There was no hope of escape for him; he had not perceived
the visitor until it was too late to retreat, and a voice called out:

"Oh, there you are, old fellow; I'm in luck after all. You see I walked
over to my farm on the back road," he explained, "intending to take the
half-past three train to New York, but I missed it. So I said to myself,
'I'll cut across the fields, down the hill, and stop at Mellen's, beg a
dinner, and get him to send me over in time for the five o'clock
train'--wasn't a bad idea, eh?"

"A very good idea on the contrary," Mellen answered, with a desperate
attempt at hospitality, while the visitor wrung his hand again and burst
into shouts of laughter, as if some wonderfully good joke lay in the
affair. "And how is your good lady?" he asked. "And the pretty little
sister--quite well, eh?"

"Tolerably so," Mellen answered; "complains of headache and that sort of
thing."

He conducted his guest into the library, and meeting Dolf in the hall,
directed him to inform his mistress of the arrival.

Mellen made an effort to be civil though the man was tiresome in the
extreme; perhaps it was better to endure his society than to meet his
wife that day without the restraint of a stranger's presence.

Indeed, without some of those social restraints to which all men are
more or less slaves, it is doubtful if Mellen could have appeared so
perfectly calm. As it was, the fire that consumed him raged unseen. Dolf
carried his message upstairs, where it was received with a little shriek
from Elsie, and blank dismay on the part of Elizabeth.

"I can't go down," she said; "Elsie, you must take my place at the
table. Say that I am ill, fainting, anything."

"Indeed, I'll do nothing of the sort," returned Elsie; "if you don't go
down I shall stay with you. I am nervous as I can be, and if you are not
at the table I shall break down completely."

The girl was full of selfishness to the very last--not willing to yield
her comfort in the slightest particular, but Elizabeth only sighed as
she observed it, and said, quietly:

"After all, it is just as well--change your dress, Elsie."

These two women commenced the duties of a dinner toilet with heavy
hearts, scarcely heeding what they put on.

But when the dinner hour approached, they entered the drawing-room
together and almost smiling, Elsie looking exquisitely pretty in her
dark blue silk, with those bright ringlets floating about her shoulders;
her volatile spirits were already rising at the idea of an escape from
that shadowy chamber where she had dragged through the day.

Elizabeth was calm and self-possessed as ever. To a casual observer she
looked pale, but her heavy black dress might account for that, and the
delicate contrast it gave to her complexion made amends for any lack of
bloom.

Mellen sat watching her while she greeted Mr. Rhodes, and listened
patiently to his labored compliments.

"Is she stone--ice?" he thought. "Is there no touch of nature about her
that she can be so calm?"

If the man could have read her mind, he might have pitied her even in
the midst of his anger and fearful doubts. What she suffered in putting
that terrible restraint upon herself was almost beyond the power of
belief; but woman-like, having formed her resolution, not all the
tortures of the rack could have driven her from it.

Elsie had seated herself on a low stool at her brother's feet; he sat
absently playing with her curls, and looking moodily into the fire, but
he had no words even for her, though she tempted him with rather
mournful smiles. But he had been so silent and sullen by times during
the past week, that there was not change enough in his manner to be at
all perceptible.

Sometimes Elizabeth glanced over at the pair, and then some sharp pain
contracted her brows, but there was no other appearance of emotion; she
would control even that instantly, and bending her head once more,
listen patiently to her persecutor's verbiage.

Dolf announced dinner, and the party passed into the dining-room, Mr.
Rhodes honoring the hostess with his arm. As Mellen and his sister
followed, Elizabeth heard Elsie whisper in a low voice:

"Grant, dear, you are not cross with me?"

In the midst of Mr. Rhodes's uproarious laugh at one of his own jokes,
she caught Mellen's answer:

"Never, darling, never! You are my one comfort--my only blessing."

With her head more proudly erect, a faint crimson beginning to burn on
her cheeks, Elizabeth Mellen walked on and took her seat at the table,
appearing so completely engrossed in Mr. Rhodes's conversation that she
did not once meet her husband's eye.

To all but the guest, that dinner seemed interminable, but Mr. Rhodes
was so busy with the delicacies Clorinda's skillful hands had prepared,
and so full of himself, that he was in a perfect glow of content.

The lights danced before Elizabeth's eyes, every morsel she ate was
swallowed with a pang, the wine was like a bitter drug on her lips, yet
there she sat in patient endurance.

Occasionally Mellen glanced towards her, and her composure sent such a
thrill of rage through his soul, that it was with difficulty he could
keep from springing up and overwhelming her with the discovery he had
made, on the spot.

The dinner was over at last, but tedious as it had seemed to Elizabeth,
she would gladly have prolonged it: anything to lengthen the hours; to
keep afar off the stillness of the night, when she must undertake that
to which she had doomed herself.

But she would not think of that; she dared not; madness lay so near the
dismal reflection that it must be swept from her mind.

They dragged through the evening; Elizabeth played cribbage with Mr.
Rhodes, and Elsie gave snatches of desultory music at the piano; every
time her fresh young voice rang out in joyous song Elizabeth started, as
if an unseen dagger had struck her to the heart.

"You will all come and pass a day with us before long, I hope," Mr.
Rhodes said, with exuberant hospitality, when the time came at last to
order the carriage for his departure.

Elizabeth only answered with a wan smile. She could hardly stand. Mellen
accompanied his visitor through the hall, and the instant they
disappeared Elizabeth started for the door.

"Where are you going?" asked Elsie.

"To my room; I can't bear this."

"I'll go--"

"No, no, not yet; stay awhile, for heaven's sake let me rest alone one
moment." She staggered through the dining-room and was gone; when Mellen
entered the library again, Elsie sat alone by the fire, teasing the cat,
looking cheerfully pretty and childlike.

CHAPTER LX.

WAITING FOR THE HOUR.

The clock in Elizabeth's dressing-room had struck eleven, but there she
sat desolately looking into the fire, just as she had sunk into her
chair on first entering the chamber.

She heard her husband and Elsie ascend the stairs a full hour before,
but Mr. Mellen went straight on towards his own apartments. He had not
entered hers since the day the bracelet was found; she knew well that he
would not intrude upon her then.

For two long hours she had been alone with her dismal thoughts, no sound
broke the stillness, save the monotonous ticking of the clock or an
occasional sob and moan from the half spent wind without.

There was too much anxiety and agony in her mind for any of the nervous
terrors which had haunted her during the day. Then, as she thought what
the coming of the night would bring her, the heart in her bosom
shuddered. Now it stood still and seemed hardening into iron. If some
spirit had appeared with an articulate warning, she could not have been
more convinced that exposure and ruin were approaching her with rapid
strides. She would do her best, but that, she knew in her innermost
soul, would lead to destruction. She looked back on the past weeks, and
tried to remember if her plans had failed through her own weakness.

Before Mellen's return it had seemed possible to carry them out, to bury
the past utterly, and build a new palace of hope on its grave, but they
had all failed. It was not her fault, she had borne up as bravely as any
woman could have done under the circumstances, had been as circumspect
and guarded as it was possible to be, but from the moment of his
inopportune arrival, some untoward event had occurred to thwart every
project she had endeavered to carry out for her own salvation.

"It is fate," she muttered, in a cold whisper; "it is fate! Oh, my God,
help me, help me, for I have yet a right to pray!"

No, even the consolations of prayer were denied this most wretched
woman; the words seemed to freeze upon her lips; she could only moan in
that broken whisper:

"My God, help me, help me!"

As she sat there, the door opened and Elsie softly entered the
apartment. She had taken off her evening-dress, and put on a loose white
wrapper, and over that had thrown a crimson shawl, which made the pallor
that had come over her face still more apparent.

There was no light in the chamber except that given by the fire.

Elizabeth had extinguished the lamps; the gloom and the shadows befitted
her mournful thoughts.

"Bessie, Bessie?" called Elsie, unable at first to distinguish any
object in the half light. "Are you there?"

"Here I am," was the hoarse answer; "come in."

"I was so afraid to be alone with Grant," continued Elsie; "I felt as if
I should scream every moment."

"What did he say to you; what did my husband talk about?"

"Oh, nothing in particular; he said very little; he did not even ask
where you were. I told him you had gone to bed with a headache, but he
did not seem to hear. He sat and looked in the fire, as if he were
reading something in the red hot coals; after a long time he asked me if
I loved him, and kissed my forehead. That was all."

Elizabeth struck her hands hard together, choked back the groan which
rose to her lips, and sat gazing into the fire, as if she too read
something terrible in the scarlet caverns which were breaking up and
forming in its midst.

"I'm so cold," shivered Elsie; "there isn't half enough coal in the
grate."

Cold! The chill had crept into Elizabeth's very soul which no power of
hers could warm, and close to her that weak creature crouched, moaning
out her petty complaints!

Even then, up to the last, while the glittering hands of the clock were
seen in the firelight, creeping swiftly over the dial, and its solemn
tick measured off the awful minute on which Elizabeth had agreed with
her own soul to go forth on her terrible errand, the wretched woman was
compelled to pause in that dim chamber, worse than dead herself, to
comfort and soothe the creature who lay like a wounded fawn on the
hearth.

"What time is it, Bessie?"

She raised herself and looked at the clock.

"Half-past eleven," answered Elizabeth, solemnly. "My hour has come!"

"I thought it was later," groaned Elsie. "Will it never be morning?"

"Soon enough," whispered Elizabeth, "soon enough."

"I wonder if Grant has gone to bed; I asked him if he was sleepy, and
he--"

"Well?"

"Oh, he only gave a queer sort of laugh, and said, 'Sensible people
always are sleepy when it comes bedtime.'"

Elizabeth had said truly her hour had come, but she could not go yet;
she must wait until all danger of discovery was over--stand there
breathless while her husband forgot her and her agony in peaceful sleep.
They were both silent for a time, then Elsie began to shiver again, like
some young bird lost from its nest in a storm.

"Oh, if it would only come morning!"

"Soon enough, soon enough," repeated Elizabeth, as before.

"Do talk to me; I shall die if you don't!"

"What can I say, child? I can only wait--wait."

"Wait! What do you mean? Oh, I know--I know!"

The girl broke off with a more violent shudder and buried her face in
her hands.

"What made you remind me?" she cried. "I shall go crazy now. Bessie!
Bessie!"

But this time, when the girl clung to her, Elizabeth removed her hands,
not impatiently, but with quiet firmness.

"You must control yourself," she said. "I have upon me all that I can
bear now. Be still, Elsie!"

"I will! I will!" she sobbed. "Oh, wouldn't it be better to be dead?"

"Better! Yes, a thousand times; but it is not easy to die."

Elsie checked her sobs again, and caught at the hope with which she had
sustained herself all day.

"This is the last of it," she said; "this night once safely over, and
there is an end."

"One way or the other," muttered Elizabeth.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing--nothing."

It was worse than useless, to agitate the girl's weakness afresh with
fears that lay so deep in her own mind. Whichever way the end came,
Elsie was safe. Was the creature thinking that as she shut her eyes and
leaned more closely against her sister?

"Yes, it will be all safe then," she went on. "The money is paid; we
shall have the papers; there is nothing more to fear."

Elizabeth did not answer; she allowed her to think that the danger from
that quarter was removed. It could do no good to fill her mind with
added fears.

"There is the wind again!" cried Elsie. "Oh, if it would only stop!"

The sound recalled all that lay in the coming hours, and she was
unnerved again.

"You are not frightened, are you, Bessie?" she asked.

"I suppose not; there is nothing to fear."

"To be alone with him and--and--Oh, I ought to go with you; I'll
try--I'll try."

At that late hour some remorse woke in her mind for her unsisterly
selfishness, but Elizabeth said very kindly:

"You will stay here; you could do no good."

"But I shall go mad while you are gone."

"You must get into bed again."

"How long shall you be away?"

"I can't tell. Stop--don't talk about it. I shall go through with it
all; let me alone till then."

Elsie writhed to and fro in hysterical weakness.

"You must be quiet," Elizabeth said. "Suppose he should hear you?"

"Grant? Oh, I'll be still--I'll be still as death."

"What time is it?" Elsie asked again.

"Almost twelve; the clock will strike in a moment."

"How much longer shall you wait?" asked the girl in a whisper. "Did he
answer your telegram?"

"I did not expect that he would, there was too much danger in it. But
hush, I must discover if he is asleep."

"Grantley?"

"Yes."

"What was that noise?" Elizabeth exclaimed suddenly.

"I heard nothing," Elsie answered, lifting her head and allowing it to
fall again on her sister's knee.

"It sounded like a step in the hall," said Elizabeth.

"It was only your fancy," returned Elsie. "This house is as still as the
grave."

Elizabeth rose from her chair and walked to the window.

"You are not going?" cried Elsie.

"No; I only want to look. Be still!"

Elsie cowered down on the rug and muffled herself more closely in her
shawl, lying quite still, with a sort of comfort in the feeling of
warmth which began to creep over her.

Elizabeth pushed back the heavy curtains and looked out into the night.
A stream of dim, silvery radiance shot into the room, and played like
rippling water over the floor.

Elsie half started to her feet with a cry.

"What is that? What is that?"

"The moon is up," said Elizabeth, simply.

Elsie laid her head down again, Elizabeth stood leaning her hands on the
window-sill, looking straight before her.

The moonlight was peculiarly clear, and millions of stars shone forth
with the diamond radiance seen only in a frosty night. Every object was
visible. Hoar frost shone up whitely from the crisp grass of the lawn,
and long black shadows were cast downward by the trees, shaken like
drapery when the wind tossed the branches up and down.

From where Elizabeth stood she could look out over the withered
flower-beds and into the thicket beyond.

Suddenly her eye caught sight of a man standing under the cypress tree,
which rose up gloomy and dark, its branches waving slowly to and fro,
looking, to her excited fancy like spectral hands that beckoned her
forth to her doom.

She uttered a faint sound and strained her eyes towards it with a chill
feeling of horror. Elsie was roused again by the noise, and asked,
quickly:

"What is the matter?"

"Nothing, nothing."

"What made you groan, then?"

"I am looking out," returned Elizabeth, in a low voice, leaning more
heavily against the window for support, "he is there!"

"Come away, come away!" cried Elsie, muffling her face more closely in
her shawl, as if to shut out some dreadful object. "Come back to the
fire, Elizabeth, do!"

"Surely, if I can go out there to meet him," she said, "I have courage
enough to look at the old tree."

Elsie only groaned anew. She sat upright and rested herself against the
chair her sister had left.

"How does the night look, Bessie?" she asked, in a low, scared tone.

"The moonlight is so ghostly," returned Elizabeth; "it looks frightened.
No wonder--no wonder!"

Elsie trembled more violently, but it seemed as if some power stronger
than her own will forced her to continue these harassing questions.

"And the cypress, Bessie, how does it look?"

"Stern and dark--no wonder, sheltering him," cried Elizabeth. "It
beckons to me; the branches look like giant arms tempting me to ruin. I
must go--I must go!"

Her voice was little more than a whisper, but it sounded painfully sharp
and distinct. Elsie buried her face in both hands, once more to shut out
the images it conjured up.

"Come back!" she moaned; "Elizabeth, come back!"

"I must go. It is time."

"Wait--wait--just a moment! Don't go yet--don't leave me--I shall die
here alone."

Elsie dragged herself along the floor to where Elizabeth stood, and
caught her dress in a convulsive grasp.

"Wait a little--just a little?"

The very weakness of this girl seemed to give Elizabeth a sort of insane
composure.

"Let go my dress," she said; "I must be gone."

"I can't stay here--I can't!"

"Be still--you must, and shall!"

She wrenched her garments from Elsie's hands, and the girl fell
helplessly on the floor.

"Let me creep into bed first," she moaned; "I shall run mad if you leave
me here. Oh, I'll go--I ought to go! What an unnatural creature I am!
I'll go!"

"Don't talk--don't think--it is too late," whispered Elizabeth. "If you
can pray, do it."

"I can't--I daren't! Help me up, Elizabeth--help me up."

But there was no response. Elizabeth was bending towards the window
again, looking straight at the cypress tree; but the dread which had
been in her face before was weak compared to the horror that convulsed
it now.

"He is going there!" she cried, in an awful voice.

Elsie caught hold of her and raised herself so as to look out of the
window.

"Who--who? What do you mean?"

"See--see!" continued Elizabeth. "Some one is creeping towards the
cypress. He has a spade in his hand. Merciful God, it is too late!"

"Is it Grantley?" shrieked Elsie. "Is it Grantley?"

"There he goes! I told you I heard steps! My God! my God!"

She fell on her knees by the window, still staring out into the spectral
light. Elsie gave one glance, saw her brother walking towards the
cypress, and then sank back, unable to venture another look.

CHAPTER LXI.

THE MIDNIGHT SEARCH.

Alone in his room, Grantley Mellen had sat for hours with only stern
thoughts for his companions, and they grew so black and fierce that the
most terrible crisis would have been less hard to endure than that
suspense.

He waited silent, immovable, till the last sound in the house died away;
waited still for slumber to overtake every inmate of the dwelling, that
he might carry out the plan he had formed.

He was going out to the cypress tree; he would discover if his wife's
agitation, when he proposed digging about it, was in any way connected
with the mystery which surrounded her. He believed that it was so,
though in what manner it was impossible to divine. Perhaps there were
letters hidden there--some condemning evidence against her which she had
found no opportunity since his return to destroy. Whatever it was, he
would discover it, drag it out, and with this fresh proof of her
treachery in his hands, overwhelm her with a knowledge of her guilt.

He, too, sat watching the clock, counting the strokes as the hours
sounded, but to him the time appointed did not arrive quickly. It seemed
as if the hands scarcely moved; in his mad impatience he thought the
appointed instant never would approach.

It was a terrible vigil that he kept; the strongest man could not for
many hours have endured that strain of suspense, while tortured by such
fiendish whispers as moaned in his ear.

The time came at last; the moonlight streamed pale and uncertain through
the casement; no sound broke the stillness, even the wind had ceased its
moaning. He could go forth now without fear of discovery.

He could go forth, but to what?

His very inability to form an idea of the discoveries he might make,
increased the fever of his impatience. He could wait no longer--not a
moment--not a second.

He opened the door and crept cautiously through the gallery, down stairs
into the lower hall, undid the fastenings of the outer door and passed
on to the veranda.

The garden tools were some of them in a closet in the area; he went down
the steps, opened the door, took out a spade and hurried towards the
cypress tree.

There he was, standing under the moaning branches, his head bare,
digging wildly and aimlessly about the roots, peering at every lump of
earth with his insane gaze, ready to believe that he had at last come
upon that nameless thing for which he sought.

And while he dug furiously into the earth, Elizabeth Mellen knelt by the
window-seat watching him; and Elsie lay upon the floor, so utterly
prostrated that she could only cry out to Elizabeth at intervals in her
sharp, discordant voice:

"Is he there yet--is he there?"

"Still there," she answered.

"What is he doing?"

"Digging, digging! He is on the wrong side of the tree."

Elsie gave a sigh of relief.

"No, no," continued Elizabeth; "he stops to throw the earth back--he is
going farther round."

"Has he found the place--has he?"

"Not yet."

Elsie could not even groan; her breath came in quick gasps; her hands
tore madly at the carpet, but Elizabeth leaned motionless against the
window-sill, watching always with that strained gaze.

"Where is he now, Bessie?"

"He has not reached it--he is near! No! he is digging again--he has not
found the place."

"If we could only stop him," cried Elsie, roused to new courage. "If I
opened my window and called out."

"Too late, too late!"

"But he will find it--he will find it!"

"Then God help me, I can do no more!"

Elsie sprang up with another shriek.

"You'll tell--you'll tell! I know you will give way--and Grant will
murder you--murder us all."

Elizabeth caught the frantic creature in her arms, and forced her back
on the couch.

"Lie still," she said.

"Let me go, I say--let me go! I want to die--I won't live after he finds
you out. I'll kill you, Elizabeth, if you don't let me go."

But Elizabeth held her firmly in spite of her insane struggles, crying
out:

"It is nothing to you--you have no cause to fear. You are mad, mad! I
tell you the trouble is mine; whatever comes falls on my head; be still,
Elsie."

"You promise. Swear it--swear not to bring my name in."

"I have sworn and I will keep my oath," returned Elizabeth. "Disgrace,
infamy, death--I will bear them all alone. What should I gain by
dragging you down with me?"

She fell away from the girl as she spoke, but Elsie did not attempt to
rise; she lay still now, exhausted by her recent violence, and reassured
by Elizabeth's promise.

Again the woman leaned against the window-sill and looked out towards
the tree. Mellen was at work still, more furiously than ever, throwing
up great shovelsful of earth and dashing them down with frantic haste.

"Is he there yet?" called Elsie.

"Yes, yes! How he works--dig--dig--dig!"

She stopped suddenly: the silence raised wilder horror in Elsie's mind.

"Has he found it?"

"Not yet. He is standing still now, he is throwing the earth back."

"What now--what now?" called Elsie, when Elizabeth paused.

"He is looking about--he is puzzled. There is only that place left--he
will miss it. The shadows are blackest there."

Another instant of intent watching, then a low cry.

"He is there--he is there!"

"Stop him!" shrieked Elsie. "Shout to him!"

Elizabeth whispered hoarsely:

"Too late! too late!"

"Is he digging?"

"Yes; wait--wait!"

She clutched the window-sill until her nails bent and broke against the
woodwork.

"First on one side, then the other," she whispered. "He doesn't touch
the right spot--I know it so well--night and day I have seen it----"

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

She never heeded the mad cry, pressed closer and closer to the
window-frame, staring out as if every energy of her nature was centred
in that gaze.

"He has not found it! He stops again--he throws down the spade! He is
stamping on the ground. Oh! once more!"

Then another pause, and at last Elizabeth cried in the same sharp
whisper:

"He is throwing the earth back--he turns away!"

"Saved! saved!" shrieked Elsie.

Elizabeth watched her husband's movements still. He stood for some
moments in quiet, then walked about the tree; she could feel the baffled
rage that shook him.

He turned away at last and disappeared around the corner of the house.
Then Elizabeth sprang to her feet.

"Where are you going?" cried Elsie.

"Lie still--don't speak, on your life!"

She ran to the door and locked it, then threw herself down by the fire.

"He might come in and find us," she whispered.

Elsie crept across the floor again, seeking protection at her side.
There they waited, hushing their breaths, listening for the echo of his
step on the stairs. It came at last, muffled and cautious, but terribly
distinct to their strained senses. He half paused at the room where they
were, passed on, the door of his chamber opened and shut.

"He has gone in," said Elizabeth.

"Saved! saved!" broke again from Elsie, but there was no answering echo
from the woman by her side.

For a time they sat motionless, whether moments or hours neither of them
ever could have told.

CHAPTER LXII.

UNDER THE CEDAR.

At last Elizabeth rose, moved noiselessly across the chamber, while
Elsie raised her head to look.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"You know," Elizabeth answered.

"You won't--you can't! Oh, wait--wait!"

"And to-morrow have the whole household look on while the work is more
thoroughly done!"

"Is there no other way?"

"None. This is the last hope; I shall try it."

There was no elation in her voice at the danger she had escaped, no hope
rising up now that she might go through her task in safety, no dread
either of what she had to do, only stern determination, the chill of
utter despair, ready to struggle but not to hope. She wrapped a shawl
about her without the slightest appearance of haste, and stood still a
little longer, more like a marble statue endowed with the power of
motion than a breathing, living creature.

"Are you going?" called Elsie.

"Yes; I shall not be long--not long."

But Elsie rushed after her and caught her in her arms.

"Every moment is worth a whole life," cried Elizabeth. "Let me go!"

She forced the girl to release her hold, and with one feeble wail Elsie
fell senseless to the floor.

"Better so," muttered Elizabeth, "better so!"

The excitement she was laboring under gave this woman new strength. She
raised the insensible girl, carried her through the vacant chamber, and
laid her on the bed in her own room. She drew the bedclothes over her
inanimate form and turned away.

"Now for the end," she murmured, "the bitter, bitter end."

She went back to her own room, closing the doors after her, then,
without further delay, passed down the private staircase which led to
the little entry off the library.

Once on the stairs she paused to listen, but there was no sound, and she
hurried on noiseless as a spirit. One of the shutters was ajar,
admitting a few gleams of light, by which she could see to unbolt the
door.

She was out in the air at last; the first step was taken in safety--in
her turn she flew towards the cypress tree. She was under its shadow,
the branches writhed and moaned like living things, the moon shot in and
out of the gathering clouds, and cast a flickering, uncertain light
about that was more terrible than the deepest gloom.

As she stood in the depth of the shadows, a man came out from the thick
darkness that lay under a neighboring clump of white pines, and drew
close to her.

"I have been here some time," he whispered. "Everything is ready out
yonder--rather rough work for a gentleman, but take it as a proof how
ready I am to help you, even after all the money is paid in. But do you
know that Mellen has been here?"

"I saw him--I know it; we have no time!"

"Fortunately, he will know why the earth is broken up, having done it
with his own hands," said the man, with a suppressed laugh, that made
Elizabeth shudder. "Better still, he has left the spade--threw it down
in angry disappointment. That is fortunate, for mine was partly disabled
out yonder: now show me the exact spot."

She had no need to search, only too well she knew the place. Night and
day for weeks the dread spot had been with her, in every dream she had
watched men digging, digging--digging with frantic haste; and, as in her
dreams, all strength seemed to fail, and some unseen power to hold her
back, so now, in that frightful reality, her arms fell half paralyzed,
and she could not lift her hand to point out the spot.

To and fro the branches swayed above her head, beating themselves about,
moaning like evil voices. The wind swept up chill and warningly.

Such a terrible face it was that confronted the man--such a pale
terrified face, lighted up with those agonized eyes, that seemed to grow
large and wild in the moonlight.

The man stood before her, leaning on his spade, waiting.

"It is there just in that line of moonlight," she said at last, pointing
downward with her finger.

The man lifted the spade with all his fierce might, and struck it deep
into the earth, which the cold nights had frozen, until it gave out a
sharp ringing sound.

Elizabeth held her breath; what if that sound had reached the house!

Another firm downward thrust of the spade was scarcely heard. The crust
was broken, the earth grew soft and yielding--the wretched woman
remembered how carefully it had been packed down over the spot. For
nights after, the hollow sound of the spade had rung in her ears, and
nothing could dull its echo.

A horrible fear was coming over her, a supernatural, ghostly dread, that
made her flesh creep and the hair rise on her temples.

Spadeful after spadeful of earth was thrown out, but still the bottom
was not reached. She had not thought it deep--so deep. If it should be
empty--if nothing was there!

What if the place had been searched before, if the least possibility of
removing that terrible evidence was gone beyond her power!

The idea was too maddening, and she shook off the nightmare-like
oppression which had been upon her, as the spade suddenly struck some
substance harder than the earth, and rang out with a dull, heavy sound.

For one instant she started back. She was alone in the night, alone with
that man, who uttered an exclamation of delight that his task was so
near done. Elizabeth drew back. She dared not even peer into the cavity.
It was choked up with shadows, and their blackness seemed to warn her
off.

The mighty strength that had carried this woman forward till now, left
her. The cold pierced her through and through; still she found strength
to speak, and implored the man to complete his work. He took up the
spade again, dropped it into the impalpable darkness of the hole and
pressed it down, leaning his whole weight upon it.

She shivered violently now. A sharp pain ran through her chest, as if
she, too, had been putting forth some great physical energy. Shadows
from the disturbed cypress boughs were falling all about her, breaking
and forming again in a thousand fantastic movements. But one shadow,
dark, solid and still, fell across a gleam of moonlight at her feet,
freezing her to the heart. She looked slowly up and saw her husband.

CHAPTER LXIII.

FACE TO FACE.

For several seconds the husband and wife remained looking at each other
in utter silence; the moaning of the cypress boughs sounded louder and
more weird; through the whirl of her senses Elizabeth heard it still.

"Come forward," she heard her husband's voice say at length, in the
hard, icy tones of concentrated passion. "Come forward, woman, that I
may see your face."

The words seemed to come from a great distance; looking over at him, it
seemed as if that shallow trench between them was a bottomless abyss
which no power could bridge over,--the gulf between them for ever and
ever.

"Come forward, I say."

She staggered slowly into the moonlight; the warning was fulfilled;
ruin, disgrace had come; yet there she stood speechless, motionless,
unable even to give utterance to a moan.

The man who had been digging, flung down his spade with a smothered
oath.

For a little time Mellen stood almost as still and helpless as herself.
Suddenly, in a voice that sounded scarcely human, he turned upon this
man.

"Take up the spade, and finish your work!"

With something between a laugh and an oath, North snatched the spade,
plunged it into the grave, and pressed all his force upon it. Slowly the
edge of a box appeared. That evil man seemed to triumph in his gloomy
work: placed one foot on the handle of the spade to hold it firmly, bent
down and dragged the box into the moonlight.

Pulling the spade up from the crumbling earth, he raised it on high, and
was about to dash the box open. Elizabeth lifted her hands in mute
appeal.

She hoped nothing from her husband's forbearance. The action was only an
instinct of her whirling senses, such as makes a drowning man clutch at
straws; but with it her limbs gave way, and she fell upon her knees by
the box, still lifting her white face to that stem, determined
countenance.

"Do you think to oppose me even now?" he exclaimed. "I wonder I do not
kill you. Ask this man, this double dyed villain to dig deeper his pit,
which has concealed your infamy, and bury you there alive,--that would
be a mercy to us both."

"If you would only kill me," she moaned, "only kill me."

"Stand up," he cried again; "stand up, I say."

But she stretched out her hands over the box; some insane idea of still
preserving it from his touch, rushed across her mind.

"Open it," he said, turning fiercely on North; "I will look on this
dishonor with my own eyes."

"Don't open it; don't open it! Let us pass away from your sight for
ever."

Mellen caught her arm and pulled her roughly away.

"You shall not touch the dead," she cried; "kill me but do not commit
sacrilege."

Elizabeth struggled on to her knees, and wound her arms about him in a
convulsive grasp: he shook her off with loathing, as if a poisonous
reptile had brushed his garments.

North stood with an evil light in his eyes, looking on Mellen, snatched
the spade from his grasp, and while a despairing cry died on Elizabeth's
lips, dashed it upon the cover; again and again, till the frail board
split, revealing a gleam of white underneath.

Elizabeth was lying on the ground--not insensible; no such blessed
relief came to her--but incapable of a movement; watching her husband
always with those insane eyes.

His passion had exhausted itself in this sacrilegious violence, and he
stood over the shattered box, struck with remorseful awe. But the wind
swept over it, lifting some folds of transparent muslin from a little
face that Elizabeth had seen night and day in her thoughts and her
dreams, since the dreadful night when that grave was dug under the
cypress tree.

She saw the face; saw her husband looking down upon it; saw all the
shuddering horror in his eyes. Still she could not move.

"This has been a murder!" he hissed through his clenched teeth. "I swear
that the guilty ones, even if my own name is dragged down to infamy with
them, shall be brought to judgment."

"No, no," she moaned; "not murder; not that."

He caught her arm again and lifted her up.

"Tell the truth," he cried; "I will hear it!"

She could only stare at him with an affrighted gaze.

"I will bring the whole neighborhood to look," he went on; "I will drag
this secret guilt out in the face of day if you do not speak! I will
give you no time; no chance of escape; speak, or I will rouse the whole
house, and let them see you here with this vile man, at your guilty
work."

"Wait," she shivered; "wait!"

"Do you know what this is?" he cried. "The murder of a child! Do you
know that to-morrow may find you a criminal in the hands of
justice--you, my wife! You, in whose care I entrusted not only my honor
but the most innocent soul that ever lived. Speak then! Expect no mercy
from me; not to save my own honor; not to keep my own soul would I lift
one finger to help you! Think of it! Picture it to yourself!--The eager
crowd gathering about this spot; the hootings and execrations that will
follow you forth to prison! Think of the days and nights in your lonely
cell; remember the trial! the sentence! the horrible death! you shall
not escape! you shall not escape one of these things."

"Grantley! Grantley!"

"Not content with one crime, you have added murder; striving to hide
your guilt with a deeper sin!"

"This child died," she moaned; "it was God's own mercy, not my crime!"

"Speak then, and tell the whole truth. Do it. But have no thought that
even confession can save you; never hope for mercy from my weakness! You
can have no enemy who will prove so relentless as I will; if there was a
hope of your escape I would hunt you both down to utter disgrace--nay,
to death itself!"

"It is only to die," she muttered; "only to die."

"Will you speak; will you confess? Tell me how you murdered it?"

"There was no murder."

"But you buried it; you and this fiend who shared your guilt? Speak that
man's name; I will have it, and from your lips. But, oh, if you have
degraded my sister with this secret; if you have blighted her innocence
with a knowledge of your guilt----"

"Stop," she broke in; "stop! do not speak of her."

Even in that moment some recollections came upon her, and her face fell
forward, bowed down to her marble bosom.

"Elsie knows nothing," she said; "for her sake spare me."

"If you wish to escape having your shame dragged before the whole world,
tell me the truth."

"For her sake, for Elsie's, have mercy! I don't expect it--but,
remember, disgrace to me reflects not only on you but her! Think of
that--don't blight her whole future in crushing me!"

"I left her in your hands--she has been living in daily intercourse with
you--you have stained her lips with your kisses--degraded her by your
affection."

"I have not hurt her," she cried; "I tell you she never received harm
from me."

There was only one thought in her mind, to preserve Elsie from his
anger--the worst had come to her now. Her present agony was too great
for dread--the shame of the world--the most loathsome prison--nothing
could bring such pangs as this wrenching away of hope and happiness.

She sat upright on the ground, folding her hands in her lap. Weaker
women would have fainted, perhaps gone mad, but when the first dizzy
whirl had left her senses, she could see and think clearly.

"With this man you alone buried the child. Will you own it, or shall I
charge the servants as your accomplices--will you carry out your guilt
to the last, and let others suffer that you may escape?"

"No, no! I do not struggle. See, I do not defend myself. Let it fall on
me! But no murder, do not charge me with murder. Oh, I am not so bad as
that--I could not harm one of God's creatures."

"Is not your sin worse than murder? Why, the blackest criminal has white
hands compared to yours! You whom I loved and trusted--you have dragged
a man's soul through the depths of your sin."

"I have not, I have not!" she broke forth.

He pointed to the box--he turned his finger to the man who stood in the
shadows, shrouded with blackness, like the fiend he was. What could she
say--how could she deny with that evidence at her feet.

"Oh, my God, have mercy!" she groaned.

"Don't take his name on your lips--don't curse yourself more deeply by a
prayer!"

She crouched lower on the ground, her wild eyes were raised to heaven,
but there was no help--no aid.

"All the facts--I will hear them from your own lips--speak."

She was silent.

"I know--I have been on your track for days. It was not enough that you
destroyed my life, trampled on my honor, but you must choose for the
partner of your guilt the man who had most cruelly wronged me--the one
foe I had on earth."

"No, no! I never saw that man--never!"

"Peace, woman! I tell you that man standing yonder with a grin of Satan
on his lips, is William Ford."

She did cry out then--this was a horror of which she had not dreamed.

"I never knew it; I never knew it."

"And you love this wretch? Through him you shall suffer!"

"I hate him, loathe him!" she cried. "Oh, in this one thing believe
me--I never knew it was Ford. The name was changed to deceive me."

"I would not believe a word from your lips though you brought an angel
to witness it."

Then he looked down at the little coffin, and a fierce gust of insanity
swept over him.

"I will send for some officer of justice."

She caught his arm and held him firmly.

"For Elsie's sake--don't overshadow her life with the shame you hurl on
me. Let me go away--you shall never hear of me again--I will never cross
your path! I do not ask for mercy, but for your sister's sake, for your
own honored name, let me go away and die."

CHAPTER LXIV.

BURIED OUT OF SIGHT.

Lost and guilty as this woman was, there existed still one human virtue
in her soul--even in his rage Mellen could feel that she spoke the
truth--she was not asking mercy for herself--she was pleading for the
innocent girl whose future would be destroyed were it known how vile the
creature was with whom she had been the associate.

"Where will you go--what will you do?"

"Anything--anything! You shall never hear from me again."

"You are going with this man!"

"There is no life so horrible that I would not prefer it to his
presence," she said; "no death so shameful that it would not be heaven
compared to seeing his face again."

There was a brief pause then; Mellen grasped her by the arm.

She thought he was about to kill her. She sank on her knees and a broken
prayer rose to her lips. She would not have struggled; she would have
knelt there and received death patiently from his hands.

"Do you think me lost and vile as yourself?" he cried, reading her
thoughts in this gesture. "I do not want your life--do with it what you
will! For my innocent sister's sake I will spare you--but go--go where I
never can hear your name--let me have no reason to know that you exist!
If you cross my path again, nothing shall keep me from exposing you to
the whole world."

All at once, North came out from the shadows that had concealed his
face, and stood before the man he had so foully wronged.

"Grantley Mellen," he said, "for your own sake, believe me. If this
woman will not speak, I am not coward enough to keep silent."

Elizabeth stepped forward, her head raised, her eyes flashing.

"But I charge you--North or Ford, I charge you, make no defence for me.
At your hand, neither he or I, will accept it. There has been no murder,
there must be none. If this most wronged man grants us the mercy of
silence, it is enough."

"But I am not brute enough to----"

"Peace," said Elizabeth; "if you would serve me, obey him."

"Obey him," answered North, with a sneer. "I would do almost anything.
Yes, and I will do even that; but you are the only woman on earth for
whom I would so bend and creep to this man."

These words stung Mellen like vipers, but he would not allow those two
criminals to know how his heart writhed.

"It is well," he said; "there is more to be done. Go and finish your
work."

North took up the spade.

"Remember," he said. "It is for her sake."

Elizabeth made an effort to speak.

"Be still," said Mellen, "we need no more words."

North began throwing the earth back into the trench, Elizabeth sat still
and watched him.

It seemed to her that she did not suffer--there was nothing in her mind
save the blank feeling which one might experience sitting over the ruin
an earthquake had made, after burying home, love, everything the soul
clings to. North filled the chasm and smoothed the earth down over it
carefully. Then, without a pause, he straightened the lid of the
coffin--there was no haste, no recoiling--he drove back the nails that
had been loosened, into their place--then he raised the box in his arms,
saying, only:

"Come!"

Mellen walked forward, Elizabeth followed a little behind--she did not
ask a single question, but moved slowly down the avenue towards the
outer gates. They passed through, out into the high road, up the little
hill, Mellen walking sternly on, and the woman following, North marching
forward with long strides, bearing the coffin on his shoulder.

They reached the graveyard; the fence was broken in one place; Mellen
wrenched off the picket and forced a passage. He passed through, and
Elizabeth mechanically kept in his footsteps. At the lower end of the
yard was a single grave, with the earth still fresh around it; not a
tuft of grass had sprung on the torn soil, but dead leaves had drifted
over it, and the frost crusted it drearily, turning its moisture to ice.
Elizabeth might have recognised this grave as one that had been given to
a fair woman who had perished in the late shipwreck, had she found any
room for thought out of her great misery. But she only saw a
dreary-looking grave, at which North paused. He set down the coffin and
again raised his spade. Elizabeth stood by, silently turning to stone,
as it were. She watched him dig a deep cavity, saw him lower the box
down into it, then he began to fill up the gap.

"It is done, your sin is buried; we part, and forever," said Mellen.

"We part here!" echoed Elizabeth.

"I have no more to say," he went on; "if you can live, do so; but,
remember, death comes at last--death and the judgment. I think, had your
sin been other than it is, I could have promised you forgiveness in your
last hour. But the horror of your crime in choosing that man----"

"I never knew it," she broke in. "Oh, believe that--do believe that! I
ask nothing more--I have no right even to ask so much--but if you should
one day hear that I am dead, believe that I have now told you the
truth."

"You have the means of subsistence," he went on; "the stocks I settled
upon you will be sufficient for your support. If you ever see this
wretch again, it is because you are altogether bad."

"Only say that when I am dead you will pardon me--only say that,
Grantley Mellen, for I have great need of one kind word."

"You will be careful that your name never reaches my ear," he went on,
regardless of her appeal. "Hide yourself in some strange land, where no
tidings of you may ever come near my home. I warn you, for your own
sake."

"Give me your forgiveness in my dying hour; only that, Grantley, for I
have loved you so!"

"I will not promise it. This mockery is worse than your sin!" he
exclaimed. "If it were to keep your soul from eternal torture, I could
not speak a pardoning word."

She fell forward upon the ground.

"Only for my death-bed--your pardon for my death-bed?"

"Never! Never!"

His voice rang out clear and sharp, as steel striking steel. It was like
the sound of prison doors shutting out the last gleam of light and hope
from a condemned criminal.

"Don't be found here," he said; "nor be heard of again. We are parting
now forever. Take the shelter of my roof for the rest of this miserable
night. I will not send you forth in darkness--go, but we meet no more!"

He turned and walked away; she watched him threading his path among the
graves, and it seemed as if she must die when her eyes lost him.

He had reached the palings, he was passing through. She raised herself,
her last expiring energy went out in one agonized appeal:

"Your pardon--for my death-bed--Grantley--husband!"

He never turned, never paused--perhaps he did not hear--but walked
steadily and firmly on.

Elizabeth looked up at the cold sky; the moon was partially hidden, the
dawn was struggling up gray and chilled in the east, the wind moaned
faintly among the graves, and rustled her garments like the stirring of
a shroud; there she stood among the graves of her world, as utterly
helpless and lost as if eternity swept between her and the past, and
there she remained during some minutes that lengthened out like years,
with the wind moaning around her and dead leaves crackling under her
feet. She could see her old home through the naked trees, with the dull
smoke curling in clouds above the chimneys, and the great trees sweeping
their naked branches over it. Oh, how her heart yearned towards it, how
wistfully her eyes watched all those signs of her forfeited life through
the leafless grove and the drifting leaves!

"Can I help you, can I do anything?"

Elizabeth lifted her dreary eyes. It was North. The desolation of that
poor woman smote him with remorse, his voice trembled with human pity.

"The money--you shall have part of that."

Elizabeth shook her head; she had no strength for resentment. All pride
was crushed within her.

"Go," she said, "leave me here alone; I want nothing."

"But I cannot leave you so--I will not."

Elizabeth arose and stood upright among the graves.

"I am going somewhere--this way, I think. One cannot rest here, you
know," she said, with a wan and most pathetic smile. "You and I have
been too much in company--the world is wide--oh, misery, misery, how
wide--but you can go that way and I the other. No one will ask for me."

Was the woman dropping into piteous insanity?

North thought so, and made another effort to arouse her, but she only
entreated him to go away, and at last he went; afraid that the daylight
would find him there.

CHAPTER LXV.

THE HUSBAND RELENTS.

Grantley Mellen turned back to the miserable grandeur of his home. The
proud heart ached in his bosom. What if, from fear or weakness,
Elizabeth did not return to the house? What if she remained there among
the cold graves, or wandered off in terror of his wrath?

The graveyard was full half a mile from the spot where this thought
struck him. He turned at once and went back, feeling how unmanly it was
to leave the miserable creature stricken with such anguish, alone with
that man. He remembered how her uncovered head had drooped under his
denunciations in the moonlight, that the cold wind had lifted the waves
of her hair and revealed the dead marble of a face in which all hope was
quenched. Notwithstanding his wrongs, notwithstanding the ache at his
heart, he would go back and take her home for that one night--only for
that one night.

He walked rapidly towards the graveyard, more eager now to find
Elizabeth than he had been to separate from her only a brief time
before. He looked to the right and left in search of her, but the moon
was obscured now by thin gray clouds, and a fog drifting up from the
ocean was fast obliterating the crowd of golden stars that had been so
brilliant when he went forth.

Mellen walked on, growing more and more anxious, till he came in sight
of the graveyard, then he paused under a clump of cedars; for he saw his
unhappy wife forcing her way, in desperate haste, through the broken
pickets of the fence, with her face turned homewards. The gray woollen
shawl was floating loosely around her, giving a weird ghostliness to her
appearance.

Mellen turned and went back, sheltering himself under the cedar trees.
When he saw that she was safe, a revulsion came upon his feelings; a
sense of the wrong she had done him returned with bitter force, and when
she passed along the outskirts of the cedars, making her way down the
hill, he retreated deeper into the shadows, recoiling from contact with
her.

"She will go home," he said, gloomily, "no one is more familiar with the
paths through the woods. Thank heaven she does not know that I am weak
enough to care for her safety! Let her reach the house first, we shall
be less likely to meet."

With these thoughts in his mind he lingered in the cedars till Elizabeth
was out of sight. The wind was dying away in low sobs now, smothered
down by the fog, through which he could hear the moaning of the ocean
afar off.

Mellen left the woods, and made the best of his way home, believing that
his wife had already found a shelter there.

The house was dark and still as the grave when he entered it again.
Instinctively he trod with caution along the halls and crept stealthily
upstairs, for in the depths of his heart he was anxious to conceal
Elizabeth's movements that night from the servants, and, above all, from
Elsie. He paused and listened a moment in the square passage that led to
her rooms, hoping to hear some movement by which he could be certain
that she had reached home in safety. But there was no sound, and he
turned away sighing, for compassion and the tender pity which every
generous man feels for a fallen woman whom he has once loved, was
turning the bitterness of his rage into intense pain.

Hearing nothing, and with vague uncertainty at his heart, the unhappy
man entered his own dark chamber, threw off his clothes and flung
himself into bed, wretched beyond any power of my pen to describe.

But he could not sleep, could not even rest, the very effort at repose
drove him wild. He got up again, dressed himself and sat down by the
open window, looking out into the darkness. All at once he started and
leaned far out of the window. Was it fancy, or had some wailing voice
pronounced his name? Something gray and weird seemed floating from his
sight through the gathering fog. At first it had the form of a human
being, then it seemed as if a pair of wings unfurled and swallowed it
up. Was it his wife? Could that winglike envelopment be her gray woollen
shawl, tossed by the wind? Had her voice been engulfed in the far-off
moan of the ocean? In this dreary state the unhappy and most wronged man
remained all the rest of that gloomy night.

CHAPTER LXVI.

GONE.

The day began; the sun was up; once more the old house awoke to life and
activity.

Sitting in his chamber, Grantley Mellen heard the familiar sounds below;
he knew that life must sweep on again, that he must rise once more and
go forth among his fellow-men, hiding his misery as best he might,
taking his place in the world and bearing the secret burden of his
dishonored life. He went to the window, swept back the curtains which he
had drawn over it, and looked at himself in the glass. If he had wished
to know how his corpse would look after the ravages of time and disease,
he could have learned it in that prolonged gaze.

It was absolutely the face of a dead man; even the eyes looked
lifeless--there was only a heavy, stony expression, which had neither
spirit or humanity in it.

It was late in the morning when Elsie awoke from the heavy slumber which
had succeeded her swoon. For a few moments she lay still, believing that
the events of the past night had been only a dream. Suddenly she raised
herself with a cry of anguish--she had caught sight of the shawl which
Elizabeth had wrapped about her--she knew that it was all real.

She sprang out of bed, opened the door, ran through the empty chamber
and entered her sister's room:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

There was no answer. She looked about--the fire had died down in the
grate, the room was empty and desolate as a grave.

She hurried through into the sleeping apartment, calling still in a
voice which frightened herself:

"Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

The bed-chamber was empty too--the bed untouched.

"Gone!" cried the wretched girl. "Gone! Where is she? What has become of
her? Elizabeth, Elizabeth!"

She shrieked frightfully in her anguish--cried out in such terrible
anxiety, that the sound reached the chamber where Grantley Mellen sat.

He went out into the hall and approached the door of the dressing-room.
Elsie heard him--her first impulse was to flee but her limbs refused to
move.

She heard him try the door--heard him call:

"Elsie! Elsie!"

She must meet him--there was no escape.

Again the summons was repeated, more imperatively now.

"Elsie, open the door--quick, I say!"

She got to the door, she turned the key; her brother entered quickly,
and stood in Elizabeth's desolate room.

"Where is Elizabeth?" she cried. "I can't find her--I want Elizabeth."

Mellen felt a shiver of dread pass through his frame. He pushed the
chamber-door open and looked in, pale with anxiety. She was not
there--the bed was untouched, and gleamed upon him through the crimson
light that filled the room, like a crusted snowbank. There was none of
that luxurious confusion which usually marks the apartment of a sleeping
lady. The rich toilet service was in complete order. There was no
jewelry flung down with half sleepy indifference, no garments laying
ready for use on the chairs, or across the sofa. The silken window
curtains were drawn close. The carpet looked like moss in the deep
shadows of an autumnal forest.

"Gone, gone! Oh, my God, what has become of her?" he exclaimed.

"Where--what has happened? Is she dead? Oh, I shall go mad--I shall go
mad now," cried Elsie.

She fell into spasms, but still preserved her senses sufficiently not to
speak again--she dared not utter a word more, lest she should betray her
knowledge of Elizabeth's sorrow.

Mellen carried her to the sofa and laid her down upon it, wrapped shawls
and eider down quilts over her, holding her hands, which trembled like
frightened birds, striving in every way to soothe her, as Elizabeth had
so often done in the time gone by for ever.

Elsie lay back at length, quiet but utterly exhausted.

"Where is Elizabeth?" she moaned. "What has happened?"

"Never take that name on your lips again," he said; "let even her memory
be dead between us. That woman is no longer my wife--you will never see
her. She shall not suffer; I will deal gently with her; but to you, my
dearest sister, she is dead, forever and ever."

"You have killed her!" shrieked Elsie. "Elizabeth! Elizabeth!"

"She leaves this house of her free will, Elsie--the only condition I
have made is that she takes her name far out of our lives. Have you
known--have you suspected this woman, Elsie?"

"No, no! I don't know anything but what is good of her--I don't believe
anything! She is good and kind--send for her! You shan't drive her
away--she shall come to me now! My dear Elizabeth--I love her! You shall
not do this--you are mad, mad! She is the best woman that ever lived!
Let me go to her--I will go!"

She was writhing again in hysterical spasms, but Mellen forced her back
when she attempted to rise.

"Be still, Elsie--try to understand me! I can't tell you the whole
story--but we are parted. Do not plead for her. Do not mention her
name."

"But, Grantley, Grantley!"

"No more, I say--not a word."

"She is innocent," moaned the girl; "she is innocent."

"I know what you suffer--think of all that I endure--let that give you
strength."

"I tell you she is an angel--she has done no wrong!"

"I had the confession which separates us from her own lips--I tell you I
would not have believed any other testimony. Don't struggle so,
Elsie--lie still."

The girl fought with him like an insane creature--she had no self
control or reason--it was inability to speak which kept her from