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Title: Edith Percival. A Novel.
Author: Fleming, May Agnes (1840-1880)
Date of first publication: 1893
Edition used as base for this ebook:
   New York: G. W. Dillingham, 1893
Date first posted: 7 May 2010
Date last updated: 7 May 2010
Project Gutenberg Canada ebook #529

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  POPULAR NOVELS

  BY MAY AGNES FLEMING.


  1.--GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE.
  2.--A WONDERFUL WOMAN.
  3.--A TERRIBLE SECRET.
  4.--NORINE'S REVENGE.
  5.--A MAD MARRIAGE.
  6.--ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY.
  7.--KATE DANTON.
  8.--SILENT AND TRUE.
  9.--HEIR OF CHARLTON.
  10.--CARRIED BY STORM.
  11.--LOST FOR A WOMAN.
  12.--A WIFE'S TRAGEDY.
  13.--A CHANGED HEART.
  14.--PRIDE AND PASSION.
  15.--SHARING HER CRIME.
  16.--A WRONGED WIFE.
  17.--MAUDE PERCY'S SECRET.
  18.--THE ACTRESS' DAUGHTER.
  19.--THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE.
  20.--THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN.
  21.--EDITH PERCIVAL (_New_).

  "Mrs. Fleming's stories are growing more and more popular every day.
  Their delineations of character, life-like conversations, flashes of
  wit, constantly varying scenes, and deeply interesting plots, combine
  to place their author in the very first rank of Modern Novelists."

  All published uniform with this volume. Price, $1.50 each, and sent
  _free_ by mail on receipt of price by

  G. W. DILLINGHAM, Publisher,
  Successor to G. W. Carleton & Co., N. Y.




  EDITH PERCIVAL.

  A Novel.

  BY

  MAY AGNES FLEMING,

  AUTHOR OF

  "GUY EARLSCOURT'S WIFE," "THE QUEEN OF THE ISLE,"
  "THE MIDNIGHT QUEEN," "A WONDERFUL WOMAN,"
  "SILENT AND TRUE," "ONE NIGHT'S MYSTERY,"
  "A TERRIBLE SECRET," "NORINE'S REVENGE,"
  "THE ACTRESS DAUGHTER,"
  ETC., ETC.

  [Illustration: publishersdevice]

  NEW YORK:
  COPYRIGHT, 1893 BY
  _G. W. Dillingham, Publisher_,
  SUCCESSOR TO G. W. CARLETON & CO.
  MDCCCXCIII.
  [_All Rights Reserved._]




                            CONTENTS.


  Chapter                                         Page

       I. The Two Friends                             7

      II. The Wreck                                  16

     III. Saved                                      24

      IV. The Burning Ship                           29

       V. The Home of Edith                          43

      VI. Father and Son                             54

     VII. The Hermit of the Cliffs                   61

    VIII. The Rivals                                 70

      IX. Doomed                                     86

       X. Major Percival in a "State of Mind."       97

      XI. The Abduction                             113

     XII. In Captivity                              126

    XIII. Elva Snowe                                135

     XIV. An Unlooked-for Interruption              142

      XV. The Prisoners                             151

     XVI. Joe Smith                                 163

    XVII. Joe visits his Prisoners                  176

   XVIII. Plotting                                  182

     XIX. The Escape                                192

      XX. The Journey Home                          200

     XXI. The Hermit's Prediction                   208

    XXII. The Stake                                 222

   XXIII. A Narrow Escape                           237

    XXIV. The Last Resolve                          245

     XXV. The Old House on the Bluff                252

    XXVI. Caught in the Snare                       257

   XXVII. The Catastrophe                           262

  XXVIII. Next Morning                              268

    XXIX. The Arrest                                281

     XXX. The Trial                                 287

    XXXI. Edith's Story                             301

   XXXII. "The Wages of Sin is Death"               310

  XXXIII. A Startling Discovery                     316

   XXXIV. And Last                                  325




EDITH PERCIVAL.




CHAPTER I.

THE TWO FRIENDS.

    "And its hame, hame, hame,
      I fain wad be--
    Hame, hame, hame,
      In my ain countrie."

          --ALLAN CUNNINGHAM.

Morning on the ocean! Grandly rose the sun in the red east, sailing
slowly and majestically toward the meridian--a burning jewel of fire
set in the deep-blue sky. Light, fleecy clouds dotted the azure
firmament here and there, looking as pure and as stainless as
snowflakes or the white wings of angels. The balmy south breeze
scarcely rippled the surface of the deep, or filled the canvas of the
good ship _Mermaid_, as she glided gracefully onward, bound for the
bright shores of America.

The day was intensely hot. The crew lay in groups, idly, about the deck.
The captain--a stately-looking man of forty or thereabouts--paced up and
down the quarter-deck--now letting his eyes wander over his men, or
giving them some order; now looking aloft with a sailor's pride in his
handsome craft; and now raising his glass to sweep the horizon, on which
no living thing was to be seen save themselves.

Leaning over the taffrail, stood two young men. The eldest appeared to
be about twenty-five years of age--tall and finely proportioned, with
an eye like an eagle, and hair that

         --"To shame might bring
    The plumage of the raven's wing."

He stood leaning over the side, his eyes fixed thoughtfully on the
spray flashing in the sunlight, as the ship cut her way through the
rippling waves. His hat was off, and the cool breeze lifted lightly
the jetty locks off his high, white brow.

His companion was a youth some three or four years his junior, with a
frank, handsome face, and laughing hazel eyes. His look of careless
ease was very different from the proud reserve of his companion, but
some secret bond of sympathy bound those two together.

"Well, Fred," said the younger of the two, continuing their
conversation, "since, as you say, you neither have a lady-love in
America nor expect a legacy there, I confess it puzzles me to know
what inducement could have been strong enough to make you quit Paris."

"Very easily told, my dear fellow: I have started for America at the
express command of my worthy father."

"Whew! what a dutiful son you are, Fred. And, pray, what has brought
Sir William to that rebellious land?"

"To assist in subduing the rebellious Yankees, of course!" replied the
young man, with a slight sneer on his well-cut lip.

"And he wishes his son and heir to aid him in that laudable design,
instead of spending his time making love in Paris?"

"Yes; he has obtained for me the post of lieutenant in the British
army, he says."

"Which you will, of course, accept?" said the younger of the two, with
a peculiar smile, as he lit a cigar, and blew a whiff of smoke from
the corner of his mouth.

"Which I most decidedly will _not_!" replied Fred, coolly.

"And why, may I ask?"

"Why? What a question for _you_ to ask, Gus! Am I not an American by
birth--an American in heart and soul--a thousand times prouder of the
glorious land in which I was born than of my father's broad acres in
merrie England? Why? I tell you, Gus Elliott, I will join the ranks of
my countrymen, and fight and conquer or die with them in defence of
their cause!"

He stood erect, while his eagle eye flashed, and his dark cheek glowed
with the enthusiasm with which he spoke.

Gus stood regarding him with something like admiration struggling
through his usual look of careless indifference.

"Well," he said, after a pause, "I call that pretty strong language
for the son of such a staunch royalist as Sir William Stanley. What do
you suppose your honored father will say when he sees his son turn
rebel?"

"Doubtless," said Fred, quietly, "he will be in a towering passion,
and rather amazed that any one should presume to disobey his commands.
I have long known it must, sooner or later, come to this. When this
war first commenced, how often has my blood boiled with impotent rage,
listening to the insults and sneers of him and his tory friends on the
'rebel Yankees,' as they contemptuously called them! How I did long,
then, to leave England and fly to my native land, to aid her sons in
their brave struggles for independence! I would have done so, but I
shrank from the storm of passion which I knew must follow it. When my
father left England to join his Britannic Majesty's army in America, I
left for Paris, lest he should desire me to follow him, and thus
hasten a disclosure of our opposite sentiments. Three weeks ago, I
received his command to join him instantly. It seems some rumor of my
true sentiments had reached him; and, indignant that anyone should
presume to question the loyalty of a son of his, he desires me to
vindicate my allegiance to his gracious Majesty, and wipe off such a
stain on his name by immediately accepting the post he has obtained
for me in the army. Any further concealment is, of course, out of the
question: and I thank Heaven it is so; for it seems to me a craven act
in anyone to remain an idle spectator while his native land, in her
struggles for freedom, calls all her sons to her aid."

He leaned his head on his hand, and gazed thoughtfully on the bright
waves below.

"For myself," said Gus, who had been deeply impressed by Fred's
earnestness, "I always sympathized with the Colonies; but it was
merely the natural feeling which all must experience when they see a
band of brave men struggling for freedom. Like yourself, America is
the land of my birth, but, up to the present, I have been absent from
it so long, that I had almost ceased to regard if as such. Now,
however, my feelings are changed. Together, Fred, we will fight the
battles of our native land; every arm that will lift itself in her
defence is needed now."

"Your sentiments do you honor, my dear Gus; but, as _you_ asked _me_
before, what will your friends say?"

"Oh, I have no friends worth mentioning," replied Gus, resuming his
former indifferent tone. "I am an orphan, you know, with a bank-stock
sufficient for all my wants, with no relations that I know of except
an uncle in America, whom I have not seen these ten years. And I tell
you what," he added, with sudden animation, "he has two confoundedly
pretty daughters--especially the youngest. I used to be desperately in
love with Nell, as a boy."

"Indeed!" said Fred, smiling, "and who is this uncle of yours?--a
tory, no doubt."

"You had better believe it!" said Gus. "Major Percival hates the
rebels as he hates Old Harry. Of course, I'll be disowned when he
hears what I've done. Everyone has his own peculiar hobby; and pride
of birth is Major Percival's. If you were only to hear him, Fred! He
dates his descent back to the days of Noah, and a good deal further;
for some of his ancestors, I believe, were drowned in the flood. His
lady, too, Mrs. Percival, is the granddaughter of a lord; so you see
the major has some foundation for his family pride. He's as rich as
Croesus, too."

"And Miss Nell, I suppose, is heiress to all his wealth?"

"Not she, faith! Major Percival has a son and daughter besides; Nell's
the youngest. You ought to know Nugent Percival; he's a glorious
fellow, and no mistake--about your age, too, I should think."

"I may see them all yet--who knows?" said Fred. "I wish this voyage
were over. I long to see my father and tell him all, and join the
patriot army of Washington."

"You told me you were born in America," said Gus, after a pause. "I
thought Lady Stanley was an Englishwoman, and had never crossed the
Atlantic Ocean in her life."

"The Lady Stanley you knew was not my mother," said Fred, coldly.

"She was not! That's something I never heard before," exclaimed Gus,
in unbounded surprise.

"It's none the less true on that account," replied Fred, while a
slight flush crimsoned his dark cheek. "My mother was an American
born; she lived, died, and was buried in that land."

"Well, now, that's odd," said Gus, puffing meditatively at his cigar.
"Come, Fred, make a clean breast of it; I made an open confession to
you: and one good turn, you know, deserves another."

The young man smiled slightly, and then his face grew serious--almost
sad.

"Very few know my history," he said, with a half sigh, "but with you,
my dear Gus, I know I may speak freely. Many years ago, when my father
was a young man, business or pleasure--I know not which--called him to
America. Whilst there, he made the acquaintance of a young girl far
beneath him in wealth and rank, but his equal in education, and his
superior in moral worth. Bewildered by her beauty, he forgot their
different degrees of rank, and the young girl became his wife. His
marriage was kept a secret from his proud friends in England, and Sir
William knew that there was little fear of their ever discovering it,
for prudence had not been forgotten by love, and he had wooed and won
her under an assumed name. My mother never dreamed her husband was
aught but one of her own station, and it was my father's aim not to
undeceive her."

"It was a confoundedly mean trick!" interrupted Gus, indignantly.

"When I was about nine years old," continued Fred, unmindful of the
interruption, "my father started for England, as he said, on business.
As he was frequently in the habit of doing so, my mother was not
surprised, but her husband had by this time outgrown his love for her,
and when, five months after, he returned, it was as the husband of
another."

Gus was again about to make a passing remark on Sir William's conduct,
but suddenly checking himself, he sank back in silence.

"He told her all," went on Fred, with stern briefness; "his rank, his
title; told her he was the husband of another, and that she must no
longer consider herself his wife. He said he had come for me, to take
me with him to England; that I was his son, and should be educated as
became a Stanley. My poor mother shrieked and clung to me, but I was
forcibly torn from her arms. They said she fell to the ground like one
dead, and from that hour never spoke again. One week after she was
laid in her grave!"

Fred paused, while the veins in his forehead grew dark, and his voice
choked with suppressed emotion.

"But she was avenged," he continued, lifting his head, while his eyes
flashed; "she had a brother, absent at the time, but who, on his
return, heard the story from the sexton who had buried my mother. His
oath of vengeance was fearful, and fearfully kept. Five years passed
away. Sir William and Lady Stanley had but one child, a daughter, whom
they idolized. Leila was the gentlest and most beautiful creature I
ever saw. Words cannot tell you, Gus, how I loved that child. One day,
as the nurse was walking with her through the grounds of Stanley Park,
a man, dressed in the rough garb of a sailor, sprang from behind the
trees, and, in spite of the shrieks and struggles of the attendants,
bore her off.

The nurse, wild with terror, fled back to the house, and meeting Sir
William on the piazza, fell, fainting, at his feet. When she
recovered, she related what had happened, and the consternation and
horror her recital produced may be imagined. There was no doubt in Sir
William's mind as to who had done the deed. The abductor had left a
message: '_Tell Sir Will Stanley_,' said he, '_my sister is avenged_!'
Search was made in every direction, enormous rewards were offered, the
police was put on the track, but all in vain. Not the slightest clue
to Leila could be obtained. It was the belief of everyone, the sailor
had destroyed the child to escape detection."

"It is more than probable," said Gus. "Poor Lady Stanley! I can now
understand the cause of the strange melancholy that used to puzzle me
so much."

"She never smiled from that day," said Fred. "Had the child died she
would have grieved, but such grief is as nothing. It was the terrible
uncertainty as to its fate that weighed on her heart. It was well she
did not survive it long."

"And Sir William? how did he bear the loss?" inquired Gus.

"He became a changed man from that day. He grew stern, morose, and
harsh to all. I have no doubt he felt it to be a just retribution for
his conduct to his first wife, and this reflection rendered his
remorse more bitter. Poor Leila! dear little angel! Gus, I _cannot_
tell you how I loved that child."

He paced excitedly up and down, and Gus saw there were tears in the
deep, dark eyes of his friend.

"Yes, that's just the way I feel about Nell," said Gus, who really was
in a desperate strait for something to say, and the deep sigh that
accompanied his words seemed inexpressibly ludicrous.

In spite of himself, Fred laughed outright at his friend's melancholy
look, much to the disgust of Gus.

"On my honor, my dear fellow, you _are_ smitten. I shouldn't wonder if
you would be rash enough to take a wife next," said Fred.

"Rash! _I_ think it's the most sensible thing a fellow could do. Don't
you ever intend to marry, Fred?"

"Not I," said the other, carelessly, "as I said before, liberty or
death for me. Why, Gus, the tyranny of King George is nothing to that
of a wife. Don't you know what the French poet Mauvause says:

    'I would advise a man to pause
      Before he takes a wife,
    Indeed, I own, I see no cause
      He should not pause for life.'"

"He must have been a crusty old bachelor who wrote that," remarked Gus;
"as for me, I intend to make fierce love to Nell the moment I land.
'Pon my honor, I'd give a diamond ring to see that flinty heart of
yours lying at the feet of some graceful little Yankee--metaphorically
speaking, of course. They say, Fred, the American ladies are all
pretty!"

"I doubt it."

"You're a stoic, a cynic, an unbeliever--an old Diogenes in his tub. You
_deserve_ to die an old bachelor. It's my firm and never-to-be-shaken
belief that you have been jilted by some heartless coquette, and for
spite, now rail at the whole sex."

"I cry you mercy!" said Fred, as he laughingly ran his fingers through
his luxuriant dark locks. "I am now, as I ever was, and always shall
be, 'heart-whole, and fancy free.' But I see," he added, drawing out
his watch, "it is the hour

    'When lapdogs give themselves the rousing shake,
    And sleepless lovers just at twelve awake.'

So let us go below; the sable goddess of the cabin will presently
announce dinner is ready."

And together the two young men strolled into the cabin.




CHAPTER II.

THE WRECK.

    "Alone, alone, all, all alone,
    Alone on the wide, wide sea."

"I say, Jack, old fellow, it'll be doomsday before we reach Boston, at
this rate," remarked Gus, some three hours after the conversation
related above--as he, together with his friend, stood once more on the
deck.

The pleasant breeze of the morning had passed away, and was succeeded
by a dead calm. Not a breath of air rippled the surface of the deep;
the sails lay flapping idly against the masts; the crew lay, gasping
for breath, over the side of the ship. The sun, with its fiery, brassy
glow, glared in the cloudless sky, loosening the very seams of the
ship with the scorching heat, until everything looked parched and
burning. The vessel lay motionless on the glittering sea, her masts
and ropes reflected on the polished surface, as in a mirror. One could
almost imagine her to be a painted ship on a painted ocean--so still,
so lifeless, so sluggard was the calm.

The old tar addressed gave his trousers a hitch, turned an enormous
quid of tobacco into the other cheek, and replied only by a
dissatisfied growl.

"I'm fairly choking for breath," went on Gus, leaning over the
bulwarks in the vain endeavor to catch a mouthful of air; "I wish to
heaven a breeze would spring up."

"Humph!" grunted the old tar, as he discharged an enormous stream of
tobacco-juice over the side, "you'll have your wish before you sleep,
youngster, or _I'm_ mistaken."

"Well, confess you're a better judge of the weather than I am, if you
can see any sign of a breeze," said Gus. "By the look of things at
present I should conclude we might lie sweltering here for a month of
Sundays."

"I've been on the ocean man and boy, for thirty odd years, sir, and
_ought_ to know something of weather signs. If it doesn't blow great
guns before the sun sets to-night, then you may call old Jack a
good-for-nothing lubber--that's all."

"I vow I hope it may! This dog-trot rate of going is enough to
provoke a Quaker to kick his grandmother. A stiff breeze will give us
new life, and set things all right again," said Gus.

"Maybe so," said the old salt, rather doubtingly; "but, if I'm not
mistaken, you'll wish yourself safe on land before you see the sun
rise again."

"Faith! I wish I were there now," said Gus, with a yawn. "I never was
born for a sailor; and never were the children of Israel more tired of
their quarters in the desert than I am of this rascally old ark. Look
out for your storm, Jack; and if you see it coming, just let me know."

And Gus seated himself on the quarter-rail, and leisurely lit a cigar.

An hour or two passed away in silence. The sun was setting, but the
heat was still intense. Fred lay gazing idly into the ship's wake; Gus
puffed away, and thought of Nell; but the heat had rendered both too
languid to talk. Suddenly a hand was laid on his arm; and looking up,
Gus beheld old Jack.

"Look now, sir," said the old man, pointing to the sky. Absorbed in
his own reflections, the young man had totally forgotten the
prediction of the old sailor. As he glanced up at the sky, he
involuntarily uttered an exclamation of surprise at the sight which
met his eye.

As far as he could see, in every direction, a huge black pall of
intense darkness covered the face of the heavens. A lurid, crimson
line of fire in the west showed where the sun had sank below the
horizon, and was reflected like a thin stream of blood on the sea.
Faint puffs of wind, from what quarter of the heavens no man could
tell, at intervals sighed through the rigging, only to be followed by
an ominous calm, more profound than before. The ship lay rolling
heavily on the black, glassy billows, rising and falling like a dull,
heavy log. A gloom like that of midnight was gathering over sea and
sky--the dismal, ominous silence involuntarily made the boldest catch
his breath quick and short, and filled each heart with a nameless awe,
as they stood in silent expectation of what was to follow this dead
calm of Nature, as she paused to take breath before the hurricane of
her wrath burst in its full force.

At this moment, the clear, commanding voice of Captain Harden was
heard giving orders to his men to reef the sails.

"We'll have a rousing gale to-night," said he, a few moments
afterward, "or I'm mistaken. I knew this dead calm didn't come for
nothing. Ha! here it is! Down, men, down, and hold fast for your
lives! The squall is upon us!"

Even as he spoke, the black pall that hung over the sky seemed visibly
lifted up, and a ghastly, whitish light lit up the heaving sea. A
vivid flash of lightning blazed in the sky followed by a crash of
thunder that seemed to rend the very heavens in twain, accompanied by
a flood of rain and a terrific gale of wind--and the hurricane burst
upon them with tremendous force. For a moment the good ship tottered
and quivered in every timber, as if trembling before the gigantic foe;
then plunging suddenly downward like a maddened steed, she flew before
the hurricane with the speed of the wind. On, on, on, with the spray
dashing over the decks, and drenching to the skin the affrighted crew,
she sped like a flash. The lightning blazed as though the whole
heavens were one vast sheet of flame; the thunder crashed peal upon
peal, as though the earth were rending asunder; the rain fell in vast
floods of water; the wind shrieked and howled like a demon with
impotent fury, and the bark plunged madly on, quivering, creaking,
groaning, and straining in every timber. The huge billows rose black
and terrific, yawning as though to engulf them, the white foam
gleaming dismal and ghastly in the spectral darkness, now and then
shown in their appalling hugeness by the blinding glare of the
lightning. The whole scene was inexpressibly grand and terrific--the
most cowardly soul lost all sense of fear in the awful sublimity, the
unspeakable grandeur of the elemental uproar.

Fortunately, the hurricane was not one of long duration. Ere an hour
had passed, the violence of the squall had greatly abated, but not
before it had nearly dismantled the ship.

Fred Stanley stood clinging to a rope, gazing at the troubled sea and
sky with a feeling of unspeakable awe, that swallowed up every other
feeling. His hat had blown off; his long dark locks streamed wildly in
the gale--his eyes were fixed, as if fascinated, on the gigantic
billows, rising like huge mountains as if to overwhelm them.

His meditations were suddenly cut short by a hand being laid on his
shoulder. With a start he looked up, and beheld, by the light of the
binnacle-lamp, the pale features of Gus Elliott.

"A wild night, my friend," said the youth; and although he spoke
loudly, his voice sounded almost like a whisper amid the roar of wind
and sea.

"A fearful storm, truly," was the reply, as Fred's eyes again strove
to pierce through the thick darkness.

"Would to Heaven it were morning! this intense darkness is appalling.
Could we see our danger I would not care; but in this fearful gloom
the imagination pictures a thousand horrors, far worse than the most
dreadful reality."

"It can scarcely be midnight yet," said Gus; "I see the clouds are
breaking away in that direction. It will be light enough presently."

"Well, messmate, have my words come true?" said a voice at Gus's
elbow, and turning, both beheld old Jack.

"That they have," replied Gus; "and though I must give you credit for
being a true prophet, upon my honor I wish to hear no more such
predictions while I am on board the _Mermaid_."

"_That_ won't be long, sir, or I'm mistaken," replied Jack, gloomily.

"What? croaking again? I thought all danger was past," said the youth.

Jack shook his head despondingly.

"Come, my honest son of Neptune, out with it. What's in the wind now?"

At this moment, one of the crew shouted, in a voice of horror:

"The ship has sprung a leak! There's five feet of water in the hold!"

"All hands to the pumps!" called the calm, trumpet-like tones of the
captain.

The eyes of Gus and the old sailor met.

"I knew how it would be," said the old tar, shaking his head,
mournfully, "I had a presentiment, last night, that not a soul on
board the _Mermaid_ would live to see the sun rise again."

As he spoke, he hurried forward; but not until Gus had fairly started
back at sight of the ghastly look on his face, as it was revealed by
the dim light of the binnacle-lamp. The youth turned uneasily away,
and encountered the dark, earnest eyes of his friend.

"Pooh! nonsense! what an old prophet of evil that is," said Gus,
striving to shake off the feeling for which he could not account: "a
raven could not croak more dismally than he."

"And yet I fear he is right," said Fred. "We are far from being out of
danger. How this old dismantled hulk is plunging and staggering. Hark!
what is that?"

It was the voice of one of the men who had been sent below, and who
now came to announce that the water was rapidly rising.

The crew redoubled their efforts. Fred and Gus sprang to their aid,
and worked for their lives. But all was in vain; in spite of all their
exertions, the hold was filling fast.

Suddenly a voice full of horror was heard:

"_The ship is sinking!_"

In an instant every arm dropped as if palsied, every face blanched to
the hue of death, and the silence of the grave reigned. Then the spell
was broken, and with a wild cry they sprang toward the boats.

"Are you mad, men?" shouted Captain Harden, as the crew rushed
pell-mell to the side of the vessel.

But his words were in vain; the frightened wretches heard not, heeded
not. Maddened by their selfish fears, they sprang into the boats,
pushing one another fiercely aside in their cowardly haste.

"Those crowded boats will never live in this surf!" exclaimed Fred, in
a voice that intense excitement had almost sunk to a whisper.

Even as he spoke, the nearest boat was lifted on the crest of a
monster wave. For a moment it poised on its fearful height, quivering
like a reed; the next a wild shriek arose from the doomed crew, and
every soul was struggling in the hissing seas. In less than a minute,
to their inexpressible horror, the other boat shared the same fate!
One wild, wild agonized shriek of mortal horror arose high above the
storm, and then all grew still. Engulfed beneath the hissing billows,
they had sunk to rise no more.

Of all the numerous crew of the good ship _Mermaid_, there were three
persons remaining on board, the captain, Fred and Gus. Above frowned
the angry sky, black and ominous; beneath, raged the angrier
ocean--the tops of the white billows gleaming like snow against the
murky background. Around was spread the dense, dark pall of night--an
almost impenetrable wall of thick blackness. Boats and crew were alike
gone. Alone they stood on the wide sea, in a sinking ship, with death
staring them in every direction in the face.

The ominous words of the old sailor rushed to the mind of Gus: "Not a
soul on board the _Mermaid_ would live to see the sun rise again!"

How true his words seemed likely to prove!

"We will soon follow them!" said Gus, turning to the captain.

"God liveth!" was the solemn answer. "He holdeth the ocean in the
hollow of His hand. Trust in Him!"




CHAPTER III.

SAVED.

    "Rise! for the day is breaking
      Though the dull night be long!
    Rise! God is not forsaking
      Thy heart--be strong--be strong."

For a few moments the survivors of the wreck stood silent. With death
staring them in the face, men are not inclined to be loquacious. Each
one inwardly commended his soul to his Maker, and strove to nerve
himself to fearlessly meet his doom.

"And can we not even make an effort to save our lives?" said Fred, at
last. "Must we die without one attempt to escape the doom which
threatens us?"

"While there is life there is hope," said the captain. "Ha!" he
exclaimed, as if suddenly struck by a new thought, "here are plenty of
loose spars and ropes; why not make a raft."

"This old hulk will go to the bottom before it is half constructed,"
said Gus.

"It is worth a trial, however," said his friend, springing up with new
hope. "Let us not lose time. Every second is precious."

Men working for their lives need little urging. In less than an hour,
a sufficient number of spars were lashed together to make a tolerably
safe raft.

Captain Harden went below, to discover how much longer they might stay
on the wreck in safety.

Turning to his friend, Gus said, as he touched the raft with his
foot:

"A desperate venture, Fred, to trust our lives on these few crazy
planks, on the wide Atlantic. I fear, my dear friend, the patriot army
of Washington will be deprived of two recruits this time."

"Desperate, certainly," said Fred, thoughtfully; "yet I feel a sort of
presentiment that our end is not so near."

"Would I could think so, too," said Gus, striving to discover some
sign of hope in the threatening scene around. "I cannot but recall the
ominous words of that old sailor. They are continually recurring to my
mind!"

"To the raft! to the raft, for your lives!" shouted Captain Harden, as
he rushed on deck, "the ship is sinking!"

Even as he spoke, she began plunging to and fro, like a frightened
steed.

In a moment they had flung their raft over the side, and had leaped
from the deck.

They were not a moment too soon. The doomed ship, after a few mad
struggles, began rapidly to settle in the water. The waves seemed
lashed into fury, and the crest of each huge billow swept the
dismantled deck. Suddenly she was whirled round and round by some
impetuous force, then rising almost perpendicularly, she plunged down,
stern foremost. In the enormous whirlpool thus formed, they almost
imagined they could see the bottom; so great was its force, that
although they were at some distance, they held their breath for a
moment in involuntary terror, as they were swept rapidly toward the
hissing vortex. But the waves again closed over her, and every sign of
life vanished from the horizon.

"There perished as noble a bark as ever braved the blue Atlantic!"
said Captain Harden, dashing the spray from his eyes.

There was no reply, for his companions were lost in thought. How
inexpressibly dreary and desolate is all around. Alone on the wide
ocean, on a frail raft, that threatened each moment to go to pieces
under them by the violence of the waves. The cold spray drenching them
to the skin, benumbed them with cold, a dull lethargy was creeping
over them, when Captain Harden, who noticed with alarm how frail the
raft was, suddenly said:

"Let us try to make this craft of ours a little tighter. It threatens
now to go to pieces every moment. Work will keep us warm, too; this
cold spray is enough to freeze a man."

The exertion produced the desired effect; and they soon had the
pleasure of finding their float much more secure than before. How long
the hours seemed that must intervene until morning! As the night
slowly wore on, the storm seemed to die away, the waves subsided, and
the wind sank to a light breeze. The clouds of night suddenly rolled
away before the white wand of morning. Far in the east, the sky and
sea were blushing scarlet before the coming of the sun. Up he rose in
fiery radiance, glowing and golden, in a canopy of purple, crimson,
and blue. Not a cloud obscured the clear blue vault of heaven, that a
few hours before had shot forth forked lightning and deafening peals
of thunder. Their frail raft rose and fell gayly on the sparkling
waves, that the night before had loomed up so dark and frightful. Calm
and peaceful the blue sea looked, as though hundreds of brave hearts,
that fearful night, had not perished forever beneath.

"What a change a few hours has made!" said Fred, as the light, cool
breeze lifted gently the dark hair off his feverish brow; "last night,
all was wild, and dark, and tempestuous; this morning, everything
breathes peace and beauty. Sunrise on the ocean! was there ever
anything more glorious?"

"A sailor's luck, Mr. Stanley," said Captain Harden, shaking the spray
from his hair; "a short time ago we were shivering with the cold, and
in two hours hence, we will be sweltering in the rays of a sun hot
enough to roast an African."

"Do you think there is any chance of our being picked up before night,
Captain?" inquired Gus.

"Can't say, sir. I trust so, however. There are always ships cruising
about in these latitudes."

The day wore on; and, as the sun approached the meridian, the heat
grew almost intolerable. Without shelter to ward off the burning rays
of an almost tropical sun, they sank down overpowered, and utterly
exhausted. Thirst, too, began to torment them; and the consciousness
that they were without means to allay it, added to their suffering.
Too languid even to converse, they sat in dreary silence, their eyes
fixed on the boundless expanse of sky and ocean.

Slowly the sun began to sink in the west, and the conviction that they
must pass another night where they were, added anything but comfort to
their situation.

When the glorious sunlight of the following morning fell on them, it
found them parched with thirst, and lying utterly exhausted on the
miserable float. Fred and Captain Harden still bore up, but the fiery
flush on the cheek of Gus and the wild light in his eye, showed the
fever that was burning within.

As the morning passed, and noon approached, he grew delirious. He
raved wildly, and more than once it required the united strength of
his friends to prevent him from plunging bodily into the deep.

"Would to Heaven aid would come!" said Captain Harden, with deep
anxiety, as his eye fell on the delirious youth. "Poor boy, I do not
wonder he has sunk beneath this trial. He is little inured to the
hardships and privations of a sailor's life."

"What is that?" said Fred, who had an eye like a hawk; "there is a
vessel bearing down directly toward us. Look! look!"

"By Heaven, yes," exclaimed the captain; "let us display our flag. Ha!
they see us! There goes their signal!"

"Saved, Gus! Saved, my dear fellow!" exclaimed Fred, seizing his hand,
hot and burning, in both his.

"Saved! saved! I knew we would be! Hurrah!" he shouted, with wild
incoherence, as he endeavored to spring to his feet--but weak and
exhausted, he fell back in the arms of his friend.

The vessel proved to be an American privateer. In half an hour, the
friends were on board, where every kindness that could be required was
generously bestowed upon them; and poor Gus was resigned to the care
of an experienced surgeon--who, to the great joy of Fred, affirmed,
that in a few days he would be out of danger.




CHAPTER IV.

THE BURNING SHIP.

    "Great God! the sights that I have seen
      When far upon the main,
    I'd rather that my death had been
      Than see those sights again."--LANDON.

"Yours was a narrow escape, Mr. Stanley," said Captain Dale, the
commander of the privateer, as, about a week after their deliverance,
Fred made his appearance on deck.

Gus was there, too, looking rather pale, but perfectly restored both
to health and spirits.

"Yes, sir," replied Fred; "and, though I have been as near death in
many shapes before, I never felt it so horrible as when, wild with
thirst, I stood expecting it on that frail raft, on the broad
Atlantic."

"And your friend," said the captain, smiling, "was in still worse
condition when we providentially came across you."

"Egad!" exclaimed Gus, "it came near doing for me. I'll never
undertake to sail across the Atlantic on a raft again, if I can help
it; at least, not without a beaker of fresh water on board."

"What is your destination now, captain?" inquired Fred.

"Boston; but I mean to capture, if possible, a few Britishers first,
to make time pass pleasantly."

"Boston? we're in luck, Fred," observed Gus. "So," he added to the
captain, "you sometimes have a skirmish with the British, do you?"

"Yes," replied Dale; "it's only last week I sent a sloop-of-war to
Davie Jones; and, with the help of the Lord, and that long Tom there,
I trust speedily to send some more of their brethren to look after
them."

"_Sail ho!_" called the shrill tones of the look-out, at this moment.

"Whereaway?" demanded Captain Dale, as he seized a glass, and sprang
into the rigging.

"Due east, sir."

"And an Englishman, by Jupiter!" exclaimed the captain, as he again
leaped on the deck. "There's something wrong on board of her, too," he
continued, "for the crew are running wildly about the deck, sometimes
rushing in a body below, and again re-appearing. Can the crew have
mutinied?"

Again he gazed long and steadfastly at the vessel.

"Heavens!" he exclaimed, "the ship's on fire!"

"By Jove, so it is," said Fred; and, even as he spoke, a sudden jet of
flame shot up the hatchway of the ship.

"And there goes a signal of distress," shouted Gus, as a white pennant
suddenly streamed out in the breeze from the mast-head.

"See how the poor wretches are crowding together," exclaimed the
captain; "we must not let them perish before our eyes. Who will
volunteer to go to the rescue?"

As if by one impulse, men and officers all sprang forward to offer
their services.

"No, no," said Captain Dale, good-humoredly, "I cannot let you all go.
Here, Mr. Stewart," addressing his first lieutenant, "you will take
command of one boat, and--ah! Mr. Stanley, I see by your eager look
how anxious _you_ are to lend assistance. Well, you can take charge
of the other boat; and," he added, lowering his voice, "look out for
the magazine. Now, be off, and God speed you!"

"Ay, ay, sir," came cheerily from a score of lips, as the hardy seamen
bent to their oars.

"Give way, my lads!" cried Fred, as he sprang into the stern-sheets
and waved his cap in the air.

The men bent to their oars with a will, and the boat cut like a
sea-gull through the waters. Fred still stood with his eyes fixed on
the burning ship--his handsome face all aglow with excitement.

The scene was inexpressibly grand and terrific. The flames were now
bursting out from every part of the ship; while a dark, dense cloud of
sulphurous smoke clouded the blue sky above. The fiery monster ran up
the shrouds and rigging, twining its fierce tongue around the masts;
while occasionally the sullen booming of a gun would float over the
waters, as her armament, heated by the flames, went off. The
affrighted crew were huddled together--by their frantic gestures and
wild signs, striving to urge the boats still faster on, as they beheld
the flames rapidly approaching the spot where they stood.

"Give way, my men! give way! Will you see them perish miserably before
your eyes?" shouted Fred, his dark eyes blazing with excitement, as he
beheld the fiery-tongued monster almost within a few feet of the
unhappy wretches, whose skrieks of terror came piercingly to their
ears.

And the brave fellows _did_ give way. In that moment they thought not
that the men they were going to save were the enemies of their
country--they only saw fellow-creatures in danger of perishing by a
miserable death; and with the proverbial generosity of sailors, they
bent their brawny arms to the task until great drops of perspiration
stood in beads on their flushed faces, and the boat skimmed over the
water with the velocity of a bird on the wing. In less than ten
minutes more, they were within a few yards of the burning ship.

"Leap into the water, and we will pick you up?" shouted Fred--fearing
lest, if they approached too near, the boats might swamp from the
numbers who would crowd into them.

Without a moment's hesitation, the command was obeyed, and the crews
of both boats were soon busily employed in rescuing the poor fellows.

"Is this all?" asked Fred, as the last of those who had leaped from
the deck were picked up.

"All, sir," was the universal answer.

"No, sir; it's _not_ all!" said a boy--a mere lad of
fourteen--springing from his seat. "There's a lady aboard yet; she is
in the cabin, and we forgot her."

"Great Heaven!" exclaimed Fred, his dark face paling with
horror--"have you left a woman on board that burning ship to perish?"

"We forgot her, sir," was the muttered response; while more than one
eye fell beneath the scornful gaze of those fiery black eyes.

For one moment Fred thought of Captain Dale's command--"_Look out for
the magazine!_"--and paused irresolute. Not for himself--oh, no! His
determination was to rescue the lady or die, but for the men intrusted
to his care. He felt that he had no right to peril the lives of many
to save that of one; and for a moment he stood undecided what course
to pursue. Then, as the terrible thought, that a fellow creature and a
_woman_ might even at that moment be perishing in the flames, sent the
blood curdling to his brave heart, he looked up and said, in a clear
and impressive voice, to his own men:

"My brave lads, I cannot leave a woman to perish in that burning ship.
I am going on board to rescue her. You will, in the meantime, keep at
some distance off; and when I appear on deck, return for me. Should
you not see me again," (he paused for a moment), "you will return to
the privateer, and tell Captain Dale I have striven to do my duty.
That will do. Stand off, and wait for me."

He caught a rope that hung over the vessel's side, and sprang on the
burning deck, "whence all but him had fled." There was a moment's
profound pause of surprise and admiration in the boat, as the crew of
the privateer beheld the tall, slight form of their gallant young
leader disappear amid the thick smoke. The crew of the Englishman bent
their heads in shame; the scathing, scornful glance in the eagle eye
of the young American had brought before them, more forcibly than any
words could have done, his lofty contempt for their dastardly conduct.

Meanwhile, through the dense smoke, Fred made his way. A sudden breeze
blew the flames aside; and to his inexpressible joy he saw that the
flames had not yet reached the cabin. He dashed down the stairs,
taking three or four steps at a time, and paused for a moment to
glance around.

The walls were of a dark, polished oak, the floor covered with a rich
Turkey carpet, whose brilliant hues were bright as the gorgeous
plumage of a humming-bird. The chairs and lounges, profusely scattered
around, were of dark carved wood--old and quaint in appearance, and
cushioned with dark-blue velvet. A guitar lay in a corner, and
carelessly scattered by it were several sheets of music. A bookcase,
filled with a choice selection of books, stood in one corner; and
lying half open on the table, as if it had just been dropped, was a
small, elegantly-bound volume of Milton. By it lay a tiny gold locket,
containing a miniature. Not doubting but that this belonged to the
occupant of the cabin, Fred snatched it up, thinking she might value
it, and turned to look for its owner. She was not in the cabin--he saw
that at a glance. The door of an adjoining state-room lay half open.
It was no time for idle ceremony. Without a moment's hesitation, he
dashed it open, and entered; but paused in involuntary awe at the
sight which met his eyes.

A young girl, transcendently lovely, was kneeling in the middle of the
floor. Her snowy robes fell in spotless folds around her exquisite
form; the long silken tresses fell like a shower of rippling sunbeams
over her pearly shoulders. The small white hands were clasped over the
stainless bosom, that rose and fell with her soft breathing. Every
trace of color had faded from that fair face, leaving cheek and brow
as white as monumental marble. The large blue eyes, calm and cloudless
as mountain lakes, looked from beneath the golden lashes as serene as
the heaven to which she seemed about to ascend. On that sweet young
face was a look of such rapt, such sublime, such angelic devotion,
that Fred for a moment stood, not daring to disturb her.

A sudden crash on deck roused him from the spell into which he was
falling. Stepping before her, he said, hurriedly:

"Madam, everything is in flames around you! Come with me, or you will
be lost."

At the sound of his voice she sprang to her feet; and with a wild cry
of "Saved! saved!" she threw up both snowy arms, and would have
fallen fainting to the floor, had he not caught her in his embrace.

Snatching a quilt from the bed, he wrapped it round her slight form
and rushed from the cabin. To his unspeakable horror, as he sprang
with one bound up the stairway, he found the whole deck had now become
one vast sheet of flame. There was no time to lose. Springing like a
wounded panther, he cleared the deck with two bounds, and leaped clean
over the side into the sea.

A wild cheer arose from the crew of the boat at the sight. Propelled
by strong arms and willing hearts, in a moment it was by his side; and
in another he stood among them, with his still insensible burden in
his arms.

"Pull, men! pull for the love of God!" he shouted, waving his hand in
the air. "Work for your lives!"

Like straws the strong oars bent in the brawny hands of the rowers,
and like an arrow sped from a bow, the boat shot out from the burning
ship.

One moment more, and it would have been too late. With a roar that
seemed to rend heaven and earth, the magazine exploded, and the
ill-fated ship was blown to atoms. Like a shower of hail, the burning
spars and timbers fell all around them. But they were almost
miraculously saved; the boat escaped uninjured, and in ten minutes was
entirely out of danger.

Everyone drew a deep breath, and from the most callous and hardened
heart present went up a prayer of thanksgiving for their unexpected
deliverance from death.

Fred seated himself, and throwing off the quilt in which he had
enveloped the slender form of the young girl, began to chafe her cold
hands and temples.

"Had this young lady no friends on board, that she was thus
forgotten," he asked, turning to one of the crew of the Englishman.

"No, sir; not when the vessel caught fire. She was returning from
England with her uncle; and one stormy night, about a week ago, he was
washed overboard and lost. She never came up to the deck after that;
and, in the hurry and fright, when the ship was found to be on fire,
we forgot all about her."

"Is she an American?" asked Fred, looking, with a feeling for which he
could not account, on the fair face and graceful form lying so still
and lifeless in his arms.

"Don't know I'm sure," replied the man.

All Fred's efforts to restore her to consciousness were in vain. She
lay, in her snowy drapery, so still, that he most feared life was
extinct. A snow-wreath was not more white than the colorless face, off
which the bright hair fell over the young man's arm, on which the head
reclined. The tiny hands imprisoned in his were cold and lifeless as
marble.

With a feeling of intense joy, Fred sprang once more upon the deck of
the privateer, and resigned the fainting girl to the hands of the
surgeon, and then hastened to exchange his wet clothes for dry ones.
Gus, who had arrived in the other boat a few moments before, listened
with envy and amazement to his friend's story.

"Well, luck is everything!" he exclaimed, with a sigh, when his friend
had concluded; "if every ship in the British navy were to take fire, I
don't believe I'd have the good fortune to save a single young lady
from a scorching; while you're not well out, when you return with an
angel in your arms, wringing wet, and never look any more elated by it
than if you were a man of stone. O Fortune! Fortune? thou fickle
goddess, if you would only throw such chances in _my_ way as is thrown
in the path of this stony-hearted cynic, believe me, I would be far
from proving so ungrateful."

"A very good speech for an extempore one," observed Fred, as he coolly
lighted a cigar. "And, by the way, here is the doctor, I must ask him
how his fair patient is."

"Hech! mon, dinna fash yersel' aboot her, the young leddy is doin'
vera weel," observed Sawney; "an' fegs, ye ne'er seen sic 'n beautiful
roses in a' yer life as cam in her cheek when I tauld her aboot the
canny chiel that plucked her, as it were, a brand frae the burnin'.
Hoot! Mr. Stanley, ne'er try to look sae dignified; d'ye think I dinna
see the smile in yer black e'e. If yer no prood o' savin' the life o'
sic a handsome leddy, ye dinna deserve to hear the message she has
sent ye."

"A message for me!" exclaimed Fred, with an impetuosity that brought a
sudden crimson to his dark cheek.

"Aye, mon! a message to ye, deil a less. And what for wudna she? Did
ye no save her life?"

"But the message! the message!" exclaimed Fred, impatiently.

"Oo! ay! the message! jist sae! 'Tell him,' says she, an' soul o' me!
she lookit sae bonnie wi' her blue e'e and her gowden locks as she
said it, that I'd a gi'en a hunder' pounds to hae been ye at the
time."

"But the message! _the message!_ THE MESSAGE!" cried Fred, losing all
patience.

"And she looked handsome, did she?" inquired Gus, as he noticed the
impatience of his friend.

"Hech! ye may say that, laddie. Deil a bonnier las ivir I clapt my ain
twa een on. An' a doot if she winna load him wi' compliments when he
ca's to see her, judgin' frae the message. I'm mair nor half sartin
that--"

"But," shouted Fred, in his irritation seizing the doctor by the
shoulder, and wheeling him round like a top, "what was the message,
you old son of Galen?"

"Hech, sirs! Laird protect us! who ivir heerd mair nor that?" gasped
the little doctor, panting for breath, which his extempore waltz had
nearly shaken out of his body; "spinnin' a respectable auld body lek
me roun' as if I was a tap. 'Twad na be every laddie wad dae sic a
dirty trick. Hech! I'm fairly oot o' breath."

"It's excessively aggravating, no doubt," said Gus, soothingly, "but
you must pardon my unhappy young friend here, he is a little flighty
at times, but perfectly harmless--"

Fred groaned.

"--But when very impatient," continued Gus, secretly enjoying his
friend's despair, "he is rather violent. Therefore, my dear doctor,
you had better tell him the young lady's message--when I have no
doubt, these alarming symptoms will vanish."

"Oo, ay! just so!" said the doctor, retreating a few paces from Fred,
and eying him as one might a half-tamed tiger; "she said that ony time
this afternoon that wad be conveniant, she wad be maist happy to see
ye in the kabbin below. That's a'."

And the little doctor went off muttering "Gude purtect us! wha wad
think sic a douce young laddie as that was nae richt aboot the upper
warks? Weel, weel, Laird save us!"

"An interview!" exclaimed Gus, with delight, "by Jove! Fred, you _are_
in luck. I can forsee it all--private interview--lady all blushes and
gratitude--gentleman all admiration and compliments--see each other
every day while on board--grow as thick as pickpockets--moonlight
interview--gentleman grows tender--lady refers him to papa--papa
informs him she's not his daughter at all, but a princess in disguise,
with large estates in a land yet undiscovered--matrimony--champagne,
ice-creams, wax-lights, roses, pretty girl's kisses--bride an angel
without wings--bridegroom in the seventh heaven--whew! there's the
whole thing in a nut-shell. A novel condensed."

Fred bit the end of his cigar to conceal a smile.

"I'd give a trifle to know her name;" continued Gus; "it's a wonder
none of the crew of the vessel knew it. Heigho! I suppose I must
restrain my impatience until after the interview she has promised
you."

Fred, though appearing outwardly indifferent, felt little less anxiety
for the interview than his friend.

Having made himself very unnecessarily handsome, by a most careful
toilet, he desired the little doctor to inform the lady he was ready
to wait upon her.

"Walk doon! walk doon, laddie," said Galen, presently re-appearing,
"and for the love o' Heaven!" he added, suddenly remembering Fred's
conduct in the morning, "dinna be ony way violent. Laird save me! what
wad the puir lassie do if ye took ane o' thaim tantrums in her
presence?"

Fred having pledged his word to conduct himself, while before the
lady, with due decorum, the doctor bowed him into the cabin, which the
captain had generously given up to his fair captive, and, having
announced him as being "the laddie that had ta'en her oot o' the
burnin' ship," made his best salute, and retired.

The lady, who was seated by the table, arose as Fred entered, and
advancing toward him, extended her hand. The youth imagined she looked
even fairer now than when he had first seen her. The bright, golden
tresses were pushed off her fair brow, and gathered into a burnished
knot behind, thus displaying the exquisite symmetry of the superb
little head. She was still pale from the effects of her recent fright;
but Fred thought he had never beheld a fairer face in all his life.

"My preserver, how can I ever thank you for saving me from such a
fearful death," said the softest, sweetest voice in the world. And
raising the hand she held in hers, she bent her graceful head, and
pressed it to her lips.

The act, simple and natural as it was, brought a sudden flush to
Fred's face.

"I need no thanks, fairest lady, for performing a common act of
humanity," he said, bowing. "He would, indeed, be a monster who would
not endeavor to rescue a fellow-creature from death."

"Oh! it was fearful!" exclaimed the lady, "to stay there alone,
expecting momentary death. It seemed to me impossible I could be
saved, with everything in flames around me!"

She shuddered at the remembrance, and her face grew a shade paler.

"It seems wonderful to me how you could have been forgotten by all,"
said Fred.

"So it seemed to me at first, but not now. I never went on deck after
the death of my dear uncle"--she paused, and her eyes filled with
tears--"he was lost in a dreadful storm, a week before you rescued me.
Alas! this seems doomed to be a luckless voyage."

"I fear you will not like your quarters here," said Fred, glancing
around the narrow and poorly-furnished cabin, "it is hardly in a fit
condition for the reception of a lady."

"Oh! if _that_ were all," she said, with a half sigh, "but I am afraid
it will be such a long time before I can reach home."

"I too, have longed for the end of this voyage," said Fred, "but _now_
the time will appear all too short."

She looked up suddenly, to find the deep, dark eyes of the speaker
fixed upon her with a look of profound admiration. For a moment, the
golden lashes dropped over the blue eyes, and a vivid crimson, whether
of anger or embarrassment he knew not, mantled her pale cheeks.

Her manner during the remainder of the interview was so cold and
constrained, that he felt sure he had offended, and, with a feeling of
vexation, he arose and took his leave.

Fred's dreams, that night, were haunted by a pair of blue eyes, that
one moment smiled upon him--the next, were turned coldly away. Once
again, in fancy, he was rescuing their owner from the flames, and
bearing her off in triumph in his arms, when he awoke to the dull
reality that he was clasping, most affectionately, the pillow!

As he dressed, before going on deck, he suddenly remembered he had
neglected to ask the young lady her name. Was there ever such
stupidity? Then it occurred to him that he had a locket belonging to
her, and opening it, he discovered that it contained the miniature of
the fair unknown herself.

Now, Mr. Stanley, though by no means given in general to retaining
other people's property, immediately experienced a most felonious
desire to keep the locket. Accordingly, placing it as near his heart
as was convenient, he hastily added a few finishing touches to his
costume, and went on deck.

And when he had reached it, a sight met his eyes that transfixed him
with amazement. For there, promenading the deck, and leaning most
affectionately on the arm of Gus, was the fair unknown. The morning
breeze had brought a deep rose-hue to the pearly cheeks; her eyes were
bright with pleasure, and smiles were chasing the dimples over her
fair, sunshiny face. And there was Gus bending over her, in a way for
which Fred could have shot him without remorse, calling up her smiles
and blushes at his own magnetic will.

No wonder Fred was amazed, angry, mortified. He had saved her life
almost at the risk of his own: and, because he had uttered a few
gallant words, she had grown as distantly reserved and dignified as a
queen on her throne. And here was Gus Elliott, whom she had never seen
before, now her elected champion, and, to judge by appearances,
something more than a friend.

As they passed, both looked up and recognized him, she by a formal
bow, and Gus by a smile of triumph. With the air of an insulted
prince, Fred turned aside, and strolled in an opposite direction, with
the firm conviction that there was nothing in the world but
ingratitude.

While he still stood absorbed in gloomy thought, he was suddenly
aroused by a hearty slap on the shoulder. He looked up haughtily, and
Gus met the full light of his fiery eye.

"Fred!" he exclaimed, without heeding his evident anger, "you're the
luckiest dog in creation! Guess whom you've saved?"

"Who?" was the eager inquiry.

"My cousin Edith, the eldest daughter of my uncle, Major Percival."




CHAPTER V.

THE HOME OF EDITH.

    "Where is the heart that has not bowed
      A slave, eternal love, to thee?
    Look on the cold, the gay, the proud--
      And is there one among them free?"

                               --LANDON.

It was a dark, unpleasant night--nearly a fortnight after the
adventure of the burning ship. The privateer was still cruising about
in quest of "Britishers," whom the captain was particularly anxious to
"send to thunder!"--as he himself elegantly expressed it. During this
time, Fred's acquaintance with Miss Percival hardly progressed as
rapidly as Gus had prophesied it would. There was a sort of
embarrassment, a coldness, a reserve, in her manner toward him, that
offended his sensitive pride; and their intercourse now generally
consisted of a bow, when they met, and a formal "good day." Though she
spent the greater part of each day with Gus, on deck, she seemed to
shrink from meeting him; and Fred, seeing this, studiously avoided
her. Yet sometimes, suddenly raising his head, he would find those
soft blue eyes wandering wistfully over to where he stood, yet always
dropping before his; while her rising color and averted head betokened
emotions she would fain have concealed.

Wrapped in his cloak, with his hat drawn down over his brows, Fred
paced up and down the deck in no very amiable frame of mind. It was a
dense, gloomy night. The storm-clouds were drifting, dark and
threatening, over the leaden sky; a chill, raw wind was blowing,
piercingly cold-sighing, dirge-like, through the rigging, while the
creaking of the cordage seemed to chant back a sort of dismal refrain;
a thick rain was falling, making everything wet and uncomfortable. It
was indeed suicidal weather, but perfectly congenial to the thoughts
passing through the mind of the tall, cloaked figure pacing so
restlessly to and fro.

At times, sounds of song and peals of laughter would come floating up
from the cabin, where old Dr. Kirk, Captain Harden, Gus, and Miss
Percival were assembled. These sounds were to Fred's feelings like
"vinegar upon nitre;" and his lip curled scornfully and bitterly
whenever he passed. Suddenly the mention of his own name arrested his
steps. Some secret power held him, as it were, forcibly to the spot,
to listen.

"Where's Stanley?" inquired Captain Harden.

"Keeping sentry on deck, no doubt," answered Gus, "according to his
usual custom. I'll wager a guinea that quick, excited tread we heard a
moment ago, was Fred walking up and down."

"Maister Stanley's a queer sort o' a lad," observed the doctor. "I
ne'er cam across ane sae proud in a' my days. T'ither day he was
stannin' lookin' sae _dooer_ and sulky, by himsel' that I didna think
hem well, and I recommended a dose o' peells. Well, instead o'
thankin' me, as a body ought, he _glowered_ at me a minute, as if he
thought me mad, and walked off wi' himsel' without sayin' a word.
Hech, sirs! deil a more thanks I got!"

Gus couldn't help laughing; but he observed:

"Oh, you must excuse him, doctor! Fred has some queer notions; but, in
general, he's a capital fellow--brave as a lion, but proud as
Lucifer."

"What is your opinion, Miss Percival, of the gentleman now under
discussion?" inquired Captain Harden.

Oh, what would not Fred have given to hear the reply! Miss Percival's
low, musical voice had hitherto possessed an unspeakable charm for
him; but now he would not have objected had it been as loud as the
boatswain's so that he might have heard the answer; but, though he
strained every nerve to listen, he could not catch her words.

"That's just like Edith," observed Gus. "Hasn't 'formed an opinion,'
indeed! As if any young lady could meet such a good-looking fellow as
Fred without forming an opinion about him. He reminds me wonderfully
of the old woman in the song." And Gus drawled, in a sing-song tone:

    "There was an old woman--and what do you think?
    She lived upon nothing but victuals and drink--
    Victuals and drink was the whole of her diet--
    And yet this old woman could never be quiet."

If Gus had seen the fiery flash of Fred's eye, at that moment, he
might have hesitated a little about the comparison.

"I dinna see how Maister Stanley's like that auld wumman," said the
doctor, solemnly.

"Why, my dear doctor, it's as clear as mud," said Gus. "Fred, like the
old lady in the rhyme, 'never is quiet.' It's a perfect martyrdom to a
serious person like myself, to be with one as restless as an uneasy
conscience, and as fiery as one of your own Scotch Douglases."

Fred had not waited to hear this explanation; but wrapping himself
more closely in his cloak, resumed his solitary march up and down--the
loud mirth and laughter from the cabin, amid which at times he could
recognize the silvery voice of Edith--giving added bitterness to his
thoughts. Poor Fred! Like the country swain in love, he felt "hot and
dry like, with a pain in his side like;" and like every other young
gentleman when he first falls in love, tormenting himself with a
thousand imaginary evils--until, as Gus phrased it, there was "no
standing him."

Upon their arrival in Boston, Fred would have started immediately to
see his father; but Gus, who was to accompany Edith home, urged him to
go with them. And Edith pleaded too--more with her eager, blushing
face and eloquent eyes, than with words.

"_Do_, Mr. Stanley," she urged, laying her little white hand on his
own--"_do_ come! Papa will be so anxious to see one who has saved his
daughter's life."

Every nerve thrilled at that magnetic touch; but still he stood
irresolute.

"_Please_, Mr. Stanley," continued that low, musical voice--to _his_
ear the sweetest he had ever heard; and the starry eyes were raised to
the face above her.

Fred looked down, to encounter those pleading blue eyes raised so
earnestly to his; and--just as _you_ would have done, my dear sir, had
you been in his place--surrendered.

The residence of Major Percival was several miles from the city; and
after spending one night at a hotel, the trio started next morning.

The drive to Percival Hall was always remembered by Fred among the
happiest moments of his life. The cold reserve which Edith had always
maintained on shipboard had entirely vanished. An almost childish glee
at being once more at home had taken its place, and she chatted and
laughed with a freedom and vivacity that completely finished poor
Fred.

A sudden turn in the road brought them, at length, in sight of
Percival Hall. An avenue of stately horse-chestnuts led up to the Hall
itself--an imposing-looking structure of red brick. Behind the house
was an extensive orchard, and nearer still, a pretty flower-garden.

"There's papa--there's papa!" exclaimed Edith, springing up and
clapping her hands; and before Fred, who had risen, could assist her,
she had leaped out, and flew into the arms of an elderly gentleman,
who came humming carelessly down the steps in front of the mansion.

While the major with many an exclamation of surprise and delight,
embraced his daughter, Fred scrutinized him from head to foot.

In stature he was about middle size, stout, and squarely built, with
prominent features and high cheek-bones. There was an air of sternness
and command about him, while the firmly-closed mouth betrayed unusual
obstinacy in following his own opinions. The high, broad forehead and
massive head displayed a lofty intellect; and there was a piercing
keenness in the gaze of his sharp grey eyes, that gave an observer the
uncomfortable sensation that he was reading their inmost thoughts.

He now advanced toward the young man, who had alighted, and holding
out his hand to Fred, said with grateful courtesy:

"My daughter tells me, sir, you have saved her life. I am not in the
habit of making fine speeches; but believe me, sir, the heartfelt
gratitude of an old man will ever follow you."

Fred bowed in silence.

"And don't you know this young gentleman, papa?" said Edith, with an
arch glance toward Gus.

"I have not that hon--eh?" he added, suddenly--"can it be? Bless my
soul! Gus Elliott, _is_ this yourself?" and the major seized his hand
with a grip of iron.

"Well, sir," replied Gus, with a grimace, "if ever I had any doubts on
the subject, the aching of my fingers, at present, has convinced me I
_am_ myself, and no mistake."

"Well, well, well!", exclaimed the major, surveying him from head to
foot with his sharp eyes, "how you _have_ shot up since I saw you
last! And you're Gus Elliott! Well, who'd have thought it? Edith! Ah,
she has gone, I see. Walk up, gentlemen--walk up. Mrs. Percival will
be delighted to see you."

So saying, Major Percival ran up the steps, followed by the two young
men. The long hall was flanked by doors on either side; and opening
one of these, he ushered the twain into the family sitting-room. Here
they found Edith clasped in the arms of a handsome, middle-aged lady;
while a young girl stood by her side, alternately laughing and
crying.

"My wife, and daughter Ellen, Mr. Stanley. I suppose," he added,
smilingly, to his wife, "Edith has told you all about the achievements
of this promising young gentleman. There, there--don't overwhelm him
with thanks. I see by his countenance he doesn't like it! Come,
Nell--why don't you thank your sister's deliverer?"

"Mamma won't give me a chance," replied Nell--a lively, dark-eyed
girl, with pretty, restless features. "She has monopolized Mr. Stanley
all to herself."

"Well, there, I'll resign him to you, sauce-box," said Mrs. Percival,
smiling, "though I imagine Mr. Stanley will soon tire of your
everlasting chattering."

"Here is some one else you have not seen yet, Nell," said her sister,
glancing at Gus, who now advanced.

"Why, can it--no, it--yes, it--why, I declare its Gus!" exclaimed
Nell, as she darted forward, and without ceremony flung her arms
around his neck.

"Dear me! Ellen, that's shockingly improper conduct!" said the
highly-scandalized Mrs. Percival.

"Oh, isn't it nice!" exclaimed Nell, as she came dancing back, with
cheeks and eyes all aglow. "We'll have such good times, now you and
'Dith have come back!"

"Where is Nugent, mamma?" inquired Edith.

"He went away with Ralph De Lisle, about a week ago, my dear," replied
her mother. "We expect them both home again in a few days."

The name seemed to act like a galvanic shock on Edith, who gave a
sudden start, and flushed to the temples.

"And oh, Edith!" exclaimed her voluble sister--"you ought to see
Ralph since you left him to wear the willow. Poor fellow! he was such
a victim to 'green and yellow melancholy' for a week after that, I
couldn't bear to look at him. My! won't he be glad to hear you've come
back--and so will I, too, for I do long for a wedding dreadfully."

"Ellen!" said her mother, reprovingly.

"Oh, well, mamma, there's nobody here that doesn't know all about it,"
said the chatter-box. "But, dear me! Mr. Stanley, ain't you well?--you
look like a ghost!"

Edith, who had been gazing steadfastly out of the window, now turned
suddenly round; and Fred started at seeing the deadly paleness of her
face.

"Ring the bell, Edith, for a glass of water," said Nell. "Why, I
declare you're as bad yourself," she added, suddenly confronting her.
"Just look, mamma, how pale they both are! I'm afraid it's catching.
Do _I_ look pale?" And the serious expression of Nell, as she glanced
at her own blooming face in the glass, was truly laughable.

But the color that had faded from the face of both speedily returned.
The eyes of Fred and Edith met; and before that penetrating glance
hers fell, while a vivid crimson mantled cheek and brow.

During the remainder of the evening, the name of Ralph De Lisle was
frequently mentioned by all save Edith, who seemed to shrink painfully
from the subject. From what he heard, Fred judged De Lisle was a
suitor for the hand of Edith--and what was more, a favored one.

When Fred retired that night, it was with no very pleasant feelings.
Who and what was this De Lisle? He asked himself the question
repeatedly, without much hope of obtaining an answer. His resolution
was to see Gus alone; and, if possible, obtain from him an
explanation, without exciting suspicion as to the state of his own
feelings. If, as he feared, he was indeed beloved by her, then he
himself would immediately depart, and see her no more.

The next day an opportunity occurred. Fred and Gus found themselves
separated from the others, and straying arm in arm through the garden.

"Who is this Ralph De Lisle, about whom they all appear to be so
anxious?" inquired Fred, with affected carelessness, unconscious that
he was rooting up the violets with his cane.

"A suitor of Edith's, I believe," replied Gus, indifferently.

"Ah! and a favored one, if I may judge."

"Hum! I should think so--they're to be married in a few weeks."

There was no response from his companion, and Gus went on:

"The father of this De Lisle was a Frenchman, and the intimate friend
of Major Percival. When dying, he committed his son to his care, with
a request that Edith and Ralph, who had always been firm friends,
should be united, if they were willing, when his son attained his
majority. Major Percival promised him that his request should be
fulfilled; and his word with him is law unalterable. The young couple
love one another, it seems; so their 'course of true love' runs
smoothly enough. Edith wished to visit some friends of hers in England
before she became Mrs. De Lisle, and she was returning home when you
rescued her from the burning ship."

"Better, far better, I had left her to perish there!" was the bitter
thought that passed through Fred's mind.

"De Lisle is an immense favorite with the major;" continued Gus: "some
say he appears fonder of him even than of his own son. He is the
leader of a gang of tories, and a tory himself to the core of his
heart. But here comes Nell--breezy and airy as ever."

"Oh, Mr. Stanley!" she exclaimed, as she came flying up to him, "we
are going to have a sailing party to-morrow, and you must be sure to
come. So, if you have any engagement for that day, you may just break
it at once."

"I regret it is impossible for me to comply," said Fred, gravely. "I
must depart to-morrow."

"Depart for where?" demanded Gus, surprised at this sudden
announcement.

"To see my father. I should have gone before could I have broken the
spell that bound me here!" and he bowed to Nell.

"Oh, nonsense, Mr. Stanley!" exclaimed that young lady. "You sha'n't
go, and that's the end of it. Your father can wait a day or two very
well. Sister, come here, and persuade Mr. Stanley to stay. He's going
away, he says."

"Going away!" echoed Edith, growing pale as she spoke.

"But we positively won't allow it, until after to-morrow, at
least--shall we, sister? Coax him like a good girl, while I have a
race with Carlo--he's pulling the dress off my back. You're such a
good hand to persuade people, you know. I remember, when De Lisle used
to be leaving, how you would coax him to stay. Come, Carlo!"

Again Edith started at the abrupt mention of that name, and the
subdued light that had filled Fred's eye as he watched her changing
face, gave place to a look of cold determination. Gus urged him
pressingly to remain, and Edith's eyes were raised pleadingly to his
face as she faltered out a similar request. But their entreaties were
in vain. Fred declined politely but firmly, and entered the house to
announce his determination to Major Percival and his wife. Here, as he
expected, he was again overwhelmed with entreaties to remain; but
having resisted those of Edith, he found little difficulty in
remaining firm in his determination.

"At least, then, you will soon visit us again?" urged Mrs. Percival,
when she found all her entreaties of no avail.

To rid himself of their importunities, Fred promised; and early the
next morning, he was off.

The family was all assembled on the front piazza, to say good-bye--all
but Edith.

"Where's Edith?" inquired the major, as he, too, missed her.

"She had a bad headache this morning, and couldn't leave her room,"
replied Nell, to whom the question was addressed. "It's strange, too!
I never knew her to have the headache before."

She glanced demurely at Fred, who was shaking hands with her father;
and there was a world of meaning in her bright eyes.

"Well, good-bye, Miss Ellen," he said, approaching her, "until we meet
again. Remember me to your sister."

He bowed, sprang into the carriage, and drove off, quite unconscious
that from her chamber-window the eyes of Edith were watching him until
he disappeared.




CHAPTER VI.

FATHER AND SON.

    "Fathers have flinty hearts, no prayers
    Can move them."--SHAKESPEARE.

It was drawing toward the close of a pleasant summer's day. The sun
was just sinking behind the western hill-tops, when a carriage rattled
along the dusty streets, and stopped before a plain but
commodious-looking dwelling.

A young man, tall and handsome, sprang out; and, turning to the
servant, whom the wheels had brought out, demanded:

"Does Sir William Stanley live here?"

"Yes, sir," was the reply.

"Is he at home now?" inquired the young man.

"Yes, sir."

"Alone?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then show me to his room. I wish to see him immediately."

"But, sir, really," stammered the man, "Sir William dislikes to be
intruded upon. If you will give me your name, I will announce you."

"My good fellow, I'll not put you to so much trouble. Just show me to
his room, and I'll take the consequences."

Hurried away by the impatient and commanding manner of the young man,
the domestic, sorely against his will, was forced to obey. Preceding
the impudent stranger (as he considered him) to the library, he opened
the door, and ushered him into the "presence," and immediately beat a
precipitate retreat.

A tall, stately man, of middle age and military bearing, sat writing
at a desk. There was a striking resemblance between the two-the same
tall, commanding figure--the same haughty, aristocratic air, the same
fiery, dark eye. But the winning smile that sometimes gave such a look
of inexpressible sweetness to the face of the younger, never appeared
on the thin, firmly-compressed lips of the other.

The noise made by the opening of the door aroused him. He looked up
quickly, with an air of anger at the interruption; but as his eye fell
on the young man's face, he sprang from his seat, and caught him
impetuously by the hand.

"Fred! by all that's lucky!" he exclaimed, in a tone of delight, "when
did you arrive? I was just wishing this moment that you were here."

"I only reached here a day or two ago," replied Fred, returning his
cordial grasp.

"And how are our friends in Paris?" inquired Sir William.

"They are well, sir. I had several letters for you from them, but it
was my fate to be shipwrecked, and they were, unfortunately, lost."

"Shipwrecked," said the father, inquiringly.

"Yes, sir," replied Fred, as he related their adventures on sea,
omitting, however, that part concerning Edith.

"So, Gus Elliott accompanied you, did he?" inquired Sir William, when
he had concluded. "Where is he now?"

"At his uncle's, Major Percival's," replied Fred, beginning to trace
the pattern of the carpet with the end of his riding-whip.

"Ah, indeed! I know his son, young Percival. Fine fellow, too--fine
fellow! And there's a friend of his, too--De Lisle, I think they call
him," continued Sir William, without noticing his son's sudden start,
"an example for half the young men in this rebellious land. You saw,
of course, the appointment I've procured for you in the army."

"I did, sir," said Fred, preparing himself for the storm that was
coming.

"Well, I _must_ say," said Sir William, surveying him with a look of
calm surprise, not to say displeasure, "that for such good news you
seem wonderfully little elated. Why, sir, at your age, I would have
been wild with delight at such an offer."

Fred still sat silent; and his father, after regarding him for a
moment with a look of increasing astonishment, went on:

"There are sundry reports in circulation not at all to your credit,
Frederic, and though I have always refused to believe them, yet they
have given me a great deal of mortification. It is now in your power
to prove these reports false, and enable me to hear my son's name once
more without blushing for him. You will go immediately, and report
yourself at headquarters."

The last sentence was spoken with an air of stern command terribly
galling to Fred, even though coming from the lips of a father. His
calm, truth-beaming eye met that of his father unflinchingly, as he
rose to his feet, and stood confronting him.

"Pardon me, sir," he said respectfully, but firmly; "I cannot go."

"_Cannot!_" repeated Sir William, starting back in mingled anger and
amazement. "Good heaven! is it possible these reports were really
true--can it be that _my_ son is a coward?"

"I am no coward, sir!" replied Fred, proudly, an indignant flush
passing over his face.

"Then, sir, you are a traitor--a rebel!" exclaimed Sir William,
fiercely, as he involuntarily half-drew his sword.

"Neither, sir!" replied Fred, with perfect calmness.

"Then, in the name of Heaven, what _are_ you?" cried his father,
passionately, hurried beyond all bounds by the young man's cool,
though respectful demeanor.

Fred stood erect, while his eye lit up, and encountered fearlessly the
angry orbs glaring upon him.

"Sir," he said proudly. "I am an American by birth and by feeling. I
cannot take up arms, even at the command of a father, against my
countrymen."

Sir William grew absolutely livid with passion.

"Ungrateful, undutiful wretch!" he exclaimed, in a voice that sounded
hoarse and unnatural with rage; "do you dare to reply to your father
thus? I _command_ you, sir, on your peril, never to speak such words
again. I tell you, mad-headed, disobedient youth, that you _will_--you
_shall_--you _must_ obey me!"

Fred stood silent with his arms folded, and a look of unmistakable
determination in his eye.

"Have you heard me?" exclaimed his father, striding forward, and
glaring upon him with his fiery eyes. "I say you _shall_ obey me!"

"I hear you, sir!" replied Fred, calmly, meeting his gaze with an
unflinching eye.

"And you shall _heed_ me, too. Go immediately, instantly, and report
yourself; and by your bravery strive to atone for your hot-headed
presumption. D'ye hear me, sir?"

"Yes, sir."

"And you will obey?"

"Most decidedly, _no_, sir!"

"You will not?" exclaimed Sir William, with a glance that might have
annihilated him, it was so intensely, scorchingly angry.

"No, sir!"

"Base, degenerate scoundrel! Do you not dread a father's curse?"

"Not when my conscience tells me I have done no wrong to deserve it!"

"Conscience!" repeated his father, with a bitter sneer; "methinks that
is an article you are but little acquainted with. Pray, Sir Parson,
have you ever heard the command: 'Honor thy father?'"

"Yes; and I have heard another: 'Husbands, _love and cherish your
wives_!' Which, in your estimation, sir, has the greater force?"

He spoke, almost without knowing it, in a tone of such concentrated
bitterness that his father quailed before him.

"I am not in the humor for fooling," he said angrily. "Will you or
will you not obey me?"

"You have my answer already."

"And you still persist in disobeying me?"

"I must, sir, in this matter."

"And may I ask, most patriotic young man, what you intend doing?"
inquired Sir William, with a sneer of withering sarcasm.

"I intend joining the American army," said Fred, calmly.

"You _do_!" exclaimed his father, with flashing eyes. "Do you really
mean to say you are going to take sides against me--your father, sir?"

Sir William bit his lip, and began to pace rapidly up and down. He saw
he had injured his own interest by getting into a passion; his son was
not one to be intimidated. Gentle language, he felt, would have
produced a much greater impression; and all unused as his lips were to
it, he determined to try its efficacy. It was not that he really loved
his son so much, although he did feel more affection for him than for
anyone else; but it was not in his selfish nature to love anyone much.
The opinion of the world was what he feared; he felt it would be a
terrible humiliation to be pointed at hereafter, as a man whose son
was a rebel!

Full of this idea, he advanced toward Fred, who stood watching his
varying countenance, and reading, with his searching eyes, his very
inmost thoughts.

"Frederic," he said in a subdued tone, "I feel I have been wrong in
speaking as I have done. But consider the provocation. You are my only
child--the last descendant of an ancient house; without you to
perpetuate it, our family will become extinct. You are my only hope,
Frederic; you _will_ not desert me in my old age?"

What was begun in policy ended in real pathos.

His anger and reproaches had fallen unheeded; but his last words went
to the heart of Fred.

"Father," he said, "I cannot alter my determination. Therefore, cease
to urge me to do what duty forbids."

"Duty, Frederic! Do not pervert the word. _Your duty_ is by the side
of your father. Where else should a son be? This cant about 'freeing
your country,' is all very well for those hare-brained ragamuffins
who follow the rebel Washington; but does not become you. Remain with
me, and you will be heir to one of the noblest estates in old England.
Persist in his mad scheme, and I shall be compelled to disinherit
you."

He commenced to speak calmly; but, as he proceeded, his anger
overmastered every other feeling, and he assumed his former
threatening tone of command toward the close.

"That last argument, father, was the most ineffectual one you could
have used," said his son, quietly. "Wealth I have never coveted."

"Don't dare to call me father!" said the now thoroughly incensed
parent. "You are henceforth no son of mine. I cast you off. I disown
you; and if you are caught fighting for the rebels, I will have you
hung as a traitor. Mark my words--it is no idle threat. And now, sir,
begone, instantly! Never darken these doors again! Away, thou
ingrate!"

He paused, choked with rage. Fred's face was deadly pale; the words
sounded terribly unnatural and fearful, coming from a parent's lips.

"Father! you do not--you cannot mean--"

"Away, sir!" repeated Sir William, waving his hand. "I have spoken no
hasty words, to be repented of afterward! I _never_ threaten what I do
not intend to perform; and if ever you are taken prisoner, I repeat
it, you shall hang as high as Haman! Yes, sir, I will keep my word,
though King George himself pleaded for you; and if none other could be
found, I would be your executioner myself! You have heard me! Begone!"

Little did either dream how soon that threat was to be fulfilled.

He held the door open, and signed for him to go. Without a word, Fred
took his hat and quitted the house.




CHAPTER VII.

THE HERMIT OF THE CLIFFS.

    "It was a lonely spot in which he dwelt;
      Man shunned his roof, few cared to ask its shelter;
    Not that the old man bore an evil name,
      But that his house was lonely."--OLD PLAY.

Three days later Fred sat in the parlor of an unpretending looking
hotel, carelessly glancing over a newspaper, when a waiter entered,
and announced "that a gemman was 'quirin' for him down stairs."

"For me?" repeated Fred. "Who can it be?"

"Dunno, sah," replied the darkey, fancying the question was addressed
to himself; "I 'spect--"

"Show him up," said Fred, cutting short the darkey's explanation.

In a few moments, a tall, handsome fellow, with a good-humored look,
and a frank, off-hand air, entered. Advancing to Fred, he held out his
hand, with a smile:

"Mr. Stanley, I believe," he said, courteously.

"Yes, sir," replied Fred, bowing; "but I regret to say I am quite
ignorant of the name of--"

"Ah! beg pardon!" interrupted the new-comer. "My name is Nugent
Percival. I wish I could thank you sufficiently for the inestimable
service you have rendered us all, in saving my sister's life."

Fred strove to effect a genteel indifference, though he felt the blood
rushing to his face.

"Pray do not mention it," he replied. "I am only too happy to have had
the opportunity of saving her. I trust she is well?"

"Yes; Edith is quite well, and joins most urgently with the rest of
the family in inviting you to return with me home. Do not refuse, Mr.
Stanley," he continued, seeing the almost haughty expression of Fred's
face; "you have no idea how disappointed they will all be. Gus would
have accompanied me here; but my sister Nell positively refused to let
him go--for fear, as she expressed it, he might get _shipwrecked_
again.'"

Fred smiled, and walked, irresolutely, to the window. Edith urged him
to return: his heart leaped at the words, but a moment's thought
convinced him that Percival had merely used the words as a matter of
form. Still, he felt an inward wish to go. Something made him fancy
Edith was not wholly indifferent to him, and he longed to hear her say
so with her own lips. But, then, her affianced, De Lisle? What if he
were there? Well, even so it would be a comfort to see what manner of
man his rival was. Still, there was an undefined hope that he was not
at Percival Hall.

"I hardly know," he said, hesitating, "whether to intrude a second
time or not. There may be strangers--" He paused.

"Only the family," said Percival, in his frank way. "So, if meeting
strangers is your only objection, you see you can no longer refuse.
Come, Stanley (excuse my familiarity), you _must_ come back with me. I
have been threatened with all manner of calamities by Nell (who, by
the way, pronounces you 'a love of a man'), if I did not bring you."

There was something Fred could not resist in the courteous, winning
manner of young Percival. He resembled Edith, too, far more than did
her sister; and this, perhaps, was the secret cause that drew Fred
toward him.

"Well, since a lady commands it, I must obey," he said, gayly, as he
ran his fingers through his dark elf locks. "When do you start?"

"My orders are to wait for you, sir," replied Percival; "and I shall
most assuredly do so, not having courage to brave the storm I should
meet with, did I venture to return without you. Therefore, until you
are ready, I remain your very humble servant."

"Then you are not likely to be detained," said Fred, "as I am like the
soldier's wife--ready to march on a moment's warning."

"Very good!" said Percival; "what say you to starting to-morrow?"

"I have no objection," replied Fred. "I am only spending a day or two
here, to kill time."

The matter being thus arranged, Percival, after conversing for a short
time on ordinary topics, took his leave. The next morning found them
_en route_.

There was, we must confess it, an unusual throbbing at Fred's heart,
when he again encountered Edith. She was looking better,--more
cheerful than he had ever seen her, he fancied--and the cold reserve
with which she had formerly treated him, seemed entirely forgotten in
the unfeigned pleasure with which she welcomed him back. Fred fancied,
or rather hoped, this might be caused by the prolonged absence of De
Lisle (who had not yet made his appearance), and noticing the eager
happy look with which she met him, his heart leaped with the wild
hope that perhaps she loved _him_ after all.

The greeting of the rest of the family was most cordial, especially
that of Nell. That young lady declared "she hadn't a bit of fun since
he left; that she never was at a loss for something to laugh at when
he was present; it was so funny to see him sitting so stiff and
dignified, looking more like a banished prince than an every-day
Christian."

A week passed rapidly away at Percival Hall. Rides, drives, and walks
followed each other, in all of which Fred unaccountably found himself
the companion of Edith. Gus, who was generally at his wit's end by the
caprices of Nell, found enough to do in taking care of that eccentric
young damsel. And Percival usually started off by himself, leaving the
well-satisfied couples behind him to their own devices. There was a
dangerous fascination for Fred in these interviews. Sometimes, feeling
half-ashamed of loitering here in idleness, when duty called him
elsewhere, he would resolve to depart immediately; but days passed on,
and he found it impossible to tear himself away. He strove to stifle
the twinges of conscience by specious arguments; but reflection would
not be stifled, do as he would.

"Well, Stanley, have my sisters introduced you to all the celebrities
of the place?" asked Percival, one warm, sunny afternoon, as the whole
party, after a longer ramble than usual, strolled toward the house.

"No," said Nell; "we haven't visited the hermit yet!"

"And why have you not brought him there Puss?" inquired her brother.

"Because the Hermit was absent, off on one of his crazy rambles,"
replied Nell. "He only returned this morning. Old Mat, the gardener,
told me."

"Then suppose we go in a party, and pay the old man a visit?" said
Percival.

"Pray," inquired Fred, "who is the Hermit?"

"Oh! a most singular and eccentric old man," replied Percival; "one
alike feared and shunned and beloved by the villagers. He resides a
few miles from here, near the seashore, and is a lunatic, but
perfectly harmless. There is a range of rocks in that direction, which
has been known from time immemorial by the name of 'The Cliffs,' and
from his fondness for strolling about there, he has received the
singular and somewhat romantic name of the Hermit of the Cliffs. He
first made his appearance here a few years ago, and from his skill in
herbs and medicine, became a favorite. He has built a sort of cabin up
among the cliffs, and here he has since resided, spending his time in
cultivating a little garden, or wandering among the rocks. His name is
unknown, but he is, no doubt, some unfortunate, whom the cares of the
world have made an idiot."

"I feel rather curious to see this singular personage," said Fred.
"Let us visit him by all means."

"Is it not too far, brother?" said Edith, anxiously. "The sun will
have set before we return."

"What odds?" interrupted the impetuous Nell. "We can return by
moonlight, which will be twice as pleasant." And Nell hummed:

    "Moonlight hours were made for love."

"Let us start, then," said Gus, "if we are to visit the wizard. There
is no time to lose."

For awhile the party walked on together, chatting gayly; but the
usual phenomenon took place before they had proceeded far. Gus and
Nell saw something very interesting on ahead that caused them to
quicken their steps, while Fred and Edith found it quite convenient to
walk slowly. There was a scarcely-repressed smile hovering about young
Percival's lips, as, under the plea of acting as guide, he walked on
by himself in advance of the rest.

Two hours slow walking brought them to the cliffs, a high, steep,
craggy range of rocks. As a matter of course, each party sought the
cottage of the hermit by a different path. Fred and his fair
companion, absorbed in conversation, had nearly forgotten the object
of their visit, when, turning an abrupt angle in the path, he raised
his head and shook back his dark locks, his eye fell on the most
singular-looking personage he had ever beheld.

It was an old man of grave and majestic aspect, who stood leaning on a
staff. His long white hair and beard flowed over his robes, and gave
to his pale, but benign countenance, a venerable look, that
immediately commanded respect. A small skull-cap of black velvet was
on his head, forming a strong contrast to the hoary whiteness of his
aged locks. His dress was most singular, consisting of a long, flowing
robe of some dark stuff, that swept the ground as he walked, and was
confined at the waist by a girdle of black velvet. Altogether, his
appearance was so odd, so singular, that Fred stood staring at him,
transfixed with astonishment. The hermit himself stood gazing upon
them for a moment, then, raising his cap, he said, in a grave,
impressive voice, laying his hand on his heart:

"Peace be between us, my children."

"Amen, father!" responded Edith, who was familiar with the singular
appearance and address of the hermit, while Fred still stood lost in
wonder.

"Why hast thou visited me this evening, my daughter?" said the old
man, turning to Edith.

"My friend "--and she glanced toward Fred--"has heard so much of the
Hermit of the Cliffs, that he was anxious to visit you. Therefore I
took the liberty of bringing him."

The old man turned slowly, and fixed his mild, dark eye on the face of
the young man.

"What is thy name, my son?" he inquired.

"I am called Frederic Stanley, good father," said Fred, raising his
hat, and bowing with deep reverence.

The eyes of the hermit were fixed on him long and steadily, as if
striving to read his inmost thoughts. As if still uncertain, he
approached; and pushing back the thick curls that fell darkly over the
young man's brow, gazed earnestly into the calm, dark eyes that
fearlessly met his own. Edith looked up in Fred's face with a smile.

"Yes," said the hermit, at last, speaking more to himself than to the
listeners, "he has his father's proud bearing and haughty eyes. The
same impetuous bravery, but a nobler and more generous heart."

"Do you know my father?" inquired the young man, in surprise.

"Yes; better, perhaps, than he does himself. I know him for a rash,
self-willed, obstinate, hard-hearted man."

"Sir, he is my father!" said Fred, flushing angrily.

The penetrating eye of the hermit was fixed steadily on his face.

"And can _you_ defend him," he said, "after parting from him as you
did last?"

Fred stood aghast. The meeting between the father and son had been
strictly private; and yet this mysterious being seemed to know all
that had occurred.

"How came _you_ to know of our last meeting?" he demanded imperiously.

"Perhaps I know more than you are aware of, my son," said the hermit,
while something like a faint smile passed over his face.

"Pshaw!" exclaimed Fred, impetuously, "you have merely made a clever
guess. Since you know we are both fiery tempered, it required no great
skill to predict that we might differ."

"Shall I convince you, most noble doubter, that I know of what I
speak?" said the hermit, quietly.

"If you can," replied Fred, with an incredulous smile.

"Then name the way."

"Tell me of the past," said Fred, glancing meaningly at Edith.

"Be it so. We will begin with your age. You will be twenty-five years
old the third of next November."

Fred bowed, with a look of surprise.

"Your mother died alone and in sorrow; the hands of strangers placed
her in the grave."

Fred grew deadly pale, and drew back.

"You have performed some great service for the lady by your side,"
continued the hermit, quietly. "And at present linger with her here,
neglecting the duty for which your father has disowned you."

"Enough sir," interrupted Fred, haughtily. "Be you man or demon, I
will listen to no imputations on my conduct. How you have obtained
this information concerning me, I know not; neither do I care. Come,
Miss Percival, let us go; the evening air is too damp for you, and I
see our friends are on their way home. I wish you good evening, Sir
Sage." And raising his hat, Fred turned coldly away.

"Stay one moment," said the hermit, laying his hand on the young man's
arm, and speaking with such deep solemnity that it awed him in spite
of himself. "Stay, rash youth, and be warned. Beware of false friends.
There is danger at hand; you will soon meet one who can work you much
evil. I am your friend, though you may not believe it. Go, and be
warned! Despise not the words of one to whom age has brought wisdom.
Farewell, my children, and Heaven bless you!"

He bowed and turning slowly round, disappeared among the rocks.

"Let us go," said Edith, who clung, pale and trembling, to Fred's arm;
"his words frighten me."

"Fear not, fairest Edith; those ominous words were not meant for you,"
said Fred, gently, as he wrapped her shawl close around her, and
hurried down the rocks.

"It may be wrong--it may be superstitious," said Edith, "but I feel
the strangest presentiment of coming danger stealing over me.
Something terrible and undefined, from which I shrink in fear and
horror."

"I thought your nerves were too strong to be thus shaken by the idle
raving of a moonstruck old man," said Fred, gravely.

"I am not nervous," said Edith, earnestly. "It is a feeling for which
I cannot account. Strange, is it not, that the old man could tell you
of the past so truly?"

"It is, indeed!" said Fred, thoughtfully. "I cannot account for it."

During the remainder of the journey home, both were silent and
thoughtful. It might be fancy, but Fred thought there was something
more confiding than usual in the way Edith clung to his arm. The
moonlight fell softly around, ere they reached Percival Hall, subduing
with its lights and shadows the irregular outline of the building. As
they walked slowly up the avenue in front, Nell came flying down the
steps all in a flutter of surprise.

"Edith! Edith!" she cried, as she caught sight of her sister, "guess
who's come?"

"Who?" said Edith.

"Why, nobody less than Ralph De Lisle!"

What meant Edith's convulsive start? She lifted her eyes to the dark,
handsome face above her and Fred was struck by her deadly paleness.
Their eyes met and that one glance told what their lips had never
spoken.




CHAPTER VIII.

THE RIVALS.

    "It is a dreadful question, when we love,
    To ask is love returned."--THE HUNCHBACK.

"Come along, Edith, here is a friend of yours," called the cheerful
voice of young Percival, as they entered the hall.

Still leaning on the arm of Fred--for she trembled with inward
emotion--Edith entered the parlor. A gentleman arose, and advanced
toward her with extended hand.

Fred ran his eye over his rival from head to foot. He was tall,
considerably above middle height, elegant in person, and easy in
address. His features, taken separately, were decidedly handsome; but
there was a sinister look in the ever-restless glances of his keen,
black eyes. His complexion was dark--almost swarthy--with hair,
moustache, and whiskers, of shining jetty blackness. There was an
expression about the well-cut mouth Fred could not tolerate; and the
forehead, though high, was narrow and retreating. He was dressed in
the height of fashion, and everything about him, even to the
carefully-modulated tones of his voice, bespoke the perfect gentleman.

"Mr. Stanley--Mr. De Lisle," said Edith, making a faint attempt at an
introduction.

Fred bowed coldly and haughtily, and his salute was with equal
haughtiness acknowledged. There was something so contemptuous in the
supercilious air with which De Lisle regarded him, that Fred's eye
flashed and his cheek crimsoned with anger.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, eh, Edith?" said her father. "You did
not expect to see your intended so soon, did you?"

Edith suddenly discovered there was an interesting view from the
window, and couldn't possibly hear her father's words.

"I say, Ralph," said Nell, leaning over his chair with a short laugh,
"you had better look out for Edith! Mr. Stanley's is better-looking
than you are, and--"

The rest of the sentence was lost in a whisper.

An angry flush passed over De Lisle's face, as he bit his lip till it
grew bloodless. Fred sat talking to Mrs. Percival with great
_empressement_, though he heard every word of Nelly's remark, and he
awaited the response with deep interest.

"Oh! there is no danger! I am not afraid _of him_," replied De Lisle,
with a sneer of intense contempt.

"Don't be too certain," said Nell. "Don't you remember the proverb:
Nothing is certain in this uncertain world. Well, it's as true as
preaching; so you had better look out. If 'Dith gives you the sack
some fine morning, don't say I didn't give you fair warning."

"I have a better opinion of your sister's taste, my pretty black eyes.
If I _am_ to be a discarded lover, I trust it will not be for an
unknown adventurer and _rebel_," said De Lisle, in the same sneering
tone.

It may be imagined with what feelings Fred listened to this dialogue.
His fiery spirit was roused beyond endurance by the last insult; and
forgetting his position as guest, he was about to make some fierce
retort, when Gus strolled leisurely in, and asked Nell what she was
talking about.

"Repeating poetry, ain't we, Ralph?" said Nell, with an arch glance.

"That's a good child. Say some more," said Gus lounging on a couch.

Nell, always prepared for any emergency, stood with clasped hands in
the middle of the floor, and repeated solemnly:

            "My mother she tells me
            Nature has given thee lips--
    Lips to speak with, my daughter, my own;
    And so thou must use them for speaking _alone_."
            But why are they _red_, then?
    White lips would answer for speaking as well;
            And why has she said, then--
    _Only_ for speaking? Oh! who can tell
    A poor little innocent girl like me,
    For what but to speak with can my mouth be?"

"Shall I tell you?" said Gus, taking a step toward her, but gliding
through his hands as if she had been a sunbeam, she vanished through
the open doors.

"Shall we take a stroll in the garden?" said Percival, advancing
toward him. "The night is too fine to be spent within doors."

Fred, glad to escape from the stream of small-talk with which Mrs.
Percival was overwhelming him, arose, and passing his arm through that
of his friend, quitted the house.

"I heard the remarks of that thoughtless sister of mine," remarked
Percival, in a tone of slight embarrassment, "and feeling you must be
annoyed, took the liberty of inviting you out. I trust you have too
much good sense to feel hurt at anything Nell may say?"

"Did you hear what _he_ said?" demanded Fred, almost fiercely.

"I did; and I felt as much annoyed by it myself as you could possibly
be. It was too bad of De Lisle--too bad, positively. But we must make
allowances for these lovers, Mr. Stanley," he said smiling. "Jealousy
will make the best of them slightly impertinent. He was vexed with
Edith, too. Her welcome, as you doubtless perceived, was a cold one."

"That he should dare call _me_ an adventurer!" exclaimed Fred, with
flashing eyes. "I, who have descended from one of the proudest
families in England. And that I should be obliged to tamely sit down,
and bear with the insult."

He ground his teeth and clenched his hands with suppressed passion.

"Oh! never mind, my dear fellow!" said Percival, soothingly. "Ralph is
a hot-headed youth; and, when angry, is not very choice in the words
he uses. I beg you'll think no more about it. Nell's remarks were very
tantalizing to a lover, you must allow. I shall caution her against
speaking so again."

"I tell you, Percival," exclaimed Fred, vehemently, "were he not your
father's guest, as I am I would call him out and make him retract his
words or shoot him like a dog. 'Rebel and adventurer!'" he repeated,
still more fiercely. "Is it from a hound like that moustached puppy, I
must bear such an insult?"

"My dear Stanley," said Percival, laying his hand on the young man's
shoulder, "I beg there may be no quarreling on this subject. Consider
my sister's name will be involved; and as you are a man of honor, you
will submit to this taunt rather than that the breath of slander
should be affixed to her."

"For your sister's sake I would do _anything_--submit to anything,"
exclaimed Fred, impetuously. Then, seeing the other's look of
surprise, he added, almost fiercely: "Do you think I am blind--do you
think I have the heart of a stoic? Do you think it possible I could be
continually in your sister's society, and not become interested in
her? I tell you, Nugent Percival, I _love_ your sister, though she be
betrothed to the man I hate, Ralph De Lisle."

There was something appalling in the unsubdued fierceness with which
he spoke. His eyes seemed actually to emit flashes of fire, and his
steps resounded, as he paced up and down, as though he was shod with
iron. There was a cloud on the handsome features of Nugent Percival,
as he again placed the hand on his shoulder, and said, earnestly:

"My dear Stanley, my dear fellow, I am sorry for you. I never dreamed
that this was the case. I would to Heaven Edith's choice had fallen
upon you first, instead of De Lisle. But it is too late now. And for
the sake of peace--for the happiness of all--I beg you will endeavor
to avoid a quarrel with him while he remains here. He is a perfect
fiend when roused, and I greatly fear the happiness of our whole
household will be destroyed, should anything occur."

"Forgive me, my dear Percival; I have been mad. To-morrow I will
depart. I have loitered here too long, neglecting the duty which calls
me away. De Lisle's taunt shall be borne this time, but should we meet
again--" He paused, but his eyes finished the sentence.

"Oh! come, Stanley, you mustn't think of going to-morrow," interposed
Percival. "Do you not know to-morrow is Nellie's seventeenth birthday,
and she is to celebrate it by a party in the evening. Come, my good
friend, be reasonable! You cannot depart to-morrow. The thing is
impossible!"

Fred knit his brow, and paced moodily up and down.

"Besides, if you leave us so suddenly," continued Percival, in his
frank, cheerful way, "I will think that my words have driven you off.
That would be a poor requital for saving my sister's life."

"For _that_ I need no thanks," said Fred, huskily. Then seeing the
anxious expression on Percival's face, he said, more composedly: "My
dear friend, I will remain, as you request, but I certainly must
depart on the day following. Duty to my country imperatively calls me
away."

"Ah! Edith told me something of this!" said Percival, while a flush
tinged his cheek. "Stanley, I envy you."

"Envy me!" exclaimed Fred, bitterly.

"Yes, for I have no doubt a brilliant career is in store for you. For
me, it is out of the question."

"And why, may I ask?"

"Oh! the reason is simple enough. I will not accept a commission in
the English army, and there would be the deuce to pay did I enlist in
any other. I have not courage to face my father's anger, so I choose
to remain neutral. Rather cowardly, is it not?"

He laughed carelessly as he spoke, but there was a bitterness in his
tone that did not escape Fred.

"There's De Lisle, now," he continued, "he's a red-hot tory, and is
considered both by my father and yours as the _beau ideal_ of what a
young man in these times should be. There's something almost fiendish
in the hate with which he pursues the 'rebel Yankees.' I always
considered mercy a necessary virtue in a soldier, but he looks upon it
as quite superfluous, not to say childish. He is the leader of a gang
of savage-looking cut-throats, more like Spanish bandits, to my mind,
than Christian soldiers. With these he goes hovering about, never
bringing about any particular result, but harassing the enemy, and
cutting off straggling parties. Heigho!" he added, suddenly changing
his tone, "he does something after all, and that is more than I can
say."

"But why," demanded Fred, "do you not declare your real sentiments to
your father, and follow the dictates of your own conscience? It seems
to me (pardon my plain speaking) that there is something unmanly in
acting this way."

Percival turned away his head for a moment, and when he again spoke,
his voice was low and husky.

"I would do so, Stanley. Heaven knows it is from no unworthy motive
that I shrink from it, but my mother, it would kill her."

"My dear Percival," said Fred, grasping his hand, "say no more, I
honor you for your sentiments. You will pardon my words, I feel
assured."

"That is already done," replied Percival, smiling, "and now, since we
have both talked ourselves into a proper degree of coolness, suppose
we return to the house."

Edith was seated at the piano singing when they entered, with De Lisle
standing by her side to turn over the leaves. As may be supposed, this
sight did not tend to add to Fred's composure; but with the
determination of avoiding all outward sign of annoyance, he seated
himself by the window, and listened quietly to the sweet voice of the
singer, as she warbled the words of an old Scotch ballad.

Later in the evening, when Edith bowed her good-night to him, he
encountered the eyes of De Lisle fixed upon him with a look of such
undying hate that he absolutely started. The next moment he recovered
his presence of mind, and regarding him for a moment with a
contemptuous smile, far more stinging than any words, he passed from
the room.

Alone in the solitude of his own chamber, he strove to think calmly
over the events of the day. _Calmly!_ It was hard indeed to do so with
such a fire burning in his heart and brain. The memory of the hermit's
strange prediction kept constantly recurring to his mind, but though
he thought until his head grew giddy, he could not imagine who that
strange being was. Then, as the other events of the evening passed
one by one before him, he came in due course of time to the insulting
words of De Lisle, and once again his eye flashed, and his cheek
burned, as he trod fiercely up and down the room.

And Edith! Did she love him? That expressive glance, as they entered
the house, had seemed to say so! If so, would she still fulfill her
engagement with De Lisle? He dwelt upon this problem until his brain
was in a whirl, and when he at last threw himself on the bed, it was
with the intention of seeking a solution from herself the following
day.

As every member of the family, however, was busy all day in preparing
for the festivities of the evening, no opportunities occurred for him
to see Edith alone. Accordingly, accepting Percival's invitation, he
went out with him to take a stroll, only returning in time to dress
for the evening.

When Fred entered the drawing-room, he found it crowded to excess.
Owing to the warmth of the weather, the doors and windows were all
left open, and the cool night-breeze came drifting in, laden with the
perfume of flowers, the glare of the lighted rooms contrasting
pleasantly with the calm, full moonlight. Edith, robed in snowy white,
was there, looking lovelier than ever. She stood by the open window,
partly in the shadow, her head leaning on her hand, a sad, dreamy look
on her fair face. As Fred approached, she raised her cloudless blue
eyes to his face, and he started to see her look exactly as she did
the day he rescued her from the burning ship. The rose tint on her
cheek deepened to crimson beneath his gaze, and with an inclination of
her head, she glided away, and disappeared among the crowd.

While he stood looking after her, Nell approached, leaning on the arm
of De Lisle. Nell looked absolutely beautiful, there was such a deep,
living glow on her cheeks, and such a bright, streaming light in her
eyes. De Lisle, most elegantly dressed, was also looking handsome, and
had evidently prepared himself to make a deeper impression than ever
upon Edith.

"Oh, Mr. Stanley!" exclaimed Nell, "what have you done with Edith? She
was here a moment ago, with _you_."--There was a wicked emphasis on
the pronoun. "Where is she now? I want her dreadfully."

At sight of De Lisle, Fred's face grew cold, almost haughty.

"I am sorry I cannot inform you," he answered stiffly, "Miss Percival
did not remain here a moment."

"Dear me! I hope she did not leave you on _our_ account," said the
wicked Nell, noticing with delight that De Lisle was pale with anger
and jealousy. "Come, Ralph, we must look for her. Perhaps you'll join
us, Mr. Stanley."

"Excuse me!" said Fred, bowing coldly, as he turned on his heel and
left them.

Nell clapped her hands with delight.

"What a creature!" she exclaimed, "as stiff and haughty as papa
himself. Did you ever see such an iron face as he puts on when angry,
and the _freezing_ tone in which that 'excuse me' was said."

And Nell imitated his tone so exactly, that anybody but De Lisle would
have laughed.

"Conceited, insufferable puppy!" muttered the young man between his
clenched teeth.

As Fred strolled into the dancing-room, he saw Edith and Gus standing
at the head of one of the quadrilles, and laughing and chatting gayly
during the rests. Feeling in no humor for dancing himself, he wandered
into the music-room, where he could catch glimpses of the gay dancers,
and listen to the merry strains of the music.

There was a deep bay-window in the music-room, screened by heavy
curtains. In this recess there was a lounge. Fred threw himself on it,
and drew the curtains to screen himself from the observation of any
stragglers who might enter.

Suddenly the sound of a familiar voice met his ear. Raising himself on
his elbow, he glanced from his hiding-place and beheld the well known
features of De Lisle apparently absorbed in earnest conversation with
another man.

His companion, from some strange unaccountable cause immediately
riveted the attention of Fred, as no other stranger had ever done
before. Not that there was anything remarkable about him. He was a man
of middle age, robust and sinewy, but not stout, and dressed in the
plain garb of a civilian of the day. His features were bronzed by the
sun, and seamed with more wrinkles than his age might seem to warrant.
His hair was grizzled, and streaked alternately with black and gray.
His eyes, small, sharp, bright and piercing, were set in two deep
caverns, overhung by thick, bushy eyebrows, and were ever wandering
around, with a quick, restless look that seemed to take everything in
at once.

It was impossible for Fred to leave the room without being observed,
consequently, he was forced to remain.

"I tell you," exclaimed De Lisle, "he has supplanted me, any fool can
see that the girl is in love with him. Even that confounded little
Will-o'-the-wisp, her sister, can jibe and mock me about it. I tell
you, Paul, the infernal upstart shall repent it in dust and ashes. No
man can cross my path and live."

"Why do you not tell Major Percival he is a rebel?" said his
companion, "such a staunch royalist would not harbor rebels, surely."

"Yes, he would," said De Lisle, vehemently, "the very demons
themselves seem to conspire against me."

"Oh! well you cannot _always_ expect them to stand your friends," said
the man Paul, with something like a sneer, "they have been true to you
a good long while. But were I you, I would tell the major, anyway."

"Tell the major! have I not done so, and what was his answer? 'Mr.
Stanley has saved my daughter's life, and is now my guest, and,
therefore, no one shall presume to insult him while he is in this
house.' I mentioned his growing intimacy with Edith, and giving me one
of his stern looks, he replied, Mr. Stanley is a gentleman, and as
such, it will be enough for him to know her hand is already engaged.'
So that was all the satisfaction I got from him. Perdition seize them
all!" And he gnashed his teeth with impotent rage.

"Take it coolly, my dear captain," said his companion, quietly, "no
one ever does business by getting into a passion. You hate this
fellow, that's plain enough, and now, what do you propose to do?"

"Listen!" said De Lisle, in a tone of concentrated hatred, "and tell
me if it is not a glorious plan. Ha! here comes a crowd of fools from
the drawing-room. Come elsewhere and I will tell you." And passing
his arm through that of his companion, the twain quitted the
music-room.

When they were gone, Fred arose to his feet. What his feelings were
whilst listening to the above dialogue may be imagined. A profound
contempt for De Lisle mastered every other feeling. He saw intuitively
from the first he was not a man to be trusted, but he had never
believed him capable of such villainy. And this was the man Edith
Percival was to marry. The thought was maddening! Fred trod up and
down like a caged tiger, unconscious that the eyes of many were
regarding him with wonder. Becoming aware at last of this, he seized
his hat, and wandered out to the garden. The calm, holy stillness of
the night soothed his excited feelings. The cool, pitying breeze
fanned his feverish brow, as he shook back the dark locks that fell
heavily over his temples. The moonlight lay sleeping on the earth, the
trees waved and mourned softly together; and, at times, the shrill cry
of the whip-poor-will and katy-did, would come floating to his ear,
mingling with the strains of music that reached him, softened and
subdued by the distance. All breathed of peace and repose, and
unconsciously the calm of the scene stole into his heart, subduing its
tumultuous throbbings.

Scarcely knowing whither he went, he strolled toward a little arbor at
the foot of the garden, a favorite retreat of Edith. He expected to
find it untenanted, but to his surprise he beheld the slight figure of
a young girl, robed in white, kneeling on the ground, her face hidden
in her hands, her long golden hair falling in a bright shower over her
shoulders. One might almost fancy her some pitying angel weeping over
a fallen soul, as she knelt there in the clear moonlight, in her
snowy dress, as still and motionless as though turned to marble.

"Edith!" said the voice of him she was then thinking of, whose every
tone could have recalled her from death to life.

With a suppressed cry she started to her feet, and seemed, for a
moment, about to fly, but something in the eye of Fred restrained her,
and she stood silent, her bosom rising and falling with powerful
emotion.

"Edith," he said, taking her hand, which she did not attempt to
withdraw, "why are you here alone, exposed to the damp night air?"

"Because I would be alone; because I am weary of all this empty
gayety; because I am wretched. That is," she added, coloring
painfully, and checking herself, "I--I am--" She paused abruptly.

"Edith," he began, hurriedly. "I have something to say to
you--something you _must_ hear."

The words were intended to be spoken in a tone of entreaty, but it
partook largely of command.

"Oh! let me return, Mr. Stanley," said Edith, evidently much agitated;
"we will be missed."

"Edith, you must hear me now!" he exclaimed, vehemently, as she
attempted to withdraw her hand. "I cannot suffer this opportunity to
pass unimproved, and you must listen to me. Edith, I love you--since
the first moment I saw you I have loved you, and even though you be
the betrothed of another, I cannot but love you still. You are the
first to whom these lips ever made such an avowal, and though you may
think me bold and presumptuous, I can no longer remain silent. Tell
me, dearest, have I loved in vain? If so, we will never meet more.
Edith! Edith! dearer than life, answer me!"

There was no reply. With her face hidden in her hands, she was sobbing
convulsively.

"I am answered," said Fred, huskily. "Edith, farewell! May you be as
happy with the husband of your choice as I would have striven to
render you."

He turned to go. Edith raised her head, and saw in the wan moonlight
the deadly paleness of his face. "Mr. Stanley--Frederic!" she said,
faintly.

In a moment, he was again by her side, looking down into the fair face
veiled by the long, golden hair.

"Dearest Edith," he said, eagerly, "may I hope--"

"No! no! hope for nothing!" she interrupted, "but I feared you were
offended. Oh, Mr. Stanley, you do not know how utterly miserable I
am!"

"And why, fairest lady?" he said, almost coldly, "since you love Mr.
De Lisle, methinks you should be happy."

"I do not love him--I do not care for him!" she said, earnestly; "it
is not that."

"And what, then, is it? Confide in me, dearest. Is it even as I have
been rash enough to hope? Dearest Edith, do you indeed love me?"

"I do!" she said, faintly, as her head dropped on his shoulder. "But
why do I say so?" she exclaimed, starting up-- "I, who am to be the
wife of another?"

"Edith! Edith! will you marry a man you do not love?"

"I must!" she replied, dejectedly. "I dare not refuse--my father has
set his heart on this union. Oh, Frederic! would we had never met!"

"It would, indeed, have been better, Edith. But would it not be wiser
to brave the anger of a parent than to be made miserable for life by
marrying one you dislike?"

"Oh! I know not what to do!" said Edith, wringing her hands.

"Let me advise you, dearest Edith," said Fred, earnestly. "Refuse,
firmly, to marry De Lisle, your father will not compel you to do so.
Believe me, it is from no selfish motive I urge you to do this. You
and I, dear Edith, are doomed to part. But it would be a crime--a
perjury, to go before God's holy altar, and vow to love, honor, and
obey a man you detest."

"But my father? Oh, Mr. Stanley you do not know how terrible his wrath
is!" said Edith, wildly.

"Better to brave his wrath, Edith, than render yourself forever
wretched. De Lisle is not worthy of you; let me advise you as a
brother, to reject him!"

Edith dropped her head, and for a moment seemed lost in thought. Then
raising it, she said, firmly:

"With Heaven's blessing, Frederic, I will do so. I feel it would be
wrong to marry him, but his anger and my father's will be fearful, and
_you_--" she added, looking anxiously up in the face bending over her.

"I shall leave to-morrow," he replied, speaking calmly, by an effort,
"happy in knowing I am beloved, though we may never meet again."

She looked down with a shudder.

"It is so cold!" she said, absently; "let us return."

He drew her arm within his, and turned slowly toward the house. When
they disappeared, the figure of a man arose from where it had been
crouching behind some low bushes, hearing every word.

It was De Lisle! and as the moonlight fell upon it, his face wore the
look of a demon.




CHAPTER IX.

DOOMED.

    "Go some of you, cry a reprieve."--BEGGAR'S OPERA.

Night had settled over the earth, dark, chilly, and starless. A thick
drizzling rain was falling, while the storm-clouds chased one another
over the sky.

In a narrow, gloomy cell, cold and fireless, sat Fred Stanley. It was
a poor place for such an occupant--unfurnished save by a wooden bench
and a rude cot on which lay a mattress, covered by a coarse blanket,
so filthy that he shrank from it in disgust.

When Fred quitted the residence of Major Percival, he joined the
American army, where his bravery soon won for him promotion.

Being caught hovering around the English out-posts with a number of
his men, he was imprisoned, tried by court-martial, and condemned to
be shot as a traitor and a spy. It was not death that could subdue the
proud spirit of Fred Stanley, but oh! fearful to think of--_his
father_ had been his judge, it was _his_ lips that had pronounced his
death-warrant.

He sat on the rude bench, his arms folded across his breast, his lips
compressed, his neglected locks fallen darkly over his face. It was
his last night on earth. Ere the sun rose again, he would be in
eternity.

He thought of Edith, and wondered vaguely if she would grieve to learn
his fate; then of her stern father, compelling her to be the wife of
De Lisle--until almost maddened, he sprang to his feet, and paced up
and down, with clenched hands and flashing eyes.

It was hard to die, too, so young, with such a glorious career opening
before him. To leave the beautiful world that had never seemed half so
fair to him before. He thought of his father's bitter words at their
stormy interview, with a vague feeling of wonder that they had come
true so soon. And then followed a feeling of utter desolation--he was
deserted by all, without a friend on earth, doomed to die an
ignominious death in the flower of his youth. He strove to pray, but
his brain was like a seething cauldron, through which maddening
thoughts leaped in wild chaos. Even "God have mercy" seemed glued to
his lips.

Suddenly the grating noise of the key turning in the rusty lock
arrested his attention. The jailor entered, bearing a lantern,
followed by a tall figure wrapped in a cloak. Setting down the light,
the man departed, and Fred was alone with the stranger.

"Stanley, my dear fellow!" he exclaimed, in a choking voice, as the
cloak fell off, disclosing the pale features of Nugent Percival.

"Percival, is it you? this is indeed kind!" said Fred, grasping his
hand.

"I only learned about an hour ago of this," said Percival, "and came
here immediately. I had considerable difficulty in persuading them to
allow me to see you. They seem particularly afraid lest you should
escape."

"Escape!" repeated Fred, bitterly, "they need not alarm themselves.
There is nothing further from my thoughts at present."

"Would to Heaven, my dear friend, I could aid you!" exclaimed
Percival, in a voice husky from deep emotion. "This affair is
terrible, monstrous, unnatural. They tell me Sir William sat as
judge?"

"He did," replied Fred, with stern fierceness, "and most coolly and
deliberately condemned me to death. He told me before he would do so,
but I little dreamed how soon his words were to come true. The only
thing he seemed to hesitate in was, whether his rebel son should die
by the rope or the musket. Some of my former _friends_ (the words were
pronounced with a withering sneer) persuaded him to let me suffer by
the latter, as the most honorable. Have I not reason to be grateful
for such condescension?"

He laughed mockingly. It sounded so wild, so strange, so unnatural,
that Percival shuddered.

"It is terrible!" he said, in a low voice. "Has he the heart of a man
to condemn his own son to death? It cannot be, it _must_ not be. Fred,
he will relent--you will be pardoned; you need not fear death."

Fred started, raised his head, and flinging back his dark hair,
exclaimed fiercely:

"Fear, did you say? I do not fear death! I can walk to the muzzle of
their muskets without my heart beating one throb faster. Fear!" His
lip curled scornfully.

"But you do not wish to die such a disgraceful death. It would be an
honor to fall fighting for one's country; but _this_, the doom of a
traitor! Who could think of such a fate calmly? It might well make the
bravest heart quail."

"Poor comfort, my dear Percival!" said Fred, one of those rare smiles
that his face seldom wore of late, lighting up his handsome
countenance. "Surprising as it may seem, your words do not tend to
cheer me in the least."

"Fred, you _shall_ not perish if I have to intercede for your pardon
on my knees!" exclaimed Percival, hurried away by his impetuous
feelings. "I will go to Sir William, and plead for your life."

"Percival, if you wish me to regard you as my friend, never utter such
words again!" said Fred, sternly. "Do you think that I would accept
the poor boon of life on such degrading terms? No, my dear friend. I
thank you for your zeal in my behalf, but think no more of pardon for
me. My hours are numbered. I will never live to see the sun rise
again."

Percival strove to speak, but a choking sensation rose in his throat,
and kept him silent. Fred paced up and down, after his custom when
excited. At last, stopping suddenly before Percival, who sat with his
face shaded by his hand, he dashed his heavy locks back from his
temples, and said, in a voice quick and excited:

"There is one thing you can do for me--it is the last favor I will ask
on earth from anyone. Tell your sister--tell Edith, I loved her to the
last, and ask her to think of me sometimes when I am dead. Tell her to
think of what we spoke of last. She will understand what I mean, and
will then believe no selfish motive prompted me; for by that time I
will be beyond feeling any earthly pain."

"Time's up, sir!" said the jailer, sharply, shoving his head through
the half-opened door.

"Good-by, then, my dear Percival," said Fred, grasping his hand--"we
part for the last time! God bless you!"

A convulsive pressure of his hand was the only reply, as Percival
turned aside his head to hide the emotion he could not repress. Not
trusting his voice to speak, he pulled his hat down over his eyes and
quitted the cell, followed by the turnkey.

Striding through the streets as though shod with the famous
seven-league boots, Nugent Percival stopped not until he reached the
hotel where he and his father resided during their temporary stay from
home.

Major Percival was seated in stately dignity, looking over a
formidable pile of letters and accounts. He started back in surprise
and consternation as his son, pale, wild, and excited, burst into the
room and stood before him.

"Father!" he exclaimed, impetuously--"Fred Stanley saved your
daughter's life. It is now in your power to return the obligation by
saving his!"

"Save his life! What do you mean, sir?" demanded his father, amazed
and angry at this abrupt address.

"I mean that Fred Stanley is in prison, condemned to be shot
to-morrow; and it is in your power to save him!" exclaimed his son,
with still increasing excitement.

"Shot to-morrow!" exclaimed Major Percival. "Good Heavens! what has he
done?"

"He joined the American cause, as you know, and has been arrested and
condemned as a spy;" was the reply.

"Sorry to hear it--sorry to hear it!" said the major, shaking his
head. "Stanley was a fine fellow, but I can do nothing for him. He
deserves his fate!"

"And is this your gratitude to him for saving Edith's life?" said
Percival, with flashing eyes.

"But what can I do, sir? I told you it is not in my power to help
him!" replied his father, in rising anger.

"You _can_ help him, sir. Are you not the intimate friend of his
father?"

"Well, and if I am?"

"Then go to him and plead for his son's life!"

"Plead for his son's life! Are you crazy, Nugent? Doubtless all the
influence Sir William possessed has been tried for his pardon before
this."

"I tell you, father, it is Sir William himself who has condemned Fred
to death!" exclaimed Percival, vehemently.

"_What!_" gasped Major Percival, starting back in horror--"condemn his
own son? Impossible!"

"He has done so, horrible as it seems. Father, you _will_ go to him
and plead for a reprieve?"

"In such a case I certainly will! I'll go instantly! Who ever heard of
such a thing? It absolutely makes one's blood run cold! He _must_
pardon him!"

       *       *       *       *       *

Sir William Stanley sat by the open window of his room, his head
leaning on his hand, his brows knit as though in pain. The raw wind
and chill rain beat unheeded on his bare head--a few hours seemed to
have turned him into an old man.

He was thinking of his son, alone in his cold, gloomy cell--the last
heir of his proud house condemned to die a traitor's ignominious death
on the morrow! It was his own lips that had pronounced his doom, and
though his sorrow and anguish were intense, those words should never
be recalled.

Sir William was neither hard-hearted nor unnatural. That his son was a
spy, and as such, deserved death--was his conviction. He would not
have condemned him unjustly; but having once found him guilty, nothing
could save him. _Duty_ was the ruling principle of Sir William
Stanley's life. It amounted almost to a monomania with him. Once
convinced of what he considered his duty, no human consideration could
induce him to swerve from it.

Therefore, he sat by the window a bereaved, broken-hearted old man,
bereaved by his own act. His affection for Frederic had never been
very strong, but he was his son after all; and now that he was about
to lose him, he had never seemed so dear before. A thousand
remembrances of him, that he had long forgotten, again rushed to his
mind. He remembered him a wild, impetuous, handsome boy, ever rash,
sometimes wayward, often fiery and headstrong, but always generous.
Then, too, with him would perish the last scion of his ancient
family--the disgrace of his shameful death would ever cling to
himself: and Sir William bowed his face on his hands, and groaned
aloud.

Suddenly, a servant entered, and announced that Major Percival was
below, and desired to see him.

Sir William was in no humor to see visitors, but he could not refuse
his old friend; so composing his face until it assumed an expression
of rigid firmness, he bade the servant show him up.

When the major entered the room, Sir William advanced to meet him with
extended hand, his face looking as if it were made of cast-iron, so
stern and hard was it.

"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit major?" was his
very unusual mode of addressing his friend.

"To a very unhappy circumstance, Sir William!" was the reply. "I
allude to that affair of your son's."

Sir William's brow grew dark.

"Proceed!" he said stiffly.

"I hear that you have condemned him to be shot as a spy!" said the
Major, nettled by the baronet's tone; "it is impossible, sir, you can
have done so monstrous an act."

"Not at all impossible, Major Percival!" said Sir William, coldly. "I
have condemned him to death."

"But you _cannot_ mean to execute such a sentence. Good Heavens, sir,
you will not become the murderer of your own son!" exclaimed the
major, in a tone of horror.

"Major Percival, the young man is guilty! His is a double crime--he is
a spy and traitor. Sir, he deserves death!" said Sir William, with
stately dignity.

"He is none the less your son!"

"Were he my _father_, sir, he should die."

"Sir William Stanley, have you the heart of a fiend? Will you be
barbarous, inhuman enough to condemn your only son to a disgraceful
death? Zounds! sir! the very brutes of the forests would not be guilty
of such a deed!"

"Sir, I trust I know my duty!"

"Duty!" exclaimed the passionate old man, "I tell you, Sir William
Stanley, that sort of cant is ridiculous! Duty forsooth! As if it was
a man's duty to commit a civil murder--for it _is_ a murder, say what
you will--because you fancy him a spy. I tell you, sir, if you slay
your own son, his blood will cry out from the earth for vengeance on
his murderer!"

Major Percival sprang from his seat, and stood gesticulating, flushed,
excited, fiery, before Sir William. The baronet's face seemed to be
made of marble for, though he rose to his feet, it was as calm and
immovable as iron. There was something in that stern, still look that
awed and subdued the fiery wrath of his more excitable companion.

"Major Percival," he said, and his voice sounded strangely impressive
in its deep calmness, "I have listened to your words, and I forgive
your insults, though, should they be repeated, my servants shall show
you out. And now, sir, hear _me_; as well might you talk to this
table, with the hope of winning it to answer you as to plead for
forgiveness for him. To-morrow by day-dawn he dies, and no power under
heaven can save his life. You have my answer, sir."

He paused. His cold, impressive voice had stilled the excited feelings
of the major. He felt his words were ill-chosen, and with the
determination of being more careful, he resolved to try again.

"Sir William," he began, "we are old friends, and I feel you will
pardon words uttered in the heat of anger. I feel an interest, nay, an
affection, for your son, he saved my daughter's life at the risk of
his own, and it is but natural I should plead for him."

A stiff bow and cold silence was his sole reply.

"Once again then," continued the major, "I implore you to retract this
sentence. Think of the long, cheerless old age before you, without the
strong arm of a son to lean upon, without a relative on earth to close
your eyes. For his dead mother's sake, sir, spare your son's life!"

A sudden start followed the abrupt words, and a spasm of intense agony
passed over the face of the baronet. The major noticed it, and
continued:

"You _will_ pardon him. I am sure; your heart is not made of iron. For
your own sake, my old friend, grant me this boon!"

"Enough, sir!" interrupted the baronet, around whose mouth a look of
immovable sternness had settled; "I will hear no more; you plead in
vain. I know my duty, Major Percival. Frederic Stanley has been
tried, and found guilty; and ere the sun rises to-morrow, HE SHALL
DIE!"

There was an almost passionate solemnity in his tone. He looked as
some Spartan hero of old might of done when about to sacrifice what
was dearest to him on earth.

"Then, Sir William Stanley," said Major Percival, growing absolutely
white with anger, "our friendship is forever at an end!"

"As you please, sir!" replied the baronet, with a stiff bow.

"Now, mark my words, unfeeling man!" exclaimed the major, with a
solemnity almost equal to his own, "if you slay your own son, you will
repent it in dust and ashes. A miserable old age will be
yours--shunned by men, and accursed by God!"

"Go!" said the baronet, white and choked with rage, as he held the
door open and pointed out.

And without a word, Major Percival took his hat, and left the house.

       *       *       *       *       *

The chill gray dawn of morning looked with its pale, wan face on many
scenes.

It beheld Edith Percival, after a restless night, kneeling with
clasped hands by the window, praying for strength, and thinking of
one, now dearer than life itself. It saw Sir William Stanley, cowering
in his room, white and ghastly, with an awful look of fixed, settled
despair in his stony eyes, shrinking in horror as the moments flew by,
bringing the dreaded hour nearer and nearer. It looked through the
little grating, with its sad, pitiful eyes, into the lonely cell in
which Fred Stanley was confined. He lay on the rude cot in a deep
sleep--so still, so dreamless, that but for the deep, regular
breathing, one might mistake it for death. His long, luxuriant locks
fell darkly over his white brow, saddening the still, marble-like
face. His was the profound slumber that follows strong excitement of
any kind, and he looked so calm, so tranquil, that even the jailer
shrank from wakening him, with a feeling akin to pity for his youth
and sad fate.

But the noise of the creaking door aroused him. Starting up he looked
around with a bewildered air. The narrow cell, that grated window, the
hard-looking jailer, too soon brought memory back. He had slept for
the last time. For a moment his face flushed deep crimson, then the
blood retreated to his heart, leaving him paler than before.

"Why do you wait?" he demanded, turning to the jailer. "I am ready."

He rose to his feet as he spoke. Several men entered the cell; but he
scarcely noticed them, as murmuring a silent prayer for mercy, he
proceeded to the court-yard.

Several soldiers with fixed muskets stood ready. At a little distance
was Sir William Stanley; and no one, to look at his pale, but rigidly
calm face, could dream of the intense anguish he endured.

A man advanced with a handkerchief, but waving him back with an air of
calm command, Fred said:

"Stand aside! I will not have my eyes bound."

"It matters not!" said Sir William, seeing the man hesitated. Then,
turning to the soldiers, he said:

"When I give the word, you will--"

He paused. With all his firm self-command, he could not finish the
sentence.

"Kneel!" he said, turning sternly to Fred, but his face was like that
of a corpse. "Now," he added, turning to the others, and raising his
arm, "fi--"

"Hold!" cried a voice, so deep, so sepulchral, that everyone started,
and the next moment the Hermit of the Cliffs stood before them.




CHAPTER X.

MAJOR PERCIVAL IN A "STATE OF MIND."

    "Ah me! for aught that I could ever read,
    Could ever hear by tale or history,
    The course of true love never did run smooth."

                                   --SHAKESPEARE.

There was a moment's profound silence, and the group standing in the
court-yard, in the gray dawn of the morning, might have formed a
subject for a painter.

The soldiers in a row, with gleaming muskets presented, now motionless
in surprise. Fred, still kneeling in momentary expectation of
death--Sir William Stanley, transfixed with amazement, staring at the
new-comer--and the hermit himself looking exactly the same as when
Fred and Edith had met him on the cliffs.

"Who are you, sirrah?" demanded Sir William, who was the first to
recover his presence of mind.

"No friend of yours, Sir William Stanley," replied the deep tones of
the hermit.

"And how dare you venture here, man or madman, or whatever you may
be?" cried the baronet, fiercely. "Away with you, or you shall repent
this intrusion."

"Not at thy command will I go," replied the hermit, loftily. "No man
on earth can make me do otherwise than as I please."

"Then, by all the fiends in flames, _I_ will make you do otherwise,"
shouted the enraged baronet. "Here, some of you, arrest this hoary
dotard, until we teach him that our commands are not to be disobeyed
with impunity."

"Back!" cried the hermit, waving his hand majestically. "Touch me not
at your peril."

"Who is this old fool?" asked Sir William angrily.

"One you have reason to fear, proud man," replied the calm voice of
the hermit.

"Now, by Heaven! this is too much!" exclaimed the baronet, fiercely.
"What! have you all turned cowards, that no one dares raise a finger
against this gray lunatic? Be off, old man, I do not wish to harm you.
Do you hear?"

"On one condition only will I go," replied the hermit, folding his
arms, and gazing steadily in the eyes of the angry baronet.

"Must I, then, make conditions with you?" said Sir William
sarcastically. "Pray name it most venerable father."

"That you allow yonder kneeling youth to go forth free," was the calm
reply.

For a moment, Sir William's face grew absolutely black with rage. He
stood quivering, speechless with suppressed passion.

"Nay, Sir William," said the old man, in a tone of conscious power,
"There is no need to look so enraged. I can _make_ you do it."

He walked over, as he spoke, to where the baronet stood, and whispered
a few words in his ear. The effect was appalling. Sir William
staggered back, with ghastly face and straining eye-balls, then with
one wild cry: "_Oh, Great Heaven!_" the strong man fell stricken to
the ground.

All were bewildered, amazed, terrified! Several rushed forward to
raise the prostrate man, whilst the others surrounded Fred, who had
risen to his feet, under the vague impression that he was in some way
about to escape. The hermit, as he passed him, whispered "Fear not,
you are safe!" And a moment after he was gone.

Fred was reconducted back to prison like one in a dream. What strange,
mysterious power did this singular old man possess? He knew all the
events of Fred's past life, seemingly, as well as he did himself; and
in a few words had produced an effect upon Sir William Stanley such as
no human being had ever done before. He could not account for it.

It seemed to Fred that that day would never come to an end. He paced
up and down his narrow precincts until he was tired, and then threw
himself on the wooden bench, forced to resign himself to the prospect
of remaining another night in his dreary cell. He shortly after heard
the key turning in the lock; and the next moment a tall, muffled
figure stood in the doorway.

"Come with me," said a deep voice, that Fred easily recognized as his
father's.

The young man arose, and followed him through a long, dark corridor,
until they reached the court-yard. Fred glanced around at it with a
shudder.

"Go, you are free," said his conductor. And Fred noticed now for the
first time how hoarse and unnatural was his voice. "Beware how you
fall into my hands again! Go."

Mechanically, the young man obeyed; and he found himself in the
street like one who walks in his sleep, half tempted to believe the
events of the past few days were nothing but a dream.

His first thought was whither he should direct his steps. He did not
know where Nugent Percival was stopping, or he might have sought him
out. And by a very natural transition, whilst thinking of the brother,
his thoughts wandered to the sister, and he was just falling into a
delightful day-dream of going to housekeeping with Edith, when a tap
on the shoulder startled him, and looking up, he saw a man by his side
wrapped in a long, dark cloak.

"Whither now, Frederic Stanley?" said the well-known voice of the
hermit.

"Oh! is it you?" said Fred, a little surprised by his sudden
appearance. "This meeting is most fortunate. Sir, I owe you my life."

"I am aware of that," said the hermit, quietly.

"How can I show you my gratitude for what you have done? Believe me, I
am not insensible to the great obligation under which you have laid
me."

"Cease your thanks, young man," interrupted the hermit, in a tone of
slight impatience. "The only return I ask is, that you will in all
things be guided by my counsels. Nay," he added, seeing an irresolute
expression on Fred's face, "believe me, I will ask you to do nothing
inconsistent with your duty, or even your overweening pride."

There was a tone of slight sarcasm in the last words. Fred felt
half-ashamed of his momentary hesitation.

"You may command me," he said. "I owe you more than I can ever repay.
I _do_ need some one," he added, sorrowfully, "to stand between me and
my own headstrong passions. If you are, indeed, my friend--and I have
every reason to believe it--I promise to be guided by your counsels."

Something like a look of pleasure shone in the eyes of the hermit. It
quickly passed away, however, and when he again spoke, his voice had
resumed his usual quiet tone.

"Come with me, then," said the hermit, passing his arm through that of
the young man. "I have a friend residing here, with whom you can
remain until you wish to depart."

Both walked rapidly and in silence for a short distance. Reaching, at
length, a small, but comfortable-looking inn, the hermit, who seemed
familiar with the place, ordered a private room to be prepared,
whither he repaired with his young companion.

"Well, sir," he began, seating himself, "may I ask what you intend
doing with yourself?"

The question was so abrupt, that Fred could not resist a smile.

"Really, sir," he replied, "I scarcely know how to answer you. In the
first place, I intend to return to my regiment."

"Before you visit Percival Hall?" inquired the hermit, fixing his eyes
with a peculiar expression on his companion's face.

Fred started and flushed. His first emotion was one of anger, but
quickly repressing it, he answered somewhat coldly:

"I have no intention of going there. May I beg to know why you ask?"

"Come, come, my young friend," said the hermit, "no concealments from
me, if you wish me to befriend you. You love Edith Percival?"

"I cannot deny it," replied Fred, half-irritated by the abrupt
question.

"And she is engaged to be married to another?"

"Yes," replied Fred, sternly.

"You have seen your rival?" continued the hermit. Fred bowed.

"Are you aware he is your deadliest enemy?" said his strange
questioner.

"Rivals are not usually very good friends," said the young man,
scornfully. "It would be something new if we were _not_ enemies."

"Young man, beware of him!" said the hermit, solemnly. "You have
reason to fear his machinations."

Fred sprang to his feet, and dashed back his long, dark hair, as he
exclaimed impetuously:

"Fear! I fear no man living! Let him dare to meet me in open warfare,
and I will teach him I am not to be insulted with impunity."

"Sir, sir, De Lisle is no honorable enemy. He will _not_ meet you in
open warfare. He is subtle and treacherous as a serpent--his vengeance
will not be open, but it will be none the less deadly. You cannot
guard against a foe who comes by stealth."

"Let him come," said Fred, scornfully. "I fear him not."

"Rash youth!" said the hermit, in a tone of mingled sorrow and anger.
"You despise my warning."

"No, sir," replied Fred, resuming his seat. "I thank you for your
warning, which, however, was scarcely needed. I am already aware that
De Lisle is my bitterest foe, and I can assure you his dislike is
returned with compound interest. I neither intend to seek him nor to
avoid him; but should we meet in honorable combat, one or other of us
shall fall."

There was a moment's silence, during which the hermit sat with his
eyes cast down like one lost in thought.

"Does Major Percival know you love his daughter?" asked he, abruptly,
looking up.

"No," said Fred, shrinking sensitively, as he always did, from
discussing such a subject.

"Do you intend telling him?" continued his unwearing interlocutor.

"I do not know, sir. I must beg you will drop this subject," said
Fred, with stern impatience.

"My young friend, do not be angry. I have the power, and, let me add,
the will, to assist you. With the natural fiery impatience of youth,
you cannot brook any interference in this matter _now_; but, believe
me, the day will come when you will not be so sensitive. Do you know
Major Percival's present address?"

"No!" said Fred, eagerly. "And I am very anxious to see his son, too."

"This is it, then," said the hermit, writing as he spoke on a card.
"And now, farewell for the present. Make this your home while you stay
here."

"Going so soon?" said Fred, rising, scarcely knowing whether he felt
pleased or otherwise by his absence.

"Yes, I cannot now remain longer, but I shall watch over you--not as a
spy on your actions, but as a friend who takes a deep interest in your
welfare. Some day it will need no argument to convince you of this.
Good-night, my son."

He folded his cloak around him, bowed gravely, and was gone.

"Well, I _must_ say," he observed, throwing himself in a seat, "of all
the incomprehensible old gentlemen ever I met, this half-crazed,
wonderfully-wise Hermit of the Cliffs beats them all. Here he gives me
a lecture as long as the moral law, and orders me about as though I
were of no consequence at all; and I, who was always headstrong and
rebellious, obey as meekly as though I were not old enough to judge
for myself. That man is a mystery. I would give a trifle to know by
what wonderful spell he saved my life. Telling me he will watch over
me, too, as though I were a child. I am afraid, if he watches over me
too much, I will be inclined to resist. There's Major Percival's
address--I'll pay my respects there to-night; it is early yet."

So saying, he arose, took his hat, and, quitted the house.

Becoming absorbed in his own thoughts again, he was quite unconscious
how rapidly he was striding along, until he struck against some one
who was passing, so violently as nearly to knock him down.

"Better not try that again," said the angry voice of the person he run
against, as by seizing hold of a lamp-post he recovered his
equilibrium.

"Nugent Percival!" exclaimed Fred, laughing; "don't you know me."

"_What!_" exclaimed Percival, drawing back aghast, "Fred Stanley, by
all that's wonderful! _Can_ this be you, or is it only your ghost?"

"Myself, my dear Nugent; my veritable self," said Fred, passing his
arm through his, and drawing him along, for Percival seemed too much
astonished to move. "I have not the least hesitation in assuring you,
I am myself--as good as a score of ghosts yet."

"Well, wonders will never cease!" said Percival, drawing a deep
breath, and surveying his companion as though still in doubt. "Here I
was going along bewailing your untimely end, when, lo! you start up as
safe and sound as ever. My _dear_ Fred, have compassion on me, and
tell me how it all occurred. Did your father relent, as I told you he
would?"

In as few words as possible, Fred related what had occurred. Percival
listened with a look of the utmost wonder. "Phew!" was his comment
when Fred ceased, with a long whistle of most sublime perplexity. "If
the hermit is not Old Nick himself, he must be a near relation. What a
providential escape! My father called to see Sir William, and came
home in a towering passion because all his entreaties failed; and here
this unknown, moonstruck lunatic, with a few words, has succeeded in
what no other earthly being could have done."

Fred's mouth grew stern.

"I am sorry," he said, "your father degraded himself so much for me. I
should not have valued a pardon thus extorted from him."

"Oh! well! never mind; it is all right now," said Percival, who seemed
the very soul of good-nature. "My father will be rejoiced to hear of
your escape. And those at home, too, thank Heaven! we will not have to
carry them such direful news."

"I wish, Percival," said Fred, looking slightly annoyed, "that you
would not mention this affair to them when you return. It is all over
now, and it might give--_some_ of them pain. Promise me you will say
nothing about it."

"Oh, certainly!" replied Nugent, "but they will be sure to hear it. De
Lisle, of course, will find out all about it, and retail it to them
with the greatest gusto."

"His only regret will be that I did escape," said Fred biting his lip.

"I have no doubt, but, of course, you're too sensible a fellow to
care. You'll return home with me, will you not?"

"No," said Fred, coldly, "I shall not trespass on your hospitality so
soon again. My path of duty lies in another direction."

"Well, I wish you luck, and now we must part for an hour or so; for
_my_ path of duty at present lies up the next street. You know where
to find my father; I will see you there when I return."

"Until then," said Fred, raising his hat, and turning leisurely in the
direction of the hotel.

A few moments brought him to it, and inquiring for Major Percival, he
was shown at once to his room.

The major chanced to be thinking of him at the time--thinking of his
relentless father, and the sad fate of the son in dying so young,
when, hearing the door open, he suddenly looked up, and beheld the
object of his thoughts standing in the doorway, so tall, and dark, and
pale, that he might easily have mistaken him for a ghost. Starting to
his feet, the major stood staring at him, as though he doubted the
evidence of his senses.

"You seem surprised, Major Percival," said Fred, advancing toward him.
"I presume you expected ere this that I was numbered among the things
that were."

"What!" he exclaimed, "do I really see alive before me, Frederic
Stanley?" And the major's face assumed a look of amazement most
wonderful to behold.

Fred smiled at his perplexity; and once again repeated the tale of his
narrow escape. The major listened with a look of utter bewilderment,
now and then ejaculating: "Well, well!" "Jupiter!" "Wonderful!" and
sundry other expressions of astonishment.

"And have you no idea who this Hermit of the Cliffs, as they call him,
is?" he inquired, when Fred paused.

"None, sir. The man is a mystery to every one, and I believe is
generally looked upon as a harmless madman."

"There seems to be method in his madness, however!" said the major,
"it is indeed most wonderful what influence he can possess over your
father! Sir William Stanley and I were schoolmates once, and intimate
friends in after life. I saved his life once, and in his gratitude he
promised that the first favor it would ever be in his power to grant
to me should be given. The first I ever asked of him was to grant his
own son his life--and it was angrily refused. Yet here, at the last
moment, a moonstruck maniac comes along, and at his first word your
life is spared. Strange! Strange!"

"I fear it will always remain _strange_," said Fred, "neither my
father nor the hermit are likely to reveal it. I fear there may be
some crime connected with this mystery."

"Well, it is useless for us to perplex ourselves trying to find it
out!" said the major. "And now, to change the subject. We return to
Percival Hall to-morrow, and I beg you will accompany us."

"I thank you, Major Percival; but I must decline your invitation!"
replied Fred.

"Oh, pooh! pooh! I'll take no refusal, you _must_ come!" interrupted
the major, heartily.

He looked up in the young man's face as he spoke, and was almost
startled by its cold, proud expression.

"Come, my dear Stanley, do not refuse! You will spend a few days with
us at least!" he said, courteously.

"I regret, sir, that I must refuse!" was the frigid reply.

"Well, if you will not come now," continued the major, who seemed in
an unusually hospitable mood, "promise to do so in a few weeks. My
daughter Edith is to be married about that time, and we should all
like you to be present at the ceremony."

Fred had arisen as the other spoke; and now Major Percival looked up
in bewilderment to see him looming up above him so high, so dark, so
passionate-looking. He ceased speaking abruptly, and stood staring at
him in wonder.

"Major Percival," said Fred, in a voice so deep and stern as quite to
startle that worthy man, "I cannot return to Percival Hall, because _I
love your daughter_. Wait one moment, sir, and hear me out!" he added,
as the Major sprang fiercely to his feet. "Miss Percival will, you
say, in a few weeks, be a bride; in that case we will never meet
again, so that I can speak without fear of misrepresentation. Since
the first moment I saw your daughter, I loved her--loved her, too,
knowing it to be hopeless, for she was then the betrothed bride of
another."

"Sir, you're a villain, sir; yes, sir, a scoundrel, sir!" shouted the
angry and deeply horrified major.

"One moment, sir," said Fred, with such frigid haughtiness as quite to
overawe his excited companion; "my intention was never to mention this
to anyone, but the pressing invitations of both yourself and your son
render it necessary. Sir, I am a man of honor, and as such could not
again become a member of your family, knowing that your daughter loves
me--"

"Do you dare to tell me this!" cried the major, growing absolutely
purple with passion.

"Knowing that she loves me," continued Fred, with the same stern
coldness as though the major had not spoken, "I could not return, and my
continual refusal of your invitation might lead to misrepresentation.
Therefore, sir, I have told you all; and now, to whatever you have to
say I am ready to listen."

He folded his arms and stood like a statue before him.

"_My_ daughter love you, indeed! Sir, your conduct has been
treacherous and dishonorable, sir, unworthy of a soldier and a man of
honor, sir; yes, sir, even from a rebel I expected better conduct,
sir," exclaimed the enraged major.

Fred did not reply, but stood erect, calm and stern. "What business
had you, sir," continued the major, still more vehemently, "to worm
yourself into her affections? You knew she was betrothed to another;
you knew I would sooner see her dead at my feet than the wife of a
rebel, sir. Believing you to be an honorable young man, sir, although
false to your king and country, I interceded with your father for your
life as I never humbled myself to plead for anyone before; and in
return you coolly come here and boast that you have treacherously won
the affections of my daughter, an inexperienced girl. Sir, I repeat
it, you are a villain, sir."

The major seemed to have forgotten, in his rage, that though he had
interceded in vain for Fred's life, that young man had saved the life
of his daughter.

Still Fred, by a mighty effort, listened to his insults without
speaking, or betraying even that he heard his words save by the
intensely scornful light in his eves.

"And now, sir," again began the Major, absolutely maddened by the
contemptuous silence of his listener, "I never wish to see your face
again! Never presume, sir, to see my daughter more; begone, sir! there
is the door! I expected something different from you, but I have been
disappointed."

He flung himself into a chair as he spoke, and began wiping the
perspiration from his heated and inflamed face.

Fred took his hat, and turning toward the door, said:

"Your _kind_ and gentlemanly words, Major Percival, will not soon be
forgotten. With many thanks for past courtesies, which I regret should
have been lavished on so unworthy an object, I have the honor to bid
you good-night."

He bowed with most ceremonious politeness, and was gone. Despite all
his outward calmness, his brain was throbbing and burning as though on
fire, and his passionate heart was seething with fiery scorn and the
bitter sense of wrong and insult which must be tamely borne.

As he stepped out into the moonlight, a hand was laid upon his
shoulder. Something of what was passing in his mind must have
displayed itself on his face, for Nugent Percival exclaimed, in a
voice of alarm:

"Stanley, my dear fellow, where are you going?"

"To perdition!" was the passionate reply.

"For Heaven's sake, Fred, don't look so wild," said Nugent, "tell me
what has happened. Have you told my father?"

"Yes," interrupted Fred, fiercely. "I have told him all, and been
loaded with abuse and insult such as no other man under heaven would
have dared to heap upon me. And all because I loved his daughter. Am I
not her equal? answer me that. Am I not as worthy of her as that
cut-throat, De Lisle? Tell me, for I have a right to know!"

He clutched Percival's arm with the grip of a madman, and glared upon
him with his excited eyes.

"My dear Stanley, do not talk so! You look as though you were crazed.
Come with me for a walk--the cool air will restore you to yourself,"
said Nugent, soothingly.

He passed his arm through Fred's, and drew him with him down the
street. The cool night air did indeed soothe him; and after walking a
short way in silence, Fred said, more calmly:

"Forgive me, Percival, I knew not what I was saying. But to be obliged
to stand there, and listen to his insults--I, who never bore a taunt
from any man--was maddening. I spoke to him as coolly, Percival, as
you could have done even, though every word he uttered stung me to the
very soul."

His eye blazed, and his face grew livid at the remembrance.

"Do not think of his words: they were uttered in a moment of passion.
Believe me, no one will regret them more than himself, when he
reflects upon what he has said. There, my dear fellow, do not excite
yourself, you look as though you were delirious."

"My head aches as though red-hot wires were passing through it," said
Fred, removing his hat, and shaking-back his hair off his burning
brow, while the fierce light slowly died out in his eyes, as he
listened to the soothing voice of his friend.

"Hasten to your lodgings, then; you require rest and repose," said
Nugent. "Come, I will accompany you. To-night, you are wild and
excited; to-morrow, you will be a different man."

"To-morrow, I trust, I will be far from here," said Fred.

"We leave to-morrow, likewise," said Percival, "so we will probably
not meet again for a while. Here we are at your stopping-place. So,
wishing the world may go well with you until we meet again, I will bid
you good-by."

"Farewell, my dear friend," said Fred, wringing his hand. And the two
friends parted.




CHAPTER XI.

THE ABDUCTION.

    "She stands as stands the stricken deer,
    Checked midway in the fearful chase;
    When bursts upon her eye and ear,
    The gaunt gray robber baying near
    Between her and her hiding place.
    While, still behind, with yell and blow,
    Sweeps like a storm the coming foe."

                               --WHITTIER.

Meantime, how was it with Edith, and our friends at Percival Hall?

From the day of the departure of Fred, De Lisle was most devoted in
his attentions to his betrothed. Never before had he appeared so
deeply in love--never had he been so devoted--never had he been so
urgent that she should name an early day for their marriage. The fact
of his having a rival, had made him more resolved than ever to compel
Edith to fulfill her engagement--an engagement from which he saw, with
fierce anger, she shrank with ill-concealed loathing. The cause was to
him only too plain; and he inwardly vowed, that once she was his wife,
and her fortune his, to make her repent this visible dislike.

The other members of the family were too much absorbed by themselves
to pay much attention to Edith. And her lover, Gus, who seemed
suddenly to have forgotten his patriotism, was continually tied to the
apron-string of Nell--happy or jealous, or irritated, according to the
whim of that capricious young lady. Mrs. Percival, who was mostly
always absorbed in the mysteries of canvas and Berlin wool, left the
young people to their own devices. And so Edith was forced to submit
to the hateful attentions of De Lisle.

Edith had never been so deeply distressed before. There was no one in
whom she could confide. She dared not even mention the secret of her
attachment to her mother or sister. Her father was soon to return; and
then she felt sure De Lisle would so influence him with his specious
reasoning, that he would insist upon her marrying him immediately. But
gentle and yielding as Edith naturally was, and much as she feared her
father, she had a fund of natural firmness--an unbending
determination, which few gave her credit for. She might never see Fred
again; but she was firmly resolved to die sooner than marry De Lisle.

But, in the meantime, she shunned and detested her suitor as much as
possible. She could catch, at times, the fierce gleam of his eye, as
her voice would involuntary become cold when he addressed her, or she
would shrink from taking his proffered arm. And so, troubled by the
present and dreading the future, Edith grew silent, and pale, and
restless, passing her nights in tears and sighs instead of slumber.

Seating herself at her chamber-window one night, her head leaning on
her hand, Edith was lost in thought, when the door opened, and Nell,
in dressing-gown and slippers, entered.

"Why, Edith! what have you done to De Lisle?" exclaimed Nell. "I saw
him go off, looking as cross as a bear a few moments ago. Seems to me
you and he don't agree so well as you used to. What did you say to
him?" "Nothing," replied Edith.

"Well, I'd advise you to say something next time," said Nell, "and not
drive the poor fellow to distraction. I declare, Edith, I never knew
the like of you and Ralph--you're forever making him angry. Now,
there's Gus and I, we get along swimmingly together. Lovers! If you
quarrel in this manner after you're married, I don't know what sort of
a life you'll lead."

Edith's face was hidden by her fallen hair, and Nell could not see the
expression of her face. After a pause, that young lady returned:

"I heard mamma and De Lisle talking about the wedding to-night. Papa
has sent word that he will be at home in a day or two, and has got
some new crotchet into his head; for he says he wishes the marriage to
take place immediately. De Lisle is wonderfully pleased about it, too;
he was awfully jealous when Mr. Stanley was here. Oh, Edith! isn't he
a splendid-looking fellow?"

But to Nell's surprise, Edith only buried her face in her hands, and
wept convulsively.

"Why, bless me! what's the matter? Have I said anything to hurt your
feelings? Tell me, what is it, Edith?" said Nell, winding her arms
around her sister's neck. "What are you crying for?"

"Ellen, I am so wretched," sobbed Edith.

"Wretched! what about? Don't you want to marry De Lisle?" asked Nell.

"No, no; no, no! Oh, Nell! I hate even to think of it," said Edith,
wringing her hands.

"Well now, that's odd," said Nell, meditatively. "Why, I thought you
liked him!"

"Like him! Heaven forgive me--I almost hate him!" said Edith, with a
shudder.

"La!" ejaculated Nell, "whom _do_ you like then? Edith, Edith! is
what Ralph says true?--do you love Fred Stanley?"

Edith hid her face in her falling hair, and answered only by a
shivering sob. Nell's gay face wore a half-puzzled, half-troubled,
half-pleased look.

"Well, Edith," she said, after a little thoughtful pause, "do you know
I'm more than half glad you don't care for De Lisle? He's a jealous,
suspicious fellow, and not half good enough for you. My! just see him
alongside Mr. Stanley, why, he looks a mere puppy compared with him.
Really, if it wasn't for poor dear Gus, I'd be desperately in love
with him myself."

Edith tipped her head, and gave her sister such a radiant look of
gratitude, that the latter was quite startled.

"But, oh, Nell! what shall I do?" said Edith, in distress.

"_Do?_" said Nell, with a look of surprise. "Why, refuse him, of
course!"

"But papa--he will be so angry!"

"Yes, I know, oh! he'll be awful. But, la! that's no reason why you
should marry De Lisle, if you don't like him. He can't kill you, you
know, and so you'll get off. You needn't care for a scolding."

"Oh, Nell, I dare not, I am afraid."

"Afraid!" repeated Nell, contemptuously. "Edith, I wouldn't be such a
coward as you for all the world! Afraid, indeed! Oh, don't I wish it
was me they wanted to marry. Wouldn't I tell them a piece of my mind,
and just let them storm as much as they liked. I'd walk up to the
altar and marry a fellow I detested, because papa and the gentleman
himself desired it? Oh! wouldn't I, though?" And Nell whirled round in
an ironical pirouette.

"But you know, Nell, papa is so violent."

"Violent? Fiddlesticks! _You_ be violent, too; that's the way to do
it. Put your arms a-kimbo, and tell them all up and down you won't
have him: and if De Lisle gets mad, and tears around, just tell him
you are sorry for him--but he's too late for supper."

"Oh, Nell, you know I couldn't do that!" said Edith.

"No!" said Nell, sarcastically, "no; but you could go and marry one
man while you love another. Well, do as you please, and the first time
I see Fred Stanley, I'll tell him he has had a lucky escape. Such a
timid thing as you are, would be the last a high-spirited fellow like
him should marry."

"Sister, how can you be so cruel?" said Edith, weeping.

"Bother! You'd provoke a saint. Thank the stars _I'm_ able to defend
myself. Come, Edith," she added more gently, "be a _man_. Dry your
eyes, and don't make a goose of yourself. Tell De Lisle to-morrow you
won't have him; tell him you can't bear him, and that you wouldn't
marry him if he was the last man in the world. He'll be mad, and make
a fuss, of course--there wouldn't be any fun in it if he didn't. Then,
when papa comes home, tell him the same and _stick_ to it. Of course,
they'll all tear round, and be in a great way at first, but, after a
while things will settle down again--'after a storm there cometh a
calm,' you know. Lor, Edith, I wish I were in your place, for the time
being; I wouldn't want better fun."

The energetic and vigorous spirit of the little black-eyed Amazon
seemed gradually to communicate itself to her more timid sister. As
she ceased, Edith sat erect, pale, but collected.

"You are right, Ellen!" she said, slowly, as she gathered up her
disordered tresses. "Would to Heaven I had your fearless spirit! but
since I have not, I must nerve my own to bear the trial."

"Bravo, Edith, my dear!" exclaimed Nell, delightedly.

"Yes," continued Edith, like one thinking aloud, "there is no other
way of avoiding the detested marriage. Besides, I promised him I
would!"

"Promised who?" said Nell, opening her eyes.

"Never mind, my dear," said Edith, smiling and blushing; "leave me
now. Good-night. To-morrow you will find I have taken your advice."

Nell laughed, and, after kissing Edith, left the room.

Edith passed an almost sleepless night. Naturally timid, she shrank
from the disclosure she felt herself obliged to make, knowing well the
violent scene that would assuredly follow. But since there was no
alternative, she determined to brave the worst at once, and seek an
interview with De Lisle the next morning.

An opportunity was not long wanting. Entering the library in search of
a book, after breakfast the following day, she beheld De Lisle, seated
at the window, his head leaning on his hand, gazing moodily out. He
started to his feet as he beheld her, while poor Edith, her heart
throbbing like a frightened bird, turned first red and then pale, and
then red again, feeling that the dreaded moment had at length come.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Miss Edith," said De Lisle, placing a
chair for her.

She acknowledged his greeting by a slight inclination of the head, and
stood with one hand resting on the back of the chair, scarcely
knowing how to begin.

"Is it not a pity to spend such a lovely morning in the house?" said
De Lisle. "What do you say to a ride?"

"Excuse me," said Edith, feeling more and more embarrassed; "I do not
feel inclined for riding this morning."

"You are not ill, I hope?" observed De Lisle, somewhat anxiously. "You
are looking very pale!"

"I am quite well, thank you," answered Edith, shrinking still more
from the task before her.

"I am rejoiced to hear it," said De Lisle. Then, after a pause, he
added, abruptly: "I presume you have heard your father and Nugent are
coming home to-morrow!"

"To-morrow?" echoed Edith. "So soon?"

"So it seems. Your mother received a letter from the major last
night."

"Mr. De Lisle," began Edith, desperately, "I have--that is, I
wish--to--" Edith paused, while her heart throbbed so loudly, she grew
almost frightened.

De Lisle bowed respectfully, and stood waiting with calm attention for
what was to follow.

"In a word, Mr. De Lisle," she resumed, rapidly, thinking it best to
be brief, "it is impossible for me to fulfill my engagement. Sir, I
cannot marry you!"

Her voice trembled a little, but she looked boldly in his face, which
was rapidly darkening.

"_What!_" he said, slowly, "break your engagement? Have I understood
you aright, Miss Percival?"

"You have, sir," she answered, growing calm and fearless, now that the
worst was over.

"And for what cause, may I ask?" he said, with outward calmness,
though his face was absolutely white with suppressed passion.

"Because I do not love you," was the answer.

"And because you _do_ love that handsome rebel, Master Fred Stanley.
Is it not so, fair lady?" he asked, with a bitter sneer.

The blood flushed hotly to Edith's face, and for a moment her eye fell
before that dark, scathing glance. It was only for a moment, and then
she looked almost defiantly up into his face.

"You are at liberty to assert what you please, sir. I will not
contradict you. But I repeat it: I cannot--_will not_ be your wife."

"That remains to be seen, Miss Edith," he answered, with a mocking
smile. "How do you suppose your father will listen to such an
independent assertion?"

"He will be very angry, doubtless," said Edith; "but, in this case,
even his anger cannot move me. I cannot vow to love and honor one for
whom I cherish no affection, no ardent emotion. It would be doing
injustice to you, to myself, and to--"

"Fred Stanley--why do you hesitate, my dear young lady?" said De
Lisle, with his evil sneer.

"Sir, I will not remain here to be insulted!" exclaimed Edith,
indignantly, turning toward the door.

"Ah! so you _do_ consider it an insult to have your name coupled with
that of that rebel, Stanley? I am glad to hear you have so much sense
left, at least," said De Lisle.

Edith, whose hand was already on the handle of the door, turned at his
words, and confronted him with glowing cheeks and flashing eyes, while
she exclaimed, vehemently:

"No! Ralph De Lisle. I do not consider it an insult to be named with
him. And now I tell you, since you have driven me to it, that I _do_
love him, and him alone. Yes; I am proud to own it, and I never will
marry anyone save him!"

"We shall see," said De Lisle, with the same cold sneer with which he
had spoken throughout. "I have very serious doubts as to whether the
young gentleman alluded to is not by this time in a better world. As
for this little scene, it is very well done indeed; meantime, you had
better prepare for your wedding. Pass on, fair lady."

He held the door open, and bowed her out with most ceremonious
politeness. Without deigning to notice him, Edith hurried away to her
room, and, burying her face in her hands, burst into a passion of
tears.

And three hours after, making some plausible excuse, De Lisle left
Percival Hall, to join the major.

The following day, the twain arrived (Major Percival and De Lisle),
business still delaying Nugent in the city.

It was evident to Edith that De Lisle must have prejudiced her father
against her, for her greeting was returned with cold sternness, very
unlike his wonted manner. But even this coldness aided Edith, for had
he met her with affectionate caresses, her resolution might have
faltered. As it was, her pride and a sense of injustice sustained her,
and with the determination of dying sooner than marrying De Lisle, she
awaited the scene that was yet to come. Not long had she to wait. The
following evening, Edith, who had absented herself from the
supper-table, was summoned to the parlor, where, seated in state, was
Major Percival and his lady, De Lisle, and Nell.

"Be seated, Miss Percival," said the major with overwhelming dignity.

The color deepened on Edith's cheek, as she obeyed.

"Hem!" began the major; "you are aware, I presume, that in a few weeks
you are to become the bride of De Lisle, here?"

"I _was_ to have been his bride, papa," murmured Edith.

"_Was_, Miss Percival, _was_?" said the major severely. "You are to
be, you mean!"

"I cannot, sir!" said Edith, though her voice faltered a little.

"You cannot?" repeated Major Percival, with an ominous frown gathering
on his brow.

"No, sir."

"But I say _yes_!" exclaimed the major, vehemently, springing to his
feet. "You shall be his wife. I command you."

"Then, sir, it will be my painful duty to disobey you!" said Edith
with a heightened color, as she also arose.

"My dear," said Mrs. Percival, laying her hand gently on her husband's
arm, "do not be violent. We can wait; give Edith time--do not be angry
with her now."

The words so softly spoken subdued the fiery wrath of the major. The
fearless demeanor of Edith, so different from all he had ever known of
her, also had some effect upon him. Seating himself, therefore, in his
chair, he growled:

"Time! the minx may have as much time as she likes, if it will only
bring her to a reasonable frame of mind."

"Oh! thank you, papa," said Edith; "but I can never--"

"Major Percival," interrupted De Lisle, who had listened in angry
astonishment, "am I to understand our marriage will not take place at
the appointed time?"

"Why, De Lisle, you hear what that vixen says!"

"But, sir, you should insist," said De Lisle, rising angrily. "I
protest against this decision!"

"Protest and be hanged!" said the major, growing angry in his turn.
"Am I to be ordered by you, sir? Edith Percival shall wait as long as
she pleases; and you may consider yourself fortunate to get her in the
end!" And the major, happy to find some one to vent his wrath on,
turned furiously to De Lisle.

"Sir, I will _not_ wait!" exclaimed De Lisle, passion and
disappointment for the time over-coming prudence. "Your daughter was
to have been my wife at the expiration of three weeks, and I now
_insist_ on it as my right!"

"Insist, do you?" thundered the major. "You impertinent scoundrel! if
you say another word, I'll cancel the engagement altogether, and you
may go whistle for a wife!" And he brought his clenched fist down with
such a thump on the table, that every one jumped.

De Lisle bit his lip, and was silent. Convinced by this time how
unwisely he had acted, he resolved to adopt a different course.
Assuming, therefore, a penitent tone, he said:

"Pardon me, sir; my feelings have carried me beyond the bounds of
moderation. I bow to your superior judgment and will bear my
disappointment as best I may."

The major rather stiffly acknowledged his apology--while Edith,
pleading a headache, hurried from the room. In a few moments, she was
joined by Nell.

"Well, 'Dith, what did I tell you?" exclaimed that young lady. "You
see the trial's over, and you're in the land, and living yet, My! did
you see how mortified De Lisle looked, though? It's my opinion his
penitence was all a sham. I never saw angrier eyes in any one's head
than his were all the time he was speaking so respectfully and humbly.
Oh! there's Gus in the garden; I'm going down to tease him. _Bon
soir!_" And Nell bounded from the apartment.

All the next day, De Lisle maintained a respectfully reserved manner
toward Edith and the major. This evidently produced a deep impression
on the mind of the latter, though Edith plainly perceived it was
assumed. The following evening, as Edith stood on the piazza, gazing
out into the still moonlight, De Lisle approached, and, touching his
hat, said:

"Good evening, Miss Edith, you are looking charming in the pale
moonlight. What do you say to a drive this lovely night? My carriage
is at the door."

"Thank you," said Edith, coldly, "I prefer remaining where I am."

"What's that?" said the major, who now appeared.

"I ordered my carriage, sir, thinking Miss Percival might feel
inclined for a drive this fine night. She, however, refuses," said De
Lisle.

"Nonsense, Edith," said the major, angrily, "you are growing as
obstinate as a mule. Away with you, and get ready; and don't let the
grass grow under your feet."

Edith could no longer disobey. She accordingly entered the house, and
soon re-appeared in carriage costume. De Lisle handed her, with the
most respectful gallantry, into the carriage, and they dashed off
behind a splendid pair of bays.

For upward of an hour, they drove on, almost in silence, Edith
replying to all De Lisle's observations only in monosyllables. Still,
he showed no sign of returning.

"Let us go back, Mr. De Lisle," said Edith, at length; "the air is
very cold."

"Wrap this shawl around you," said De Lisle; "I am anxious to show you
something a little further on."

He folded the shawl carefully around her, while she submitted in
silence; and again they dashed forward more swiftly than before. Half
an hour passed, and still he showed no signs of returning.

"Mr. De Lisle," said Edith, impatiently, "I wish to go home. Will it
please you to return?"

"In one moment," said De Lisle, as he suddenly reined in the horses,
and gave a loud, peculiar whistle.

"Sir! what does this mean?" asked Edith, in alarm.

He turned, and gazed upon her for a moment with an evil smile, but
said nothing. An instant after, two men stood holding the bridle-reins
of the horses. "Ralph De Lisle," said Edith, in increasing terror,
"what means this?"

"It means, fairest Edith, that Fred Stanley, when he comes to woo,
will have to select another wife than Miss Percival!"

"Sir, sir! I do not comprehend you," said Edith, growing sick and
faint with terror.

"Do you not? Listen then, Edith; you must come with me. When next you
see Percival Hall, it shall be as the wife of Ralph De Lisle!"

In the clear moonlight his face resembled that of a demon. The truth
burst at once upon Edith with stunning force, and with one wild,
shrill cry of terror, she sank back in her seat, and the dark night of
insensibility closed around her.




CHAPTER XII.

IN CAPTIVITY.

    "When first, with all a lover's pride,
    I woo'd and won thee for my bride,
    I little thought that thou wouldst be
    Estranged as now thou art from me."

When Edith again opened her eyes, she found herself lying on a couch,
with some one bending over her, chafing her cold hands and temples.
Her eyes wandered wildly around until they rested upon the detested
form of De Lisle, who stood leaning lightly against the mantel-piece.
Pushing away the hands that rested on her forehead, she raised herself
on her elbow, and gazed with a bewildered air around.

"Leave the room, Elva," said De Lisle, carelessly, without moving.

Edith heard the door open, but, before she could look around, it
closed again, and she was alone with De Lisle.

"Where am I? what means this, sir?" exclaimed Edith, springing to her
feet, with an overpowering but undefined sense of terror.

"That you must favor us with your presence in this old building for a
week or so, Miss Edith," said De Lisle carelessly.

"Do you mean, sir, that I am a prisoner?" demanded Edith, growing very
pale.

"Exactly so, my dear," replied the young man.

"You cannot--you will not--you _dare_ not!" exclaimed Edith,
vehemently.

"Dare not!" he repeated, with a sinister smile.

"Yes, sir, I repeat it, you would not venture to detain me here a
prisoner."

"We shall see," he said carelessly.

"Mr. De Lisle, I command you to release me."

"Command away, then; I like to hear you," said De Lisle, with the
utmost nonchalance.

"Sir, if you are a man of honor, you will restore me to my father,"
exclaimed Edith, still more vehemently.

"That I will do with pleasure, when you are my wife."

"I will never be your wife, sir; I would die first!" she said
indignantly.

"Indeed, fairest Edith," he said, with a sneer, "perhaps you will not
find it so easy to die as you imagine. Most young ladies of your age
would infinitely prefer marriage to death."

"Ralph De Lisle, are you lost to all sense of honor?--forcing a girl
to marry you against her will! Oh, shame!"

"Honor!" said De Lisle, bitterly; "that word sounds well on your lips,
fair lady. It was, doubtless, very honorable in you to break your
plighted faith, and surrender your heart to the next who asked you for
it. Take care, pretty Edith: those who live in glass-houses should not
throw stones."

Edith sank back in her seat, and, covering her face with her hands,
wept, with mingled fear and indignation. De Lisle stood watching her
for a moment with a most sinister smile--then, turning to the door, he
said:

"Farewell for the present, Miss Percival; I shall send a girl to
attend to you by-and-by. I shall have the happiness of seeing you
again during the course of the day."

He closed the door, and was gone. Edith heard the sounds of bolts
drawing without, and felt she was indeed a prisoner in the hands of
the man she detested. Oh! where was Nugent--where was Fred then! She
sobbed in a perfect passion of grief, until her overcharged heart had
had its way, and she gradually grew calm.

"I _will_ die sooner than marry him," she exclaimed, vehemently. "He
will find I am not to be intimidated by his threats--that I have
spirit enough, when roused, to resist injustice."

Her cheeks flushed, and the sparkling light in her eyes bespoke her
determination. Feeling more composed, she glanced around the apartment
with some curiosity.

It was a long, square room, with a very low ceiling, festooned
elegantly with cobwebs. In one corner stood a bed, without curtains,
covered with a coarse, but clean quilt. Opposite this stood a table,
a wooden chest, and a chair. This, together with the couch on which
she sat, comprised the furniture of the room. The floor was
uncarpeted, and the one solitary window uncurtained.

Edith walked to the window and looked out. The iron grating outside
destroyed the faint hope of escape which had begun to spring up in her
breast. The room was evidently two or three stories high, judging by
its distance from the yard below. The prospect on which she gazed was
dreary beyond description. The dull gray dawn of morning was creeping
sluggishly over the hills with its spectral feet. A thick, drizzling
rain was falling; and the wind, at it sighed around the old house,
sounded inexpressibly dismal. The view from the window was not very
extensive--being bounded by tall trees, from which she judged it was
situated in the forest. A high wall surrounded the wet, littered yard
below; and, altogether, a more uncomfortable place--both within and
without--could scarcely have been found than the prison of Edith.

Drawing her chair close to the window, Edith sat down and tried to
think. It was a difficult matter; for her head throbbed and ached
until her brain was in a perfect chaos. Whilst she sat, she was
startled to hear the bolts clumsily withdrawn; and, raising her eyes,
Edith beheld an object that made her spring to her feet in terror.

It was a short, stooping, shriveled, toothless, blear-eyed old woman,
palsy-stricken and frightfully ugly. In her long, claw-like hands she
held a tea-tray containing Edith's breakfast. This, after closing the
door, she deposited on the table, and then turned slowly round until
she fixed her little sharp red eyes on the shrinking Edith. A cap with
an enormous frill, that kept continually flapping about her face,
considerably heightened her charms; and this, together with a woolen
gown, reaching barely to her ankles, and so remarkably narrow that she
evidently found some difficulty in walking in it, completed her
costume.

"Here's your breakwis, ma'am," said this singular old crone, in a
voice uncommonly like the shrill screech of a parrot; "there's coffee
and toast--too good, a great sight, for such a chalk-faced
whippersnapper as you are. Ugh! whatever he wanted a bringing of you
here I can't tell."

"Who are you?" asked Edith, beginning to recover from her fright.

"What?"

"Who--are--you?" said Edith, speaking as loudly as possible, and fully
convinced the old woman must be deaf.

"Me! Oh! um!--yes! Why, I'm Miss Crow, housekeeper and superintendent
for Master Ralph. Yes! um!--take your breakwis, ma'am, will yer?"

"I don't feel hungry," said Edith; "you may take it away again."

"Hungry!" screeched Miss Crow, who had the faculty of only catching
one word at a time; "well, if yer hungry, why don't you eat--eh?"

"I am--_not_ hungry," said Edith, exciting herself to speak loud,
until she turned quite red in the face.

"Oh, you're not?" cried the amiable old lady. "Why couldn't you say so
at once, and not keep me a waiting, a wastin' of my precious time, and
spilin' of good vittils. Pugh! I's disgusted. Wait till Miss Crow
trots herself off her legs a bringing of your breakwis ag'in--that's
all!"

And, with a grimace that made her look positively hideous, Miss Crow
gathered up the untasted "breakwis," and hobbled out of the room.

Left to herself, Edith resumed her seat by the window, inwardly
wondering if this pleasing attendant was the young girl promised her
by De Lisle. She felt she was surrounded by his creatures, whose
hearts were steeled against her. Then, by a natural transition, her
thoughts wandered home to her friends. She felt sure they were even
then looking for her. But would she ever be discovered in this
isolated old house? Or, even if discovered, would not De Lisle force
her into a marriage with him beforehand?

Absorbed in such thoughts, the forenoon wore away; and, as noon
approached, she was once more honored by a visit from Miss Crow, who
came with the tray again.

"Here's your dinner, ma'am," said the little old woman, with her
customary screech. "I hopes as how you'll eat it, and not go bringing
of me upstairs for nothin' again, which is what I ain't no ways used
to. Pity if such a big lazy thing as you are can't wait on herself,
and not go bringing ageable old women like I is up two or three
flights of stairs, with the rheumatiz in the small of my back." And
here the screech subsided into a groan.

"I am sorry to be a trouble to you," said Edith, seating herself at
the table.

"Trouble!" cried Miss Crow, spitefully; "so you think it's no trouble,
do you? But I'll let you know it is. And Master Ralph may wait on you
hisself; though I s'pose you'd sooner have a fine young fellow like
that to 'tend to you than an old woman like Miss Crow."

Edith, not being inclined to _shout_ a reply, ate her dinner in
silence, while Miss Crow stood watching her with her red, inflamed
eyes, strangely reminding Edith of the witches in Macbeth.

"Mr. Ralph told me he was coming to see you in the course of half an
hour," said the old woman, after a pause; "though what he can want
with such a baby-faced thing as you are, I don't know."

Here Miss Crow paused, as though she expected to be told; but Edith
made no reply.

"What'll I tell him?" inquired the old lady, sharply.

"Nothing," said Edith.

"What?"

"You may tell him I don't want to see him," said Edith, raising her
voice.

"Want to see him!--hum! hum!--want to see him! Yes, I'll tell him so,"
replied Miss Crow, rather complacently.

"I don't want to see him--do you hear? I _don't_ want to see him!"
said Edith, still more loudly.

Sundry unearthly sounds, which the old woman intended for a laugh,
followed this reply; and, still chuckling to herself, she gathered up
the things and left the room.

Scarcely had she departed, when De Lisle entered. Advancing into the
room, he threw himself indolently on the couch, and, turning to Edith,
he remarked, carelessly:

"I'm afraid old Nan Crow is not the most pleasant attendant in the
world. You won't be troubled with her long, however; to-morrow, Elva
Snowe will take her place."

Edith made no reply, but sat listening, in haughty silence.

"The day after to-morrow, fairest Edith, will make me the happiest of
men. I have made every arrangement for our marriage, which will take
place on that day. My only regret is, that it must be delayed so
long."

"Sir, must I tell you again, I will never be your bride?" said
Edith--a sudden crimson staining her fair face, and then retreating,
leaving her paler than before.

"No!" said De Lisle, with a quiet smile. "Never is a long time, my
dear Edith."

"You cannot force me to marry you, even though I am your prisoner,"
said Edith.

"Can I not? There are ways of compelling you that you dream not of,
perhaps," was the cool reply.

"Sir, your conduct has been most base and unmanly--most evil and
treacherous. If you have one spark of honor remaining in your heart,
you will release me!" exclaimed Edith, rising, with flushed cheeks and
flashing eyes.

"Never, Edith!" he said, fiercely, "never shall you cross this
threshold unless as my wife. You talk about honor, forsooth! Did I not
love you, as I never cared for mortal before on this side of Heaven?
were you not my betrothed bride? was not our wedding-day fixed?--when,
lo! a dashing stranger comes along, and I am coolly told to stand
aside, for I am loved no longer?--told to stand aside and wait--wait
until my rival shall have wormed himself into the good graces of the
family, and become your accepted lover! One consolation is, that long
before this he must have been hung as a traitor."

Edith essayed to speak, but her voice failed; and, sinking into a
seat, she buried her face in her hands and wept passionately.

"After that interview with your father," went on De Lisle, with
increasing bitterness, "I urged him repeatedly to revoke his decision,
and insist on the marriage; but in vain. And, at length, he commanded
me to drop the subject altogether, and told me I should wait until it
pleased him to appoint the time. You see, fairest Edith, I have done
so." And he laughed sarcastically. "Your worthy father may search
until he is tired; but I doubt if he will discover you here. Once my
wife, and he will not dare to proclaim the deeds of his son-in-law to
the world. Your fortune will be mine. I will not attempt to disguise
from you, Miss Percival, that this forms no unimportant item in my
calculations. Your fortune once mine, you may return to your father's
house as soon as you please."

"Release me now," said Edith, looking up; "and, since it is only my
money you want, I will persuade my father to give it all to you."

"Nay, Miss Edith, I must decline your kind offer. I am inclined to
think your good father would prefer handing me over to the civil
authorities rather than to his banker. And a still more weighty
consideration remains: you love the man I hate--yes, hate!" And his
face grew livid with passion. "The best revenge I can take is, by
marrying you--whether with or without your consent, matters not. Thus
I will raise an insuperable barrier between you, and gratify my
revenge."

Edith shuddered involuntarily. He stood watching her, with his
habitual sinister smile.

"I thought that would touch you," he said, with a sneer. "Remember,
the day after to-morrow is your wedding morning. The girl I spoke of
will assist you to dress for your bridal. _Au revoir._" And turning on
his heel, De Lisle quitted the room.




CHAPTER XIII.

ELVA SNOWE.

    "I see a little merry maiden,
      With laughing eye and sunny hair--
    With foot as free as mountain fairy,
      And heart and spirit light as air."

The gray daylight was fading out of the dull sky. The wind sounded
inexpressibly dreary as it moaned through the dark, fragrant pines.
Far in the west, a red, fiery streak glowed among the dark, leaden
clouds, like a burning line dividing heaven and earth. Dreary and sad
was the scene without; but more dreary and sad were the thoughts of
Edith, as she sat watching the approach of night. The gloom around and
above was congenial to her feelings; and, lost in thought, she heeded
not the waning hours, until all within and without was wrapped in a
mantle of pitchy darkness.

The entrance of Nan Crow, with her supper and a light, roused her at
last. The old woman seemed unusually cross and out of humor; and,
after essaying in vain to make her answer her questions, Edith
relapsed into silence. With a sharp command not to "sit moping there
like a ghost, a burning of candles, but to go to bed," she went out,
slamming the door violently after her.

Her command was unheeded; for, seated at the window--her burning
forehead pressed against the cold panes, Edith remained till morning.
It was a strange scene--that long, shadowy room, so poorly furnished,
and that young girl seated at the window, her face whiter than the
robe she wore. The candle guttered and burned dimly, with a long black
wick, capped by a fiery crest, until it went out altogether, leaving
the room enveloped in the deepest gloom.

So passed the second night of Edith's captivity. Morning found her
pale, spiritless, and utterly despairing. She knew well De Lisle would
keep his word. And what could she--a weak, powerless girl--do to
prevent him? Naturally timid and accustomed to magnify dangers, she
could see nothing but despair, look which way she would. To rebel
would be useless, and without an effort, she yielded to utter
dejection. At times, she could be brave enough, when laboring under
excitement of any kind: or when, after listening to her vehement
sister, she would imbibe part of her spirit; but these rare intervals
were always followed by a listlessness and timidity greater than
before.

The sun arose in unclouded splendor. Every trifle of the former day's
dullness had passed away, and Nature once more looked bright and
beautiful. The chirp of the birds in the pine woods reached her ear,
but, for the first time, she listened with pleasure. All was sad and
desolate within her heart, and the joyous splendor of that summer
sunrise was to her feelings like "vinegar upon nitre."

Suddenly, the sound of a gay voice carolling reached her ear. It was
such an unusual sound, that she looked out, altogether startled from
her dreamy lethargy of sorrow. What was her surprise to behold,
emerging from the woods, a young girl on horseback. From the distance
at which she sat she could not very easily discern her features, but
she saw her sit on her horse like a practiced rider. Her long hair
hung in braids over her shoulders, tied with streamers of bright
ribbon. In one hand she held a white sunbonnet, swinging it carelessly
by the strings, as she shouted, rather than sang, some wild mountain
chorus, or talked at intervals to her horse. Edith could plainly hear
her, as her words came borne on the air:

"Come, Timon, my boy," she said, patting her horse on the neck, "hurry
up, or old Nan Crow will give you and me fits. Too bad, isn't it, you
and me have to go and live in that dismal old barn of a house? but
orders must be obeyed, you know, Timon. Deary me! as that queer old
maid used to say 'wonders never will cease, I believe!' Who in the
world would ever think of taking a bride to that horrid old hole? And
so De Lisle is really going to be married! Well, I never! father says
she isn't dying about him either--which I don't wonder at, I'm sure,
for I can't bear him. I'd like to see her, and know what my future
mistress looks like. Come, gee up, Timon, my son; I'm anxious to catch
a glimpse of old Nan Crow's beautiful face, and hear her musical,
screeching voice. Who knows but we'll soon see my lady herself, and
I'm dying to have a peep at her, so get along, my boy, Elva's in a
hurry."

And urging her horse into a quick canter, the girl rode off, singing
at the top of her voice.

"Who can she be?" thought Edith--"Elva, Elva! the name is familiar.
Yes, now I remember, De Lisle spoke of sending me a girl of that name;
Elva Snowe, I think, he called her. She spoke of coming here, too, so
it must be the same. I hope it is, she will at least prove a more
pleasant companion than that cross old woman."

For nearly an hour, Edith sat expecting to see her enter, but in vain.
At length, just as she was about to despair of seeing her, the outer
bolts were withdrawn, and the door was unceremoniously opened, and the
young girl stood before her.

Edith fixed her eyes on the other, and scrutinized her from head to
foot. The new-comer was small, below middle height, round and plump in
figure, and looking to the best advantage in the crimson silk basque
which she wore. A short, black skirt, which conveniently displayed a
pretty little foot and ankle, completed her costume--which, though
looking rather odd to the eyes of Edith, had the merit of being very
becoming. Her face was decidedly pretty, though browned a little by
exposure to sun and wind. A low, smooth forehead, blooming cheeks and
lips, merry grey eyes, a piquant little nose, that turned up with
saucy independence, and little, white teeth, made up the _tout
ensemble_ of the little lady.

"Good-morning," she said, pleasantly, evidently rather favorably
impressed with the outward appearance of Edith. "I have brought you
your breakfast."

"So I perceive," said Edith. "I was afraid I was about to be favored
with another visit from that deaf old lady who has hitherto attended
me."

"Yes, old Nan Crow," said the girl, laughing. "Isn't she a horrid old
case? I have the greatest fun with her sometimes. Did you ever hear
such a voice? like a penny whistle, for all the world." Then changing
her tone to a sharp screech, painful to listen to, she began:

"I'm Miss Crow, housekeeper and superintendent for Mister Ralph. Yes,
um! I laid awake all lass night with the rumatiz in the small of my
back!"

"That's she exactly," said Edith, with something like a smile passing
over her pale face "though it's quite abominable of you to take her
off in that manner."

"She never stops scolding me from I come here until I leave," said the
other, "and, indeed, I rather deserve it sometimes, and it does one
good to get a blowing-up once in a while. My! if she can't scold it's
a wonder--it's really a comfort to hear her, for every word comes from
the bottom of her heart. The only pity is, that I'm not here often to
listen to her."

"Do you not live here?" inquired Edith.

"Live _here_! Bless you, no! I wouldn't live in this lonesome old
place for any amount of money, at least, any amount I'd be likely to
get for doing so. No, indeed! I live in the village, eight or nine
miles from here, and splendid times we have, I can tell you--at least
we had, until this detestable war commenced, and all the young men
were provoking enough to go off and be killed. Heigho! Isn't
everything still here? One can't hear a thing but the swaying pines
and the birds. It's a splendid day too. I'd love to have a good gallop
over the hills this morning."

"Pray, don't let me keep you here," said Edith. "I wouldn't deprive
you of the pleasure on any account. I will not need any attendance
during the day, Miss Snowe--Isn't that your name?"

"Yes, Elvena Snowe, but everybody calls me Elva, for short; you
needn't mind calling me miss, I ain't used to it, and Elva sounds
better."

"Then, Elva, do not let me deprive you of that coveted ride. Go, by
all means."

"You're very good, but I guess I won't mind it to-day. I'll stay with
you, _if_ you have no objection. De Lisle will be here by-and-by, and,
until he comes, I will remain."

"How long are you to remain here?" inquired Edith.

"Dear knows," said Elva, suppressing a yawn, "not long I hope, for I'd
blue-mold, rust, or something else equally dreadful, if I had to stay
in this dull old tomb. Why everything's as still here as if we were in
our graves."

"It _is_ still," said Edith, "what is the cause? Does no one live here
but Mrs. Crow?"

"Oh! dear, yes!" said Elva, "but this is a wing of the building off by
itself. It's a sort of double house, with two front doors, and
connected together by a long hall. In the other end, De Lisle and some
of his men stay when they are here, and you have this part all to
yourself. Old Nan is their only servant, except sometimes when De
Lisle brings some of his friends here, big-bugs you know, English
officers, then I have to come here and help her."

"Then this place is not hidden in the woods?" said Edith, "and is
visited by others beside De Lisle and his men."

"La! yes. Generals, and colonels, and captains, not to speak of
lieutenants and aid-de-camps, come here in droves, sometimes, and
spend whole nights in a carouse. They generally stay in the other wing
of the building; this part hasn't been much used for years."

"And so forms a safer prison for me," sighed Edith.

"Why, yes, I suppose so," said Elva. "But I guess you won't be here
long. I heard De Lisle telling my father, that after he was married,
he intended getting your money, and sending you home."

"Your father!" echoed Edith, "who is he?"

"Oh! he's only De Lisle's lieutenant, Paul Snowe's his name, but he
has a good deal of influence over the men, and over De Lisle himself,
for that matter. Only for him, you may be sure, I wouldn't be here;
for I hate De Lisle as I do sin, and wouldn't care a straw for his
orders. But I'm a little afraid of father, and have to mind what he
says, you know; though I'd much rather follow my own sweet will, and
stay in the village, and have fun, than come here, and wait on De
Lisle and those dashing officers he brings here."

"And your mother, where is she?" asked Edith.

"Dead," said Elva, sadly, "she died when I was a child. I have only a
faint recollection of her as a pale, stately woman, who used to come
to my bedside and kiss me every night. So you see I grew up the best
way I could, without anyone to look after me or make me a good girl;
and so I've got to be a wild, sun-burnt, good-for-nothing romp. Oh,
dear! if mother had lived, I'd have been a different creature from
what I am. She loved me, I know, but father never seems to care for
me, but rather to dislike me, than otherwise. I'm like the miller of
the Dee; 'I care for nobody, and nobody cares for me;' so I don't mind
a pin what I do or say, since there's no one to be grieved by it. It
makes me feel sad and lonely, too, sometimes," and she sighed
involuntarily.

"Oh, Elva! I feel that I can love you, if you will let me!" said
Edith, gently taking her hand.

"Thank you, dear Miss Percival," said Elva, looking up with glistening
eyes, "I love _you_ already. But hark, there's a step on the stairs.
That's De Lisle, I know, for he always takes half the staircase at a
bounce. Good-by now, I'll be back after a while." And Elva quitted the
room as De Lisle entered.




CHAPTER XIV.

AN UNLOOKED-FOR INTERRUPTION.

    "Know, then, that I have supported my pretensions to
    your hand in the way that best suited my character."--IVANHOE.

"Good morning, Fairest Edith," was De Lisle's salutation, as he
entered. "You are looking very pale. I fear you did not sleep well
last night."

"Not very well," said Edith coldly, "a captive seldom sleeps very
soundly during the first night in prison."

"You have no one to blame for being in prison but yourself, Edith. Had
you been less obstinate and self-willed, you might now have been at
home with your father."

"Sir, these reproaches sit not well upon your lips," said Edith,
bitterly, "I am neither obstinate nor self-willed, as you well know,
but I could not consent to marry one whom I no longer loved."

"_No longer loved_," repeated De Lisle, fixing his eyes upon her,
"then you _did_ love me once?"

"I may have done so," replied Edith, her face suddenly crimsoning,
"but you forfeited my good opinion; and where I cannot esteem, I
cannot love."

"I pray you, fair saint, how did I forfeit your esteem," said De
Lisle, with a sneer.

"By your base, unmanly conduct, sir, unworthy a man or a soldier,"
replied Edith, her gentle spirit roused to anger by his taunting
words. "I had heard of the merciless cruelty of you and your men, the
relentless fury with which you destroyed houses and villages, and shed
the blood of unoffending fellow-creatures, whose only crime was in
defending their homes. And could I, could any woman, think of you
otherwise than with fear and loathing after such acts, more fitted for
savages than for civilized men?"

"You seem particularly well informed about what I have done," said De
Lisle, sarcastically. "Pray, fair lady, how much of this
raw-head-and-bloody-bone story have you heard from Master Fred
Stanley?"

"Mr. De Lisle," said Edith, her fair face flushing, "I must beg of you
to cease referring to him. If you do not, I must decline holding any
conversation with you."

"Sooner than incur such a penalty, pretty one, I would do anything,"
said De Lisle; "but before this time to-morrow you will be my
wife--and after that I trust you will know your duty to your husband
too well to refuse talking to him."

"Sir, I will not, I will _never_ be your wife," said Edith
passionately.

"Oh! it is very well for you to say so, Miss Percival, but how are you
to help yourself? You are here my prisoner, completely in my power,
surrounded by my people, the clergyman who is to marry us will be most
discreetly silent as to everything he will see or hear--is prepared
for hysterics, tears and rebellion, and will pay no attention to
them. How then, beautiful Edith, are you to help yourself?"

"God liveth!" said Edith, rising, and speaking in a tone of intense
solemnity, "and I appeal to Him from you--unworthy the name of man."

"The days of miracles are past, Edith," said De Lisle, with his
customary mocking sneer. "He will hardly send an angel down to prevent
the marriage of a silly girl. The time of miracles has long since
past, fair one."

"But not of Divine interposition," said Edith, "my confidence in Him
can never be shaken. I will trust in Him, and you may do your worst.
Heaven will never permit the happiness of my life to be blighted by
you."

"Bah! bah! bah! are you silly enough to believe such cant, Edith?"
said De Lisle, scornfully. "I thought you had more sense. But time
will tell: ere four-and-twenty hours you will be my wife, in spite of
yourself, and then where will be your boasted confidence in Heaven?"

"I have faith to believe that time will never come," said Edith. "But
should it, my confidence in Heaven will be as strong as ever."

"You believe that time will never come," said De Lisle, "and may I
ask, what do you expect will happen to prevent it?"

"Oh! fifty things might happen," replied the voice of Elva, who
entered abruptly, in time to hear his remark, and took it upon herself
to answer; "the Yankees might come and set fire to the house, and
carry her off--or the minister might forget to come--or she might be
very sick--or you might be accidentally shot, which would set
everything right at once. For my part, if _I_ was Miss Percival, I'd
live in hopes."

"Would you, indeed?" said De Lisle, angrily. "Well, I prefer living in
certainty. And pray, Miss Snowe, what brought _you_ here?"

"My feet, of course," answered Elva.

"Don't be impertinent, minion; answer my question."

"I did answer it, Mr. De Lisle, sir," replied Elva.

"What did you come here for?" exclaimed De Lisle, in a rage--"what do
you want?"

"Oh! _I_ want nothing," replied Elva, with provoking indifference;
"only father's _arriv_, and sent me here with a message for you."

"What is it, what did he say?" demanded De Lisle, hurriedly.

"He didn't say much; the message consisted of just five words: '_Tell
him it's all right_,' that's all. It's short and sweet, you see, like
a weaver's kiss."

The look of satisfaction that followed her words rather surprised
Elva, who, after watching him a moment, turned to Edith--saying, in a
very audible whisper:

"Something dreadful has happened to somebody, as sure as shooting!
Nothing else ever puts him in such good humor. See how absurdly happy
he looks."

"Clear out!" said De Lisle, who was too well accustomed to the pert
Elva to get into a passion at her impertinent words. "Tell Paul I'll
see him by-and-by; and don't you come here again until you're sent
for."

"Nice way that to speak to a young lady," said Elva. "I guess Miss
Percival would rather have me than you with her, after all." And
turning a pirouette on one toe, the elf disappeared.

"Well, Edith," said De Lisle, turning to her, "our marriage will not
have to be postponed till to-morrow as I feared it would. I sent Paul
to see if the clergyman would come to-day and the answer is favorable.
Therefore, you will prepare to become my bride this afternoon."

The blood rushed for a moment hotly to Edith's face, and then
retreated to her heart, leaving her faint and sick. She had hitherto
looked upon it as some fearful dream--now it arose before her, a
terrible reality. She strove to speak; but the words died away on her
pale lips. Involuntarily, she laid her hand on her heart to still its
loud throbbings.

"Of course," went on De Lisle, calmly, "this news must be equally
pleasant to both of us. You, no doubt, feel anxious to return
home--which I regret you cannot do until after our marriage, for
reasons before given; and I know confinement in this lonely place must
necessarily be very irksome to you. I trust, therefore, Miss Percival,
you will see the wisdom of submitting yourself, and make no resistance
to the ceremony taking place--a resistance which you must know would
be idle and useless, since there is no one here who has either the
will or the power to prevent it."

"Ralph De Lisle, you cannot, you will not, be so base!" said Edith,
vehemently, rising. "I conjure you, by all you hold sacred in heaven
and dear on earth, to desist! Why should you render miserable for life
a defenseless girl who never injured you? It is not because you really
love me that you wish me to be your wife, but for my father's money;
and that you shall have, I solemnly promise you. You will--you _will_
release me! I cannot believe you are so deliberately, basely wicked!"

She stood before him with clasped hands, flushed cheeks, and
glistening eyes--her long, golden hair floating like a glory around
her. Never had she looked so beautiful; and gazing upon her, De Lisle
grew more determined than ever in his resolution.

"Nay, Edith, you wrong me," he said. "Your money, I confess, _is_ an
inducement; but were you a beggar my affection for you is so strong I
would still make you my wife! I love you better than you are willing
to give me credit for."

"You do not!" she exclaimed, impetuously. "When did man wish to render
miserable the woman he loved? You know I dislike you--detest you!--and
with you can never be happy!"

"You will learn to overcome this dislike in time, fair Edith," he
said, coolly. "At present, it is quite natural you should feel
indignant, and fancy you dislike me; but I assure you, it will wear
away. Then, too, your silly _penchant_ for a person who shall be
nameless, renders you less reconciled to this union than you would
otherwise be. Time, however, works wonders; and I have no doubt you
will be in quite a different state of mind in a few months. I shall
not trouble you again to-day until the hour appointed for our
marriage; but Elva will attend you in the meantime. _Au revoir._" And,
rising, De Lisle quitted the apartment.

Edith sat like one stunned by some sudden blow. Her arms dropped
powerless in her lap; her eyes were wide open, with a look of fixed,
stony despair. Every trace of color had faded from her face, as she
sat like one suddenly turned to stone. From the doom before her she
felt there could be no escape. De Lisle was all-powerful, and she was
utterly helpless. One by one the faces and forms of loved ones passed
before her; father, mother, brother, sister, and--dearer than
all--Fred. Where were they all now? Was there no one in all the world
to help her? Sun, and moon, and stars seemed fading from her sky, and
the future loomed before her so dark and full of horror, that she drew
back appalled. Only a few brief hours, and she would be the wife of De
Lisle--a fate far worse than death! Hope there was none; and
involuntarily she covered her face with her hands, and groaned in the
depth of her anguish.

She heard the door open and some one enter; but she did not look up.
Her hands were gently removed from her face; and raising her head, she
met the pitying eyes of Elva.

"Dear Miss Percival," she said gently, "don't grieve so! Bad as Ralph
De Lisle is, I don't think he'll force you to marry him against your
will."

"He will--he will!" exclaimed Edith, wringing her hands. "Oh, Elva,
what shall I do?"

"I'm sure I don't know," replied Elva. "I wish I could help you; but
it is quite impossible. Really, though, I never thought he'd be so
mean. It's dreadful to think about; but I don't see how it can be
helped."

The look of sublime perplexity on Elva's face bordered closely on the
ridiculous; and, at any other time, would have provoked a smile from
Edith. But she only sat with her hands pressed to her throbbing head,
striving in vain to think, with her brain in such a whirl.

"When is this precious wedding to take place?" inquired Elva, after a
pause.

"This afternoon," answered Edith, hurriedly. "Your father went for the
clergyman."

"Why, you don't mean to say that little dried-up anatomy, with a face
like a withered pippin and a nose like a boiled beet, who came home
with father, is a clergyman?" said Elva, opening her eyes in
amazement.

"I really do not know," said Edith, faintly.

"Well, if it is, I'll give up!" said Elva, drawing a long breath.
"Why, I saw him drinking gin and water with father, and singing 'Old
King Cole was a merry old soul,' as jolly as the worst cut-throat in
De Lisle's gang!"

"Elva Snowe!" called the shrill voice of Miss Crow, at this moment.

"Oh, there's Miss Crow!" said Elva, jumping up. "I must go and see
what the blessed old seraph wants, or she'll drive me wild with her
screeches."

And Elva vanished.

The hours dragged slowly on, and Edith waited in vain for her
re-appearance. The afternoon waned; but still, to her surprise, she
came not. Rousing herself from the lethargy into which she was
falling, she arose and paced up and down the room, striving to collect
her thoughts. She turned to the window and gazed out. The sun was
setting in cloudless splendor. The heavens were flush with gold and
azure, and purple, and crimson; and amid this radiant setting, the sun
shone like a jewel of fire. A fading sunbeam, as it passed, lingered
lovingly for a moment amid her golden hair. With clasped hands and
parted lips Edith stood entranced--forgetting everything save the
sublime beauty of that glorious sunset.

The sudden opening of the door startled her. She looked up, and her
heart sank like lead in her bosom, as she beheld De Lisle.

"Come," he said, taking her hand--"the hour has arrived, and the
clergyman is waiting."

She grew faint and dizzy at his words, and was forced to grasp his arm
for support.

"Let me assist you," he said, kindly, as he placed his arm around her
waist and drew her with him.

She drew back involuntarily--her lips parted, but no sound came forth,
as she lifted her eyes in a voice-less appeal to his face.

"Nonsense, Edith!" he said, almost angrily--"you _must_ come. Have I
not told you resistance is useless."

He drew her forcibly with him, as he spoke. Quitting the room they
crossed a long hall, descended a flight of winding stairs, which led
them to another hall similar to that above. Opening one of the many
doors that flanked it on either side, De Lisle led his almost fainting
companion into a room, which she saw indistinctly as in a dream, was
filled with people.

The clergyman, book in hand, stood at the upper end of the room. At a
little distance stood the man Paul--the same individual seen by Fred
in the music-room of Percival Hall. Near him stood Elva, pity and
indignation struggling for the mastery on her pretty face. Old Nan
Crow, grinning, chuckling, and evidently in a sublime state of
beatitude, was perched on a chair in the corner. Various other
individuals--members of De Lisle's tory band--were scattered round the
room, watching poor Edith with mingled curiosity and admiration.

Supporting the slight form of his companion, De Lisle led her to where
stood the clergyman.

"Go on, sir," said De Lisle, briefly. "We are ready."

He opened his book; and already had the ceremony commenced, when a
sudden noise broke upon their ears, and startled everyone to their
feet in consternation.

Shouts, cries, yells, and the report of fire-arms, mingled together in
wild confusion, resounded without.

Ere anyone could move, a man, wounded and bleeding, rushed in, and
fell lifeless at the feet of De Lisle.




CHAPTER XV.

THE PRISONERS.

    "A careless set they were, in whose bold hands
    Swords were like toys."

For a few moments all stood spell-bound, gazing in silence and
consternation in each other's faces--while the noise and uproar
without seemed still increasing. Loud oaths, the clash of swords, and
the report of fire-arms, united in fierce discord. So completely
unexpected was the surprise, that all stood looking at each other and
at their fallen comrade in speechless wonder. But De Lisle's presence
of mind never forsook him--the true state of the case seemed to flash
upon him instantly--and turning to Elva, he said, hurriedly:

"Conduct Miss Percival to her chamber; and whatever happens, see that
she does not escape." Then, turning to the others, he called: "There
is danger without! Follow me!"

And as he spoke, he disappeared through the open door.

The men rushed pell-mell after him, and in a few moments the room was
deserted, save by the clergyman, Edith, Elva, and Nan Crow. Edith
stood listening breathlessly, while her heart once more began to throb
with hope. De Lisle's enemies were her friends, and she might yet be
free once more.

Nan Crow was the first to speak. Turning to Elva, who stood listening
eagerly to the sound of the conflict without, she said, sharply:

"What are you a-standing there for, like a fool? Go 'long with you,
and take her off to her room, as Mr. Ralph told you."

"Yes. Come, Miss Percival," said Elva; "there may be danger in
remaining here. Let me assist you--you seem weak and faint."

She passed her arm round her waist, and led her from the room. Wrought
to the highest pitch of suspense and anxiety, Edith tottered, and was
obliged to lean on her companion for support.

"Oh, Miss Percival, who do you suppose they can be?" inquired Elva,
when they reached the apartment of Edith.

"My friends, I feel certain," said Edith, pressing her hands on her
heart to still its tumultuous throbbings--"who, having missed me, have
by some means discovered that I am here. Great Heaven, Elva! listen to
these terrible sounds without!" said Edith, with a shudder.

"The conflict seems to grow more desperate each moment," said Elva,
listening breathlessly.

The noise and confused din of the fight was indeed momentarily
growing more violent. Almost wild with excitement, Edith paced up and
down the room, striving to catch some sound by which she could judge
which party was the victor. But she listened in vain--nothing met her
ear but a discordant din, in which the cries of each were mingled in
indiscriminate confusion.

For upwards of an hour the strife continued, and then all suddenly
grew still. They could hear, for a time, the sound of many feet
passing and repassing through the different rooms and passages; but
gradually this died away, and was followed by a silence so deep and
ominous that the young girls looked on each other, pale with undefined
fear.

"Oh, this suspense--this suspense! it is killing me!" said Edith,
sinking into a chair and covering her face with her hands.

"De Lisle must have conquered," exclaimed Elva, "or your friends would
be here before now."

"The will of Heaven be done!" came from the pale lips of Edith--the
hope that until this moment had animated her heart, died out in
deepest despair.

"What can this sudden silence mean?" said Elva. "It is not their
customary way of conducting themselves after a victory. I cannot stay
here--I must go and see."

"Let me go with you!" pleaded Edith, starting to her feet.

"No, no--you must stay here!" exclaimed Elva, hurriedly. "To go with
me would be dangerous. I will return immediately. Do try and restrain
your impatience for a short time, and you will hear all."

She left the room as she spoke, and Edith was alone in the profound
silence and rapidly deepening gloom. It was a calm, starless night.
Without, in the gray dusk, the tall swaying pine-trees looked like
dim, dark spectres. The shrill cry of the whip-powill and katy-did
came at intervals to her ears; and once the hoarse scream of the raven
broke the stillness, sending a thrill of superstitious terror to the
heart of Edith. Each moment seemed an age, until the return of Elva.
Unable to sit still, in her burning impatience, Edith paced rapidly up
and down the room--her excitement lending to her feeble frame an
unnatural strength. There was a wild, burning light in her eye, and a
hot, feverish flush on her face, that betokened the tumult within. Her
head ached and throbbed with an intensity of pain; but she hardly
noticed it in the fierce agony of impatience, she endured.

She counted the hours as they passed on, midnight came, but Elva was
absent still. She seemed almost like a maniac in her maddening
impatience, as she trod wildly up and down the long room. "She will
not come to-night!" was ringing in her ears, as she clenched her small
hands so fiercely together that the nails sank into the quivering
flesh until they bled.

Her quick ear at last caught the sound of a rapid, excited footstep
without. She sprang forward, breathing heavily in her unnatural
impatience, when the door opened, and Elva bearing a lamp in her hand,
entered.

Placing the lamp on the table, Elva drew a long breath, and with a
muttered "Oh, dear!" flung herself into a seat. Her long hair was
streaming wildly over her shoulders; her face was very pale; her dress
disordered and stained with blood.

"Elva! Elva! speak! what has happened?" inquired Edith, in a voice
husky with deep emotion.

"Oh, just what I told you! De Lisle and his villainous-looking set
have conquered!" exclaimed Elva, impatiently.

For a time, nothing could be heard but the labored breathing of Edith.
She strove to ask another question; but though her lips moved, they
could not utter the words. Elva sat with her lips compressed and her
eyes fixed moodily on the floor. Looking up, at length, and seeing the
expression on Edith's face, she said, in reply to it:

"Yes, they were your friends--I heard De Lisle say so. There were only
seven of them altogether; but they fought desperately, and, I believe,
killed half of De Lisle's band. They were conquered, however, and
_killed_--with the exception of those who appeared superior to the
rest, and whom De Lisle said he would reserve for a more terrible
fate. One comfort is," added Elva, flinging back her hair almost
fiercely. "Old Nick will pay him with interest for all this, some of
these days!"

Edith did not exclaim or cry. Her face was only a shade whiter, her
eyes dilated with a look of unspeakable horror, and her voice, when
she spoke, sounded unnaturally deep and hoarse.

"Did you hear what were the names of those three?" she asked.

Elva looked up in alarm at the strange sound of her voice.

"One, the youngest of the three, I heard called Gus, I think, and the
other looked so much like you that I think he must be your brother.
But the third--he was splendid; he looked like a prince--so tall, and
dark, and handsome. He was wounded, too, but he walked in, looking as
proud and scornful on De Lisle as though he were a king and De Lisle
his slave. I never saw such a look of intense fiendish hate and
triumph on any face as De Lisle's wore when he looked on him. They are
now confined in separate rooms at the other side of the house, though
I fancy they will soon leave it for a narrower and darker prison. Oh,
Miss Percival! I have had to look on such fearful sights to-night! I
have a little knowledge of surgery, and I was obliged to bind up those
fearful wounds. Ugh!" and Elva shuddered convulsively.

There was no reply from Edith, who stood like one suddenly turned to
stone. Her brother and cousin were in the power of the merciless De
Lisle--and that _other_. There was but one man in the world to whom
Elva's description could apply--one dearer than life--whom she never
expected to see again. And he--would De Lisle let him live to see the
sun again?

"De Lisle is going away somewhere to-morrow," said Elva, looking up,
after a pause. "He received a letter, a few hours ago, which will take
him off--thank goodness! I suppose he will see you before he leaves,
and tell you when he will return."

"Elva!" exclaimed Edith, suddenly, "if De Lisle leaves here, why can
we not make our escape during his absence? You can aid us, can you
not?"

"I scarcely know," said Elva, thoughtfully. "I might aid you, it is
true; but as father is commander here until De Lisle's return, he
would be answerable for it. Besides, you will all be very carefully
guarded; and I fear, were any attempt at escape discovered, it would
be worse for us. De Lisle might marry you immediately, in spite of
all obstacles; and as for the other--well, I wouldn't give much for
their chance of life now, but any such attempt would be their
death-warrant!"

"Then escape is impossible, and there is no hope but in the grave!"
said Edith, sadly.

"Oh! do not say it is impossible," said Elva. "Indeed, the more I
think of it the less difficult it seems. Let's see"--and she leaned
her head thoughtfully on her hand--"De Lisle will probably be absent a
week or so. Before the end of that time, I may find some opportunity
of throwing the men off their guard, and setting you free. I have no
doubt I could easily effect your escape; but it may be more difficult
to liberate your friends. However, if I cannot, you can inform your
friends where they are, and let them come here and free them by force
of arms."

"But, Elva, the moment De Lisle would discover my escape, do you not
think he would wreak his vengeance on those remaining in his power.
You, too, dear Elva--what would he do to you?"

"Oh! as for me, _I_ am not afraid of him--only I don't like to get
father into trouble; but as there is no alternative, he'll have to run
the risk, and I'll set you free if I can. But your friends--yes, it
would be very dangerous for them to be here after your flight is
discovered. I must think. I have no doubt I can hit on some plan to
get the whole of you out of his power. And if I do, won't it be as
good as a play to see De Lisle? Oh! _won't_ he rage though, and blow
us all sky high to think he has been out-witted by a girl. La! I think
I see him."

And Elva, changing in a moment from seriousness to gayety, laughed
outright at the vision that rose before her mind's eye.

"_Do_ you think you see him, minion?" suddenly exclaimed a low,
fierce voice, that made both spring to their feet in terror. The door
was pushed open, and De Lisle, pale with rage, stood before them.

"Oh, well! you heard us, did you? I never had a high opinion of you,
and I'm not surprised to find you playing the eavesdropper," exclaimed
Elva, defiantly.

"By all the fiends in flames, girl, you shall repent this!"

"Shall I, indeed! _That_ for you, Mr. De Lisle!" said the audacious
Elva, snapping her fingers in his very face.

"Leave the room, you impudent--"

"Impertinent, outrageous, abandoned young woman--ching a ring, a ring,
chaw!" sang the elf, making a whirl.

"You shall never remain another night in this house--"

"Delighted to hear it," again interrupted Elva, with a profound
courtesy.

"Silence! Who, then, will help this fair lady or her lover to escape?"
said De Lisle, with a look of triumphant malice gleaming in his eyes.

"Heaven helps those who help themselves," said Elva.

"Well, I fancy Heaven will not trouble itself about this affair. And
now, Miss, the sooner you leave this room and house the better," said
De Lisle.

"Surely, Mr. De Lisle, you will allow Elva to remain with me," said
Edith, speaking now for the first time.

"No, madame, I will not," said De Lisle, sternly, "after listening to
that ingenious plot. I shall take care that every means of escape is
cut off. Leave her with you, forsooth! Do you think me a fool?"

"_Think!_" repeated Elva; "not she, indeed; she _knows_ you to be
one."

"Will you leave the room, or shall I turn you out?" exclaimed De
Lisle, angrily.

"Don't trouble yourself," said Elva, coolly. "I'll go myself, and be
thankful to get out of this dismal old tomb. Good-by, Miss Percival;
keep up your spirits. Old Nick'll twist De Lisle's neck for this
by-and-by--a blessing for which I intend to pray night and morning.
Don't get into a rage, my dear sir, as I see you are going to; it
spoils your beauty, of which you have none to spare." And, casting
upon him a look of withering contempt, Elva left the room and ran down
stairs.

For a few moments after her departure, De Lisle walked up and down, as
if to cool the storm of passion into which the taunting words of Elva
had thrown him. Edith sat pale and motionless in her seat. Pausing at
last before her, he said, in a tone of bitter sarcasm:

"Well, Miss Percival, I see you can plot better than I ever gave you
credit for. How unfortunate I chanced to spoil your pretty little
scheme! After all, you see Providence seems to favor me more than you.
Do you not suppose it was 'divine interposition' that so
providentially sent me here in time to discover your plans?"

With the determination of not answering him, Edith sat listening in
silence.

"You do not answer," he went on, in the same ironical tone, after
waiting a moment. "It is just as well; silence gives assent. I know
you will regret to hear that business of importance calls me away for
a few days, thereby delaying our marriage; but at the end of that
time, I will have the happiness of claiming you as my bride. I
scarcely regret the hasty interruption we met with a few hours ago, as
it will permit me to invite a few friends of yours to assist at the
ceremony. Mr. Frederick Stanley, who will shortly follow his friends
to a better world, will be present to witness our nuptials, fairest
Edith, and take his last farewell of my bride. He will, doubtless,
feel happy during his last moments, when he knows the lady he
professes to love is the happy wife of another."

He paused, and glanced with a look of malignant triumph at Edith, who
sat quivering like an aspen in her chair.

"Yes, fairest Edith," he went on, "my hour of triumph has come. Ere
five suns rise and set, he for whom you would willingly die will hang
a discolored corpse between heaven and earth, and you will be my wife.
No power on earth can save you; if an angel from heaven were to
descend and plead for you both, I would refuse."

She lifted her head, and De Lisle saw a face so full of horror, with
such a look of utter anguish and despair, that he started back
appalled. She did not see him, her eyes were gazing steadily forward,
fixed, glazed, and rigid. She only saw the vision his words had
conjured up--herself the wife of the living demon beside her, and he
whom she loved dying in agony the death of a malefactor. So rigid, so
unnatural, so full of speechless horror was her look, that, alarmed
for the effect of his words, De Lisle sprang to her side, exclaiming:

"Edith! Edith! good Heavens! do not look so wildly. Edith! look
up--speak to me!"

The hand he held was cold as ice. Her head dropped on her breast; her
eyes closed, and she fainted entirely away.

Terrified beyond measure, De Lisle raised her in his arms, and laid
the apparently lifeless form on the bed, and sprang down stairs at a
bound in search of Elva. He found that young lady in a violent
altercation with Nan Crow--who, in spite of all Elva's vehement
threats and protestations, positively refused to let her out until
morning.

"Go up stairs! go!--Miss Percival has fainted!" exclaimed De Lisle,
hurriedly, catching Elva's arms in his haste to push her along.

Wrenching her arm violently from his grasp, and casting upon him a
glance of concentrated contempt and hatred, Elva passed him, and flew,
rather than ran, up stairs to Edith's room.

She still lay lifeless upon the bed. Elva opened her dress, and began
chafing her hands and temples. Long she labored in vain--no sign of
life was there, and something almost akin to a feeling of pleasure
entered the heart of Elva, as the conviction that Edith had escaped
the power of De Lisle forced itself upon her. But life was not
extinct--a few hard-drawn, laboring breaths--a sudden fluttering at
her heart, and the long lashes were lifted, and the cloudless blue
eyes sought the bright face of Elva.

"My dear, dear Miss Percival, I thought you would never look on anyone
again!" exclaimed Elva, as she soothingly pushed back the bright hair
off Edith's face.

"You here, Elva?" exclaimed Edith, vacantly. "I thought--I
thought--where is _he_?" she said, with a sudden look of terror.

"Down stairs; the horrid wretch!" exclaimed Elva, passionately.

"I thought he had sent you away?" said Edith.

"So he did, and I am going, too; but when you fainted, he sent me here
to attend to you. I am sorry to leave you, Miss Percival, but you see
I must go."

"Oh, it don't matter!" said Edith wearily; "it is all the same to me."

Elva looked hurt--so much so that Edith noticed it, and, laying her
hand on hers, she said:

"Dear Elva, don't be offended. I did not mean to hurt your feelings,
but for the few days I have to remain, it matters little who attends
me."

"Are you going away?" asked Elva in surprise.

"Yes; I hope so."

"With De Lisle?"

"No."

"Why, are you not going to marry him?"

"No."

"_No?_" repeated Elva, beginning to think her mind wandered; "how will
you avoid it?"

"Elva, I shall die!"

"You will not commit suicide?" said Elva, shrinking back in horror.

"There will be no necessity, Elva; _I shall die!_"

"Dear lady, I trust not. Heaven is merciful, and there may be happy
days in store for you yet. Before morning dawns, night is ever
darkest. Do not give way to despair, but trust in Heaven."

"You can go now," said the voice of De Lisle, as he stood in the
doorway; "your horse awaits you at the door."

He paused, and drew back to allow her to pass.

Pressing a kiss on Edith's brow, she arose, and whispering in her ear
the one word: "_Hope!_" she left the room.

As she passed De Lisle, she cast upon him a look of such dark,
withering scorn that he absolutely quailed before her. Passing down
the stairs, and through the numerous empty rooms, she left the house,
sprang upon the back of Timon, and in a few moments was lost to sight
amid the trees.




CHAPTER XVI.

JOE SMITH.

    "Dost deem that aught can hide in beggar rags
      A heart so bold as mine?
    And dream'st thou aught of common danger now
      Can scare me from my purpose?"

                                   --BARRY CORNWALL.

To explain how the friends of Edith discovered her prison, it is
necessary to retrace our steps a little.

For an hour or two after her departure with De Lisle, Major Percival
walked thoughtfully up and down the broad piazza, debating within
himself whether it were better to wait or compel Edith to fulfill her
engagement. The words of Fred Stanley had thrown a new light on the
subject, and he felt convinced that her affection for him was the
cause of her refusal. To marry or not to marry, therefore, was the
question; and in a state of unusual indecision the major debated the
case _pro_ and _con_.

While thus engaged, Nell came running up the stairs, and stood beside
him:

"Papa, where's Edith?"

"Out riding with De Lisle."

"With De Lisle?" and Nell's eyes opened to their widest extent with
amazement.

"Eh? what's that?" said the major turning round sharply.

"Nothing, sir," said Nelly demurely, "but I really thought Ralph De
Lisle was the last person Edith would go anywhere with."

"And why not, Miss Impertinence? Whom should she go with, if not with
her future husband?"

"Why, papa, I thought Edith refused to fulfill her engagement?"

"We'll make her fulfill it!" was the short, sharp, and decisive reply.

"_Hem-m-m!_ perhaps so!" said Nell, with a scarcely perceptible smile,
"but if I were in her shoes, I know I would not have gone with De
Lisle to-night."

"You wouldn't?" And a storm began to gather in the major's eyes.
"_Why_, may I ask?"

"Oh, I don't know; I wouldn't satisfy him so far; besides, he might
try to run away with me or something. I wouldn't trust him!"

The words were spoken thoughtlessly; but the major gave a sudden
start, and stood silent. Nell left him, and tripped down stairs to
join Gus in the garden, leaving him to his own reflections.

An hour passed away; Nell and Gus left the garden and piazza for the
cool, pleasant parlor; but the major still remained watching for the
arrival of Edith and De Lisle. Another hour passed on, and still they
came not. The major began to feel anxious and angry at the prolonged
absence. His anxiety began to communicate itself to the other members
of the family, as another hour wore away without them. A thousand
conjectures were formed as to the cause of this unaccountable
absence, but none seemed satisfactory. As midnight approached,
uneasiness changed into real alarm; and the major and Gus, unable to
endure the suspense longer, mounted their horses, and rode off in the
direction they had taken.

A sleepless night was passed in Percival Hall. Early in the morning,
both returned from their fruitless search, weary and dispirited. No
clue to their whereabouts could be discovered; and all gazed into each
other's faces, pale with terror.

Half an hour after their return, a servant entered, bearing a note
which, he said, had been given him by a man, who immediately departed.
The major glanced at the superscription, and recognized the bold, free
hand of De Lisle. Tearing it open, he read:

     "MY DEAR SIR: As, for wise reasons, doubtless, you decline
     bestowing on me the hand of your fair daughter, I am under the
     painful necessity of making her my wife without troubling you to
     give her away. For your own sake, I feel convinced you will not
     make a public affair of this--as I judge you have too much pride to
     allow your daughter's good name to become a byword for the town.
     Rest assured she shall be treated with all the respect due to the
     daughter of so distinguished a gentleman as Major Percival; and
     when once my wife, shall be restored to her home on one condition.
     It is, that you will give me her fortune as a sort of ransom,
     which, as you are wealthy, no doubt you will willingly do. If you
     refuse, why, then it will be all the worse for your pretty, but
     rather stubborn daughter. The retreat to which I have taken her is
     secure, and you cannot discover it; therefore, you had better make
     up your mind to comply with my terms at once. If you do, your
     daughter shall be immediately restored to you; if not--

                "I have the honor, my dear sir, to remain,
                                      "Yours sincerely, RALPH DE LISLE."

"The scoundrel! the treacherous, deceitful villain!" thundered the
major, springing to his feet, white with passion.

"What is it?" demanded Gus and Nell, while Mrs. Percival's eyes asked
the same question, though her lips were silent.

"Read that!" exclaimed the major, as he flung the missive he had
crumpled in his hand, fiercely from him. "Read that! for I cannot tell
you!"

Nell took it up, and read it slowly from beginning to end.

"Merciful Heavens!" exclaimed Mrs. Percival, "what shall we do?"

"Do?" shouted the major, "I'll send a bullet through his heart if ever
my eyes light on him again. The black-hearted villain! Is this his
return for all I have done for him? My daughter! My daughter in the
power of such a villain!"

"My dear sir, what is the matter?" exclaimed a well-known voice; and
looking up, they beheld Nugent, dusty and travel-worn, standing before
them.

In a few words, Nell related all that had transpired, for the rest
were too much excited to do so, and ended by placing De Lisle's letter
in his hand. The brow of Nugent grew dark, and his eyes flashed
fiercely; but subduing all other signs of anger, he turned to his
father, and said:

"Well, sir, on what plan have you decided?"

"Plan? I can think of nothing but of pursuing that scoundrel to the
ends of the earth. Mount! mount! and after him!"

"Stay!" cried a voice that made them all start, it was so stern and
commanding. "Are you mad to start on such a wild-goose chase? Wait;
follow my directions, and all will be well!"

They looked up, and behold, to their amazement, the Hermit of the
Cliffs, who stood before them like some prophet of old, in his flowing
robes, majestic bearing, and snowy hair.

"_You_ here!" exclaimed Nugent, in surprise.

"And wherefore not, my son?"

"I thought you were in the city. You were there a short time ago!"
said Nugent.

"Whithersoever my duty leads me, there am I," answered the hermit, in
his calm, grave voice. "The wolf hath stolen a lamb from the flock,
and the rest shall be left in the desert while we search for the one
that is lost. Listen to me, and go not forth rashly."

"This is no time for fooling!" exclaimed the major, impatiently.
"Stand aside, old man, and let us begone!"

"Nay, there is one come who will show you the way," said the hermit.
"Why should you wander in the dark when there is light at hand?"

"Do _you_ know where my daughter is?" demanded Major Percival, fixing
his eyes sternly upon him.

"One is at hand who does!" repeated the hermit, in the same quiet
tone. "My hand may not point out the way, but trust in him who will
follow me. His eyes have been opened, and to him it is given to rescue
the maiden of the house of Percival."

"Pshaw! why do we stay, listening to such nonsense?" demanded the
major, impetuously. "What can this hoary old man know of Edith? Let us
away; why should we waste time lingering here?"

He turned to go; but the hand of the hermit was laid on his shoulder.

"Thou shalt remain, Major Percival!" he said, in the same firm, calm
tone of command. "It is given me to know that if you now set out, you
will prove unsuccessful. Remain; he who cometh after me is at hand,
and when he arrives, with thy son and this youth, let him search for
the lost daughter of thy house; but do you remain here and watch over
those who are left."

He bowed slowly and with grave dignity; and folding his garment around
him, quitted the house.

All stood looking in the face of each other, in amazement and
uncertainty. Surprise, that he should know already what had occurred,
and wonder at the probable meaning of his words, where mingled with an
uncertainty whether to follow his advice or not. The major and Nugent
thought of the strange power he exercised over Sir William Stanley;
and in spite of their impatience, were half inclined to follow his
advice. Ere they could fully determine what course to pursue, however,
Fred Stanley, his fine face flushed, and his garments disordered,
stood before them.

"Stanley! by all that's wonderful!" exclaimed Nugent, in unbounded
astonishment.

The major's brow grew dark as night; but the young man, in his
excitement, scarcely seemed to notice him.

"What has happened? Where is Edith?" was his first demand.

"Young man, will you be good enough to tell us what sent you here?"
said the major, sternly, stepping forward.

"Certainly, sir!" said Fred, with a stiff bow, "this singular note."
And he drew forth a letter, and handed it to the major, who opened it,
and read:

     "Ride, ride for your life to Percival Hall. She whom you love is in
     the power of your rival. He has carried her off by force. Take the
     road to the north, near the village of R. are the pine woods, where
     an old mansion of De Lisle's is situated. There you will find Edith
     Percival. E. S.,

                                               "_Hermit of the Cliffs._"

"Let us start instantly!" exclaimed the major. "Every moment is
precious."

"You had better follow the directions of the hermit, and remain here,"
said Nugent. "We three, with one or two friends, will be enough. De
Lisle's men are in all probability far enough from their leader, who
feels too secure in his retreat to dread a visit from us. Besides, I
have a message for you from your friend, Colonel Greyson, which admits
of no delay, and will absolutely prevent your going with us."

The major seemed still uncertain; but the others joined Nugent in
urging him to obey the hermit, and remain behind.

Having at length reluctantly consented, Fred, Gus and young Percival,
with one or two friends, started in the direction pointed out by the
hermit.

Having reached the place indicated, they secreted themselves in the
woods, while Nugent, who was familiar with the place, went to
reconnoitre.

He soon returned with the ominous intelligence that there was a force
six times their number in the old house, and that it would ruin their
cause altogether to attempt at present to contend against such odds.
Nothing remained, therefore, but to lie in wait, and seize the first
favorable opportunity. None, however, presented itself; and the
afternoon of the following day, accidentally overhearing a
conversation between two of De Lisle's men, by which they learned the
marriage was to take place that very day, they determined at all risks
to make the attempt, the result of which is already known to the
reader.

       *       *       *       *       *

Half an hour after his interview with Edith, De Lisle sat in his own
room, eating a hasty breakfast ere he departed on his journey. His
meditations were at length abruptly interrupted by the entrance of Nan
Crow, who, in her usual screeching tones, announced that a boy without
wished to see him.

"What does he want?" said De Lisle.

"Want?" repeated Miss Crow, "yes; he wants to see you."

"What is his business?" demanded De Lisle, raising his voice.

"None of my business!" exclaimed Miss Crow, in rising wrath; "allers
the way everyone treats me arter a trottin' me off my legs with the
rhumatiz in the small of my back, a bringing of pesky young gals to
'tend on, what ain't no business here, a fighten and sitten up killing
of one another, with the rhumatiz in the small of my back--"

"Go to the deuce, you old fool!" angrily interrupted De Lisle, "be off
with you and bring him here, whoever he is!"

Muttering to herself, Nan Crow quitted the room, and presently
re-appeared with a youth of some sixteen years--a rough,
uncouth-looking lad.

He was small for his age, and dressed in a suit of coarse gray
homespun, which looked, to use a common but expressive phrase, as
though they had been thrown on by a pitchfork. His face was bronzed
and darkened by exposure to the sun, his eyes were bright and
intelligent, and shone and glittered like glass beads through the
coarse masses of uncombed sandy hair. His walk was peculiar, as he
shuffled along in a pair of huge cowhide boots, dragging his legs
after him as though they belonged to somebody else.

Such was the lad who now stood, hat in hand, before De Lisle, shifting
uneasily from one foot to the other.

"Who are you?" demanded De Lisle, gazing rather contemptuously at the
new-comer.

"Joe Smith, sir," answered the boy, with a strong nasal twang of
"deown east."

"What do you want?"

"Wall, I kinder kalkerlated on gettin' work."

"Work? what kind of work?" said De Lisle.

"Wall, I ain't particular; most anything comes handy to me."

"What have you been accustomed to?"

"Little of everything, boss. I gen'ly worked on the farm to hum."

"Why did you leave _hum_, as you call it?"

"Wall, me and mother, and Glory Ann thought as how I'd better come up
to Bosting and 'list; but arter lookin' round a spell, I didn't like
it, and kincluded 'twasn't no sich fun to be shot at as 'twas cracked
up to be."

"What induced you to come here?"

"Why, I'd hearn tell o' you some, and thought maybe you wouldn't mind
hirin' a new hand to cook vittils, and bring water, and chop wood, and
_sich_. You see, boss, I'm rather a _smart_ chap, 'specially arter a
lickin'; and didn't see no reason why I'd waste my talents a-raising
punkins all my life; so when I makes my fortin here, I intends goin'
home, and gettin' spliced onto Glory Ann Lazybones, a gal what's a
reg'lar buster and no mistake."

"You _are_ an original," said De Lisle, rather amused, "but I am
surprised that you do not wish to join the rebels, like so many others
of your class."

"Wall, boss, I allers had high ideers since I was 'bout so old, when I
used to ride roun' every day on mother's old clothes-horse for
exercise. These here rebels ain't no 'count, and bein' the weaker
party, I intends pitchin' into 'em like a thousand o' bricks. Mother
allers sez--sez she: 'Joe,' sez she, 'you stick to the strongest
party, my son, it's allers best,' so, in course, as I'm a dootiful
son, I obeys the old 'oman. 'Sides, if I turn Britisher, and help to
lick our boys, there's no tellin' but what they'll want to make a lord
or an earl o' me one o' these days. Lord Joe Smith! Jee-whittica! that
sounds sort o' grand, don't it?"

"I see--number one's your look-out!" said De Lisle. "Well, since your
ambition soars so high, it would be a pity to deprive Glory Ann of the
chance to become Lady Smith; so I don't mind taking you into my
service."

"Thankee, boss; you're a brick!" interrupted Mr. Smith, patronizingly.

"Don't be so familiar, sir," said De Lisle, sharply. "Learn a little
more respect when addressing your betters. For the present, your duty
will consist in assisting my housekeeper in her household affairs, and
in looking after and attending to the wants of two or three prisoners
confined here. One of my men will direct you what to do. And now, to
begin your new duties, go and saddle my horse, and bring him round to
the door."

"All right, siree!" replied Joe, clapping his hat on his head, and
giving it a vigorous thump down over his eyes, as he hastened out to
obey the order, leaving De Lisle to finish his breakfast.

"There is yet one more duty to perform," muttered De Lisle, rising:
"one so agreeable that it amply compensates for all the humiliation I
have been, through him, forced to endure. Master Fred Stanley, I go to
pay you a morning visit, and see how you estimate my kind hospitality,
in keeping you here my guest."

The sinister smile he wore, made his face almost repulsive, as he
arose and left the room.

Passing through a long hall, he descended a flight of narrow winding
stairs, and stood in another long hall, flanked on each side by doors.
A sentry stood pacing to and fro before them. He paused and touched
his hat respectfully on seeing De Lisle.

"Where is Stanley confined?" he inquired.

"Here, sir," answered the man, opening one of the doors, to allow him
to enter.

De Lisle passed in, and found himself in a low, gloomy room, with a
damp, unwholesome odor. Seated on a low stool, the only article of
furniture it contained, was Fred Stanley, his forehead leaning on his
hand, his eyes fixed on the floor, his brow knit, as though in deep,
troubled thought. As the creaking of the heavy door fell on his ear,
he looked up quickly, and sprang to his feet, as he saw his mortal foe
before him.

For a moment they stood silently facing each other--those two rivals.
De Lisle's face wore a look of triumph, mingled with most intense and
deadly hatred. A bitter, sneering smile was on his lip, and a look of
gratified malice in his eyes. Fred, stern, and cold, and haughty,
stood opposite him, his arms folded across his breast, returning his
gaze with such a look of lofty scorn, that, in spite of himself, De
Lisle quailed before him.

"Well, Frederic Stanley, my hour of triumph has come," said De Lisle,
with a look of malignant triumph.

"Villain! do your worst! I defy you!" was the bold answer.

"That most assuredly I shall do," returned De Lisle. "Before the sun's
rise and set, you shall die the ignominious death of the halter."

"Do your worst, Ralph De Lisle; I fear you not!" was the rejoinder.

"When you crossed my path, and won the affections of her whom I loved,
I swore a deadly oath of vengeance. Fortune has favored me, the time
has come, and your hours are numbered. She whom you love is in my
power, and the same hour which will see you swinging a discolored
corpse between heaven and earth, will see her a bride in my arms. You
both began a dangerous game, Fred Stanley, when you thwarted my
wishes, as you will find when the halter is around your neck, and as
she will discover when, after making her mine, I will whisper in her
ear the fate of him whom she loves better than life."

"Fiend! Devil in human-form! Do your worst, and may the heaviest curse
of Heaven fall upon you!" exclaimed Fred, growing livid with passion.

"Ha! I thought you would feel that!" said De Lisle, with a grim smile.
"You will have ample time to meditate on these and many other
consoling truths between this and the day of doom. It will also,
doubtless, be a pleasure to you to know that Edith will be a prisoner
under the same roof with you until my return, which may be to-morrow,
or at the furthest, three days hence. And now it occurs to me that my
revenge will be greater to allow you to be present at our bridal. I
will thus have a double triumph over you both."

"A fiend could not be more diabolical!" exclaimed Fred, paling
involuntarily at his words.

"Have I not well learned the art of torturing?" went on De Lisle, with
a fiendish smile. "Death itself would be nothing--that would be a poor
triumph. I know you well enough to be aware that you do not fear
death; but the torture I shall inflict before death will last even
after the soul has left the body. I will leave you now to repose and
solitude. You will have ample time," he added, with a sneer, "to
meditate on your latter end, and make your peace with Heaven during my
absence. _Should_ I return to-morrow, before another sun sets you
shall swing as high as Haman. _Au revoir_, until I meet you again on
Abraham's bosom."

And turning on his heel, he strode from the room.

"To-morrow?" repeated Fred, gazing after his retreating figure, "who
knows what to-morrow may bring forth?"




CHAPTER XVII.

JOE VISITS HIS PRISONERS.

            "Trust in God!
    Thou forlorn one, cease thy moan;
      All thy pain and all thy sorrow,
    Are to God, the Highest known;
      He leaves thee now, but helps to-morrow.
            Trust in God!"

The bright sunshine of the morning following that eventful night shone
into Edith's room; but it was all unheeded by her. She lay on her face
on the bed, not sleeping, but in a deep, heavy torpor, her white arms
extended above her head, so still and motionless that but for the
quick, rapid breathing, one might imagine her dead.

Not of herself was she thinking, but of those for whom she would have
given her life--of _one_ whom she would gladly have died to save.
Fred! Fred! all through that miserable night his name had been on her
lips--his image alone in her heart. Never again would she meet those
dear, dark eyes--already, perhaps, closed forever; that brave,
impulsive heart, whose every throb had been for her, might now be cold
and still in death. All that had ever made life desirable seemed lost
to her forever; and in the glad sunshine of that bright morning, she
lay and prayed for death.

The bolt was withdrawn, the door opened, some one entered, but she did
not look up. She was conscious that some one was bending over her, but
still she did not move until she heard a strange voice muttering, in
a sort of soliloquy:

"Crickey! she beats the seven sleepers, she does! I'm blamed if she
ain't as sound as a top. Wall, I s'pose I'd better leave the vittals
here, and arter her snooze she'll fall to."

With a start, Edith rose on her elbow, and gazed wildly around. Her
amazement at beholding the uncouth figure and face of honest Joe
Smith, may be imagined. So completely was she bewildered that she
continued to stare at him between surprise and terror, scarcely
knowing whether to cry out for help or not. Joe, however, bore her
scrutiny with wonderful composure, and returned her stare with
compound interest.

"Good-mornin', marm, fine day this; how's your folks? I hope the old
woman and all the folks to hum is well!" said Joe, in a tone of
condescending politeness.

"_What?_" said Edith, rather bewildered by the rapidity with which
this speech was delivered.

"Never mind, 'taint worth sayin' over again," said Joe. "I hope I
didn't disturb any pleasant dreams o' yourn. You was sleepin' away
like all creation when I came in!"

"Who sent you here?" inquired Edith, whose terror had not quite
vanished.

"Wall, the cap'n did, marm," replied Joe; "I 'xpect I'm to be
waitin'-maid till he comes back. I haint no objections to it,
though--'cause, maybe, I'll be able to l'arn Glory Ann somethin' in
her line arter I go back to hum. Here's your breakfas', marm, what
that jolly old case down in the kitchen sent me with. Seems to me the
cap'n's got a taste for keepin' people in the lock-up, judgin' by all
I've 'tended to this mornin'. Let's see--two and one's three and
one's four--four I've visited this mornin', countin' you."

An exclamation of delight broke involuntarily from the lips of Edith.
Three besides her! Then Fred was living still.

"Hey? What is it? Did you stick a pin in you?" inquired Joe, mistaking
the cause of her emotion.

"Who were the three you visited this morning?" inquired Edith, "with
breathless interest.

"Wall, let's see," said Joe, closing one eye and laying his forefinger
meditatively on the point of his nose, "the first, I think, somebody
called _Goose_, or somethin' about the size o' that."

"Gus," amended Edith, eagerly.

"Yaas, Gus, or Goose, or some sort o' a fowl. I found him lyin' on the
floor, takin' a snooze, I s'pose, somethin' like I found you. He got
up when I came in, and fell to the vittals as if he'd been livin' on
pavin'-stones for a week, an' 'tween every mouthful, he took to askin'
me a string o' questions long as a lawyer's conscience. He wanted to
know all the particulars 'bout _you_, and 'fore he'd give me time to
answer one of 'em, he blowed the cap'n and the whole blamed consarn
sky-high. 'Twa'n't no use to try to reason matters with him, 'cause
when I took to arguin', 'fore I got to thirdly, he told me to go and
be hanged. You see I couldn't stand that--I wasn't used to it, mother
never 'lowed no profane swearin' to hum, so I just told him to be
hanged himself, if he liked, but as for me, I was like the
Highlandman, in no hurry."

"What Highlandman?" inquired Edith, absently.

"Why, some old Scotch big-bug, long ago, had a servant that did
somethin', I forgot what, and he was goin' to hang him for it. But,
you see, the servant had been a favorite of his, so his master told
him he'd grant him the favor of choosing whichever tree in his orchard
he'd like to be hung on. The servant was tickled to death to hear it
an' went out to choose the tree with his master. At last, he stopped
before a gooseberry bush, and said he'd be hung onto _that_.

"'Go to grass!' sez his master; 'that ain't big enough to hang a
six-footer like you on!'

"'Oh, well,' sez the servant, 'I'll wait till it grows big. _I'm in no
hurry!_'"

"But the others--the others?" exclaimed Edith, who had listened
impatiently to this digression.

"Oh, ya-as--just so. Well, the next was the very picter o' you--s'pect
he must be some relation. He was sittin' down onto a bench, an' asked
me a few questions--not many, though; 'bout a dozen or so--if I'd seen
you, and where was the boss, and so on. It was sort o' comfortable to
talk to him sides the other two, who didn't seem to have a single
grain o' senses in their knowledge-boxes."

"And the third?" demanded Edith, hurriedly.

"_Him?_ Oh, Jerusalem! I've seen a wildcat--I've seen a bear with a
sore head--I've seen a gander when somebody carried off the goslin's
before him--I've seen mother in a passion, and a-flarin' around at the
governor--but I never, never, _never_ saw such a savage, wild-lookin'
stunner as the t'other one. Cracky! when I went in thar, he was
a-tearin' up and down as though he was boun' to have a walk somehow if
the floor held out--lookin' so sort o' savage lookin' an' fierce, that
I like to spilt his breakfas' a top of him. It's lucky I didn't; for
if he'd got his dander riz any wuss, the Lor' a massy only knows whar
Joe Smith 'd be now. I'm blamed if I ever seen anyone in sich a
tearin' rage as that cove was in."

"It must have been Fred," thought Edith. "Was he wounded?--how did he
look?" she asked, aloud.

"Wall, marm, I don't know as I kin tell," said Joe, thoughtfully. "He
set me into sich a flusterification, that it was most a danger to look
at him. He had a black coat and trousis, and hair on, and was as tall
as--as--I don't know who (that's a nice size for a man). He was sort
o' darkish lookin', with a black _murstuasher_ onto his upper lip.
Some people might call him good lookin'; but Glory Ann allers sez fair
hair's the nicest." And Joe gave his tow locks a complacent shake.

"Would you bring a message from me to them?" inquired Edith, eagerly.

"Wall, now, I don't know," said Joe rather reluctantly; "'twould be
sorter agin orders, you know. Sorry to refuse you, marm, but I can't
help it."

"Tell him, at least, that I will die sooner than marry De Lisle. You
will befriend me by doing so; and you can do no one any possible
injury," said Edith, pleadingly.

"Tell who, marm--which of 'em?"

"The one you spoke of last."

"Oh! the fierce-lookin' one. Yes'm, I don't mind tellin' him. But I
guess he won't care. I don't believe he'd go to the weddin' if he was
asked."

"You will tell him, at least?--you will not forget it?" said Edith,
anxiously.

"Oh, no fear; I'll tell him if he does blow me up. 'Tany rate, I guess
weddin's is the last thing he'll think about, 'cause the boss is boun'
to string him up like a dried mackerel soon as ever he comes back."

A convulsive shudder was Edith's only answer.

"Wall, now, marm, I wouldn't take on so if I was you," said Joe,
gazing sympathetically toward Edith. "Arter all, I shouldn't wonder if
things should turn out all right in the end. P'raps you've hearn tell
o' people entertainin' angels in disguise?"

Edith lifted her head, and looked at him with so much surprise, that
Joe laughed and said:

"Keep up heart--there's nothing like it. I shouldn't be s'prised if me
and Glory Ann danced at your weddin' yet. There's never no use in
frettin'. Hope on, hope ever!"

"Who _are_ you?" asked Edith, with an undefined feeling that she had
heard the voice before.

"Lor'! I'm only Joe Smith, from Bungtown. Old Jake Smith's my
governor, an' me an' Glory Ann Lazybones is goin' to hitch teams one
of these times, when they make a lord or somethin' of me--that's all.
'Taint wuth makin' a book of."

"I think you resemble some one I've seen before," said Edith, with a
puzzled look; "but whom, I cannot tell. Well, you may leave me now; I
wish to be alone. You will not forget to deliver my message?"

"All right, marm; Joe Smith's got a stunnin' memory. Good morning. I
s'pect that blessed old angel down in the kitchen 'll give me fits for
stayin' here so long. Don't forget to keep up your spirits. I don't
believe we'll have a weddin' or a hangin' so soon as the boss thinks."

With this sage concluding remark, worthy Joe shuffled out of the room,
leaving Edith to ruminate on the probable meaning of his words.




CHAPTER XVIII.

PLOTTING.

    "Nightly tears have dimmed the lustre
      Of thy sweet eyes, once so bright;
    And as when dark willows cluster,
      Weeping o'er marble rocks,
    O'er thy forehead white,
      Droop thy waving locks--
    Yet thou art beautiful, poor girl,
      As angels in distress--
    Yea, comforting thy soul, dear girl,
      With thy loveliness."--TUPPER.

The day's toil was over. Nan Crow, after screeching, and grumbling,
and scolding to her heart's content, had thrown her apron over her
head, and fallen asleep in her easy-chair in the long kitchen. The men
were loitering idly about--some lying on the cool grass, where the
shadows fell long and dark, rejoicing in the cool evening breeze after
the scorching heat of the day; some sat at the table playing cards,
swearing and vociferating at an appalling rate; others lounged in
groups round the room, with bottles and glasses before them, relating
their several adventures for the general benefit of all.

Mr. Joe Smith, who found his duties of maid-of-all-work rather
fatiguing, would gladly have left the revelers to themselves; but
they, having no one to wait on them, were determined he should not
escape so easily.

Unceasing calls for _Mrs._ Smith, as they named him, resounded
continually from one end of the room to the other, until, at last, in
a fit of desperation, he told them to go to grass and wait on
themselves. A shout of laughter, and a unanimous cry of "Come back!
come back!" reached him; but unheeding their shouts, Joe resolutely
made his escape, and set off for a ramble by himself.

Sitting on the trunk of a fallen tree, Joe leaned his head on his
hand, and fell into a fit of profound musing. For upwards of an hour
he remained thus, with brows knit, eyes fixed on the ground, and lips
compressed like one in deep meditation. Suddenly, a new light seemed
to dawn on him, and he sprang to his feet with the triumphant
exclamation:

"I have it!"

"Have what?" said a merry voice beside him, and, turning abruptly
round, worthy Joe beheld our little friend Elva.

"Wall, now, I don't know as it's any business o' yourn," said Joe,
surveying Elva coolly from head to foot.

"You're mighty polite," said Elva.

"Wall, ya-as, _rayther_; Glory Ann allers said so," said Joe,
modestly.

"Who's Glory Ann?"

"A young lady up to hum; I'm goin' to be married to her some day."

"Nice girl, I expect?"

"Nice! That word doesn't begin to tell about Glory Ann Lazybones. I
tell you she's a reg'lar _screamer_, and no mistake."

"Shouldn't wonder!" said Elva. "Is she as good-looking as I am?"

"Wall, now, I don't know. Some folks might say you was better lookin';
but _I_ don't. You ain't so showy, you know. Glory Ann's got nice red
hair; and red-haired girls is allers smart and spunky."

"They are, eh? Now, if I'd known that before, I'd have dyed, and not
gone whimpering through the world, afraid to call my soul my own.
Perhaps it's not too late yet, eh? What do you think?"

"Oh, you don't need it. You've got impidence enough. _You'll do._"

"Well, really, that's cool. What's your name?"

"What's _yours_?"

"Elvena Snowe--not so pretty as Glory Ann Lazybones, is it?"

"Not quite; hers is a Scripter name, you know. Yours is pooty, though,
and sounds sort o' cool this hot weather."

"Now, what's yours."

"Wall, it might be Beelzebub, or Nebuchadnezzar, or any other Bible
name; but 'taint. I reckon I won't tell you; I'd rather not have it
made public."

"Why?"

"Oh, well, Joe Smith ain't a common name, so I guess I'll keep it a
secret. 'Sides, there's no tellin' but you may fall in love with me;
and I'm anxious to avoid sich a _c'lamity_."

"You're a case! Aren't you the boy De Lisle hired yesterday?"

"Wall, I mought be, and ag'in I moughtn't. Seems to me you're very
inquisitive," said Joe, suspiciously.

"And it seems to _me_ you're very cautious. What do you take me for?"
said Elva, indignantly.

"Why, you might be a good many things--you might be Cornwallis or
Washington in disguise, or you might be a spy from the enemy. There's
never no tellin'."

"You're too smart to live long, Joe, dear. How do you suppose a
little thing like me could be anybody but herself?"

"It does seem odd," said Joe, scratching his head, as if to extract
some reason by the roots; "but then, you know, it's better to be sure
than sorry. I like to be on my guard, so's I won't leave Glory Ann a
widder."

"I honor you for your prudence, my son. And now, Joe, when I assure
you I'm no desperate character--neither Cornwallis nor Washington in
petticoats--maybe you'll answer me a few questions?"

"Yaas'm, if they're no ways improper for me to listen to."

"You sweet innocent! do you think I'd ask such a saintly cherub as
_you_ anything improper? First, then, there's a young lady confined a
prisoner in that old house over there."

"Wall, now, I raally couldn't say." And Joe, looked innocently
unconscious as he issued this little work of fiction.

"Oh, get out, and don't tell fibs!" exclaimed Elva, indignantly.
"There's three other prisoners there, too, isn't there?"

"There _might_ be; I don't like to say for sartin, for fear o' tellin'
a lie," replied Joe, shutting one eye, and fixing the other
reflectively on a grasshopper at his feet. "I'll ask when I go back,
and send you a letter to let you know."

"You abominable wretch! I know very well they're there," said Elva,
losing all patience.

"Well, and if you know very well, where the mischief's the use o'
askin' me a string of impudent questions, and callin' me names?"
exclaimed Joe, indignantly.

Elva couldn't resist laughing at Joe's look of offended dignity.

"Yes, you may _larf_," said Joe, with a look of intense disgust. "I
s'pose it's all very funny comin' and callin' a fellar names. It shows
all the brought'n up you had!" And Joe gave the innocent grasshopper
at his feet a vicious kick.

"There, now, Joe, don't get mad, like a good boy," said Elva, patting
him soothingly on the back, "listen to me: I'm Miss Percival's friend
and wish to see her."

"Well, go and see her then," said Joe sulkily, "I aint hinderin' you."

"But I can't," said Elva, "unless you help me."

"Me!" said Joe, opening wide his eyes, "how?"

"Why, you must find the key of the side door, and let me in that way.
I don't want anybody to see me. Now, do, like a dear, good boy."

"You be grannied!" exclaimed Mr. Smith losing all patience, "can't you
tell a fellar who you want to see, and not be goin' on with your story
hind-end foremost."

"Why, I thought you knew," said Elva. "I mean the prisoner, Miss
Percival."

"Oh! that's her name, is it? How was I to know, when nobody never told
me? So you want to see her, do you?"

"Yes, yes, yes! Do let me in, will you?"

"Why don't you go and ask some of the others?"

"Oh! they won't let me, they're hateful, but _you're_ not. Ah, Joe,
won't you?" And Elva looked pleadingly up in his face.

"Wall, now marm," said Joe, laying one finger reflectively on his
nose. "I'd like to oblige you if 'twas any ways possible, but if I'm
found out, the boss wouldn't make no bones o' stringing me up like a
red herrin', and I tell you what, I hain't no ambition to be elevated
in the world after that fashion."

"He won't find you out, how can he?" exclaimed Elva, impetuously; "he
is away, the men are all lounging and drinking in the other wing of
the building, old Nan Crow is asleep, and there is no one plotting
mischief or making love but you and me. There! you needn't look so
surprised. I know more about that old house and its inmates than you
think. So now, Joe, you dear, good-natured looking old soul, let me in
to see Miss Percival, and I'll dance at your wedding."

This last entreaty had a due effect upon Joe, who indulged in sundry
low chuckles at the idea. Recovering his composure at last, he seated
himself deliberately on the log, and crossing one leg over the other,
and fixing his eyes solemnly upon his cowhide boots, fell into a
profound fit of musing. Elva stood watching him, swinging her light
straw hat by the strings, and tapping her little foot impatiently up
and down.

"Well, now, Joe, I hope you'll soon honor me with an answer," she
said, at last, quite out of patience. "I declare I never saw such a
stick of a fellow as you are, a body can hardly get a word out of
you."

"Eh?" said Joe, looking up, "were you speakin' to me, Miss Elva?"

"Was I speaking to you, Miss Elva?" repeated that young lady,
mimicking his tone. "Yes, I was speaking to you, Miss Elva. Did you
ever hear it was impolite not to answer a lady when she speaks to
you?"

"Wall, if I don't talk much, I keeps up a mighty big thinking," said
Joe, "and as to answerin' ladies, why, as I never met one yet, I
couldn't hev' bin very imperlite to 'em."

"Why, you horrid, impudent fellow, what do you call _me_ but a lady?

"Oh! my eyes!" ejaculated Joe, with a look of infinite contempt.
"_You_ a lady. You hain't no more the look of one than I hev. _Lady_,
indeed! You git out!"

"Well, we won't argue the question now," said Elva. "Perhaps we've
hardly time at present to do the subject justice. And now, once for
all, will you grant my request?"

"Why, I don't mind if I do, seein' it's _you_," replied Joe; "but
first I'll go and see Miss Percival, and tell her you want to see her.
By the time I git back it'll be dark, and you can git in without bein'
seen, and everything will go off smoothly."

"That's a good boy!" said Elva approvingly. "Maybe I won't write to
Glory Ann one of these days, and tell her what a nice fellow she's
going to get. Hurry up now, and I'll wait here till you come back."

So saying, Elva seated herself on the fallen tree, and watched honest
Joe, as he shuffled slowly out of sight, and disappeared among the
trees.

An hour passed, and Joe had not make his appearance. A deep gloom was
settling around, the dark pines swayed solemnly to and fro in the
night breeze. There was no light save that of the radiant stars; no
sound save that of the wind and the cry of the katy-did. The silence
was almost painful, as Elva sat wild with impatience. At length, as
she was about to despair of his coming at all, a familiar voice at her
ear startled her with the expressive phrase:

"Here we is!"

"Oh! Joe, is it you? I thought you would never come. Well, can I see
her?" she exclaimed, breathlessly.

"Yes'm? I've 'ranged everything beautifully. I'll go back to the
house, and you steal round to the side-door you was speaking of, and
I'll let you in. That's the way!"

And each took a different path, both leading to the old house.

The side-door spoken of had long been unused, and was almost hidden by
vines and shrubs. Forcing her way through these, Elva waited until she
heard the key turn in the rusty lock. Pushing open the door, she
entered a long, dark hall, where she beheld Joe standing, lamp in
hand.

"Here take this," said Joe, handing her the light. "I s'pose you know
the way up to the room better'n I can show you. I'll be about here and
wait, and let you out."

"You're a darling!" exclaimed Elva, as she almost flew up a long,
winding staircase. "How I wish I was Glory Ann Lazybones to get such a
prize as you." And with a merry laugh, she vanished amid the gloom,
while Joe gazed after her with a look of decided admiration.

Reaching the well-known chamber of the prisoner, she tapped at the
door. A low voice bade her enter, and withdrawing the bolts, she
passed into the room.

Edith sat by the table, her head leaning on her hand, her bright
golden hair falling like a veil over her pale, sweet face. She looked
up as Elva entered, and approached with extended hands.

Elva was shocked beyond measure by the change those few days had made.
The face of Edith, always fair, seemed now perfectly transparent, the
deep-blue eyes had grown dim and heavy with constant weeping. A long
illness could hardly have changed her more than those miserable days
and sleepless nights, albeit she was not used to "tears by night
instead of slumber."

"My dear Elva, how glad I am to see you again!" said Edith, pressing
the young girl's hands in her own.

"The pleasure is mutual, my dear Miss Percival. But how pale and thin
you are looking! Have you been sick?"

"No, not exactly sick; but I have been sick in body and mind. Oh,
Elva! how could I be otherwise in this dreadful place?"

"Very true!" said Elva, sadly, "and your friends, are they still here,
or has De Lisle--"

"No, no!" interrupted Edith, hurriedly, "not yet! But when he
returns--. Oh, Elva, Elva! pray Heaven I may die before that dreadful
time."

"Not so, Miss Percival. You shall live and be happy in spite of all
the De Lisles that ever cheated the hangman!" exclaimed Elva. "We'll
see if woman's wit is not more than a match for man's cunning. De
Lisle will not return, father says, until the day after to-morrow; and
when he does come back and find his bird has flown away from her cage
during his absence, won't there be a scene? Whew! it will be as good
as a play to see him!" And Elva clapped her hands in delight.

"Elva! what do you mean? I do not understand," said Edith, looking
bewildered.

"Why, you shall make your escape to-morrow night--that's the talk!
When everybody is sleeping, I'll come here, fasten a rope-ladder to
your window--climb up--iron grating's old--easily taken off--you'll
get down--make a moonlight flitting--and before morning dawns, you'll
be over the hills and far away!"

Edith caught her breath at the vision thus conjured up. But a moment's
reflection banished the bright hopes Elva's words had recalled to her
heart.

"My cousin, my brother, and--their friend, how can I go and leave them
here in the power of De Lisle? Oh, Elva! I cannot go!"

"Bother!" exclaimed Elva, impatiently. "What good can your staying
here do them? Will it help them any you marrying De Lisle, as you will
most assuredly have to do, if you wait until he comes back. If they
really care for you, will it not render them far more miserable than
anything they may have themselves to suffer? Whereas, if you escape,
you may yet rescue them; or, if you cannot, you can at least let the
world know what a villain he is, and have the comfort of letting the
world see him dance on nothing. Stay here, indeed! Nonsense, Miss
Percival! I beg your pardon for saying so, but the idea is perfectly
absurd."

Edith's feelings always caught its tone and impetus from whoever
chanced to be with her. Now some of the daring spirit that glowed on
the cheeks and flashed in the eyes of Elva animated her own heart, as
she raised her head and said firmly:

"Be it so, then, kindest, best of friends. I shall make the attempt;
if I succeed, I shall at least be spared the wretched doom of becoming
the wife of one I detest; if I fail, my fate can be no worse than it
is now."

"Fail!" echoed Elva, cheerily. "In _my_ vocabulary, there is no such
word as fail. No, you will live and laugh at De Lisle yet."

"That's the chat!" exclaimed a voice that made them both start; and
turning round in alarm, they beheld the shock head of Master Joe
protruded through the half-open door.




CHAPTER XIX.

THE ESCAPE.

    "The lovely stranger stands confessed
    A maid in all her charms."--GOLDSMITH.

"_That's_ the chat!" again repeated the worthy youth, as, seeing he
was discovered, he walked in and coolly took a seat.

"Oh, Joe! my _dear_ Joe! you will not betray us?" exclaimed Elva,
while Edith sat in silent dismay.

"Don't know 'bout that;" replied Joe. "'Tain't fair to be cheatin' the
boss in this fashion. La! how nicely I caught you that time!" and
evidently highly delighted at the recollection, he leaned back and
laughed until the tears stood in his eyes.

"Oh, Joe! you won't tell, will you?" pleaded Elva. "How would you like
now if Glory Ann was a prisoner and wanted to escape, somebody
hindered her? Just think what a heartrending case that would be, and
let off."

"Wall, now, I don't know's I'd care. I's gettin' sorter tired of Glory
Ann!" said Joe, coolly.

"Unfaithful youth!" exclaimed Elva, in a voice of horror. "Poor,
deserted Glory Ann. But since that fails to move you, Miss Percival's
father is very rich, and if you help her to escape, your fortune is
made."

"Go to grass!" indignantly exclaimed Mr. Smith. "What d'ye s'pose I
care 'bout his money? No'm; if you hain't somethin' better to propose
than that, I'll blab!"

"What _can_ I offer?" said poor Elva in despair. "Just mention
something yourself Joe, and if it's in my power you shall have it."

"There's _one_ thing," said Joe, meditatively. "Name it!--name it!"
exclaimed Elva, impatiently.

"It's very easy, too, though I never thought of it afore," went on
Joe, in the same slow, thoughtful tone.

"Name it!--_name it!_" exclaimed the impatient Elva.

"Yes. I don't care 'bout Glory Ann, there's no mistake in _that_. Red
hair's common, and I guess I'll take to some other color," continued
Joe, seriously, without lifting his eyes off the floor.

"Oh, you wretch! You provoking creature! You stupid old thing you!
_Will_ you tell me what it is!" and Elva, losing all patience, shook
him so soundly, that poor Joe looked up quite astonished.

"Hey? What's the matter? Oh, you want to know what it is, do you?
Wall, ye see, I've got kinder tired o' Glory Ann, as I sed, and I'd
like a change; so I'll help the young lady to run off, if--"

Joe paused and looked doubtfully at Elva.

"Well: if what?" reiterated that young lady.

"If you'll marry me!" exclaimed Joe, like a man of honor, coming to
the point at once.

"Done!" exclaimed Elva; "there's my hand on it. Who'll say, after
this, I haven't had a proposal?"

And Elva cast a glance toward Edith that, in spite of herself, brought
a smile to the face of the latter.

"You're a trump!" exultingly exclaimed Joe, "a regular stunner! I tell
you what, I'll set free them three coves down in the lower regions if
you like. I will, by gracious!"

With an exclamation of joy, Edith and Elva both sprang forward and
caught each a hand of Joe, who looked a little surprised, not to say
alarmed, at this sudden attack.

"Joe dear, you're a darling!" exclaimed Elva, "I'll marry you a dozen
times over if you like!"

"All right!" said Joe; "and now that the courtin' part o' the business
is over, s'pose we change the subject. Let's see: to-morrow night,
'bout twelve be ready, and if we don't fix 'em, it'll be a caution!"

And Joe arose to leave.

"But, Joe, won't you tell us what you intend to do?" said Elva; "just
consider I'm your better half now, and have a right to know."

"Don't trouble yourself, marm. I'll tell you afterwards," replied Joe;
"and now I shouldn't be s'prised if 'twas time for you to go.
To-morrer night, 'bout this time, come round to the side-door, and
I'll let you in, so's to be ready to start with us."

Elva laughed, and with a cheerful good-night turned to follow him,
leaving Edith with a more hopeful look on her face than she had worn
for many a day.

The following day, Joe did not appear until nearly noon, when he
informed Edith that he had told her friends of their plan, and that
they were "tickled to death 'bout it." To all her anxious inquiries as
to what that plan was, he only replied by telling her to "hold on and
she'd see arter a spell."

With the approach of night came Elva, who was silently admitted by Joe
through the side-door, and conducted to Edith's apartment. There that
worthy youth left them, after many charges not to be asleep when he
called for them, by-and-by.

Elva knew that three men remained each night in the corridor before
the cells of the prisoners, and how he was to conduct them past these
was a mystery she could not solve. Joe, however, turned a deaf ear to
all her questions, and repeating his command to be ready at the
appointed hour, left them to themselves.

Passing through the many halls and passages, and staircases, Joe at
length reached the opposite end of the house, and entered a spacious
sitting-room, where nearly a dozen men were seated round a long table
in the middle of the floor, singing, shouting, telling stories and
vociferating in the most approved fashion. At the head of the table
sat Paul Snowe, the father of Elva, in blissful ignorance of the plot
his audacious little daughter was weaving to free his prisoners.

"Hi, there! Mrs. Smith! Where the deuce have you been all evening?"
called a flashy looking individual, known as Dandy Dan; "I believe, in
my soul, the tow-headed scoundrel is forever making love to Lady
Beauty above stairs."

"Come here, Mrs. Smith, my dear," said another, "the jug's empty, and
Nan Crow's asleep. Be off to the kitchen and fill it, and here's your
good health, ma'am."

With a smothered growl, which elicited a shout of laughter, Joe took
the huge earthen jar which stood in the centre of the table, and set
off on the errand. Filling it from a large cask which stood in the
kitchen, he drew a bottle from his pocket containing a colorless
liquid, and emptied its contents into the Jamaica rum. A smile of
triumph flitted over his face, which was, however, changed to one of
sulky stupidity, as he again stood before the revellers, panting under
his load.

"Good boy, Joe!" said Dandy Dan, helping him to lift the jar on the
table; "has your mother any more like you."

"Yes, thar's lots of 'em to hum, but none so smart as me," said Joe,
in a tone of artless simplicity.

"You're a genius, Joe. Pity they didn't make a lawyer of you!"

"No, sir, none o' our family ever fell so low as that yet," said Joe,
in a tone of offended pride; "mother was to law once and I never wants
to know no more 'bout it."

"And what sent the old lady to law?" inquired Paul Snowe.

"Wall, 'twas 'bout our cow. Our cow and mother and two _other_ cows
was out, and she kicked the minister."

"Who did? Your mother?"

"No, the cow. He was goin' 'long, and she took to jawin' him 'bout
somethin' she didn't like in his sermon."

"The cow did?"

"No, mother. So he comes over to 'xplain and he leaned agin her and
taks to smooth in' down her back."

"Smoothing your mother's back?"

"No, the cow's. But she wasn't goin' to take none o' his blarney, so
she jist turned up her nose and told him to go to pot."

"The cow told him so?"

"No, mother! But he took to arguin' so at last forgetting he wasn't in
the pulpit, he brought his fist down with an almighty thump on her
back."

"On your mother's back."

"No, darn ye, on the cow's! So havin' a spirit of her own that
wouldn't put up with sich insults, she lifts up her hind leg and gave
him a kick."

"Your mother did?"

"No, blame you, the cow! By gracious I won't stand to hear the old
woman insulted this way!" exclaimed Joe, indignantly.

A roar of laughter followed, during which Joe stood looking savagely
from one to the other, and at last turned away in evident disgust.

"I say, Joe! don't leave us, man!" called Paul Snowe; "tell us what
happened to your mother and the _other_ cow?"

"Find out!" said Joe, shortly. "What's the use o' tellin' a story when
you're too stupid to understand it? I wouldn't tell you another word
if you was to bust!" And with this spirited announcement, the young
gentleman gave his pantaloons an indignant hitch, and repaired to the
kitchen.

Another hour passed, and the uproar grew "fast and furious." Joe
listened with a smile and a muttered "it will soon be over," and
patiently "bided his time."

Gradually, the noise died away. Now and then a heavy sound would be
heard, as one of the drunken revellers fell prostrate on the floor,
and a long-drawn snore betrayed his profoundly drunken sleep. Joe went
in softly. Lying under the table, and in various directions through
the room, were De Lisle's gallant band. Paul Snowe lay back in his
seat, his head down on his breast, sleeping as profoundly as the rest.

Joe seized the jar, considerably lighter now, and repaired with it in
the direction were the prisoners were confined. Leaning against the
walls, half asleep, were the remaining three who had been left to
guard them.

"Who comes?" cried one of the sentinels, opening his sleepy eyes.

"Only me, Ben--Joe Smith. The other chaps drunk theirselves asleep,
and I brought the jar here, thinking you might like the rest."

"Thanky, Joe; may you never die till your time comes," said the man,
as he, together with his companions, gathered around the jug.

"Don't see any reason why them coves upstairs should have all the fun
to themselves," said the other, taking a long draught.

"That was my notion exactly," said Joe.

"Prime that!" said the third, smacking his lips. "Joe, you deserve to
be made an archbishop of."

Joe took the compliment with all humility, and looked with delight at
their eagerness to empty the jug. Very soon its effects became
apparent, for the three worthy sentinels lay stretched at full length,
as sound asleep as their companions upstairs.

Joe arose softly, and taking the keys from the belt of one, then
opened the nearest door, and Fred Stanley stepped forth. He then
noiselessly opened the other two, and Nugent Percival and Gus made
their appearance.

Joe made a motion for them to be silent, and lifting the lamp,
beckoned them to follow. With noiseless step they obeyed, and in a
few minutes, they stood in the cool night air, free once more.

"Wait here a minute," said Joe, when they arrived before the useful
little side-door, as he opened it and disappeared.

"That small youth is worth his weight in diamonds," remarked Gus, as
Joe disappeared.

"He reminds me strangely of some one I've seen before," said Percival;
"but whom I cannot recollect."

"Just fancy De Lisle's disappointment when he comes back, losing his
prisoners and his bride! Eh, Stanley?" said Gus.

"What?" said Fred, rousing with a start from a dream of Edith.

"Ah! I fancy I know where your thoughts were that time," said Gus,
while Percival smiled slightly, but said nothing.

"Here we are," said Joe, re-appearing, followed by Edith, wrapped in a
large cloak, and leaning on the arm of Elva.

There was but little time for congratulations. As the whole party
passed through the gate, Joe gave Elva a nudge in the ribs, saying, in
a _very_ audible whisper:

"S'posin' you and me goes and gets spliced right off! Where's the use
losin' time?"

"Thank you; I guess I won't mind it just now!" said Elva, laughing and
blushing, as she caught the dark eye of young Percival fixed upon her
with a look of decided amusement.

"We part here, then," said Joe, extending his hand. "Good-bye, Elva.
Have you no message to send to Glory Ann?"

To the surprise of all, he had suddenly lost his peculiar nasal
twang. Fred, who had been watching him earnestly, came forward, and
laying his hand on Joe's shoulder, said:

"Further disguise is unnecessary. _I know you!_"

Joe laughed, and colored slightly, as he lifted his cap and removed
his wig, and in spite of the dye on his face, they beheld and
recognized the merry face and black eyes of _Nell Percival_!





CHAPTER XX.

THE JOURNEY HOME.

    "Oh, she is a shrewd one!--as keen as a briar:
      Though her lips pout with love, it _can_ curl with disdain;
    And her eye, now so soft, can shoot quivering fire.
          Ah! she's a shrewd one!"--J. W. H.

"Nell! by all that's glorious!" exclaimed Gus.

"Is it possible!" ejaculated Edith, almost transfixed with amazement.

"I thought I had heard that voice before," said Nugent, scarcely less
astonished.

"Is she a girl or a boy?" said Elva, turning from one to the other,
completely bewildered.

"A girl, my dear, a girl!" said Nell, gayly; "and I hope you won't
forget you've promised to marry me. If you do, why then I'll call you
out, and we'll have pistols before coffee, as sure as shooting."

"But Glory Ann," said Elva.

"Ah, yes--poor thing! But we won't pursue the harrowing subject just
now, having no time to lose," said Nell. Then, lowering her voice, she
added, hurriedly: "Can you give me other garments. I don't wish--that
is--"

"Oh, to be sure!" interrupted Elva; "we will help ourselves to horses
from De Lisle's stables, and you can come home with me while the rest
wait in the forest. We won't be long."

A few minutes saw them on their way--Nell and Elva far ahead of the
rest.

"We had better wait for them here," said Percival, suddenly halting.

"Who would ever think Nell so clever!" said Gus, in a tone of delight.

"Seeing that cleverness does not generally run in our family," said
Nugent, laughing.

"'Pon my honor, I'd never imagine it. She visited me, daily, too, and
I gave her a decided blowing up once or twice," said Gus.

"She told me of that," said Edith, smiling, "and seemed quite
indignant about it."

"I say, Edith, who is that pretty little dear she has gone off with?"
inquired Percival.

"Why, it's Elvena Snowe, the daughter of one of De Lisle's men, for
whose unfailing kindness I shall ever be grateful," replied Edith.

"I hope we will not be kept here much longer," said Gus. "Had I not
better ride forward and meet them?"

"Meet _them_?--meet Nell, you mean," said Percival, laughing.

"Here they come," said Fred, whose quick ear had caught the sound of
horses' feet in the distance.

In a few moments more, the young girls rode up. Nell arrayed in a
neatly-fitting riding habit of Elva's--the bright face flushed a
little, now that the paint was off, as they could see even in the
moonlight.

"I have coaxed Elva to come back and bid you all good-bye," said Nell.
"Would you believe it?--she actually did not wish to come!"

"You would not have treated us that way, dear Elva!" said Edith,
kissing her fair brow. "How I wish you could come home with us
altogether!"

"Yes, do, Elva; we'll have such glorious times; you, and I, and--Glory
Ann!" coaxed Nell.

"I cannot," said Elva, almost sadly; "but I hope to see you all once
more. You had better hasten now--delay is dangerous."

The adieux were hastily spoken. Waving her hand in a last farewell,
Elva turned and rode off down the forest path.

There was silence for a while, during which the party gained the high
road--Nell in advance, between Gus and her brother, and Fred and Edith
following rapidly.

"And now, Nell, tell us about this strange affair of your masquerade,"
said Gus, at length.

"Well, it's nothing to make a fuss about," said Nell. "I suppose I
needn't tell you that when you went off that day, you didn't come back
as we expected. Papa was away, and mamma was making a great time about
it. I tried to cheer her up, but 'twas all of no use; she insisted the
whole four of you were comfortably located in Abraham's bosom."

"'Pon my honor, we came pretty near it," said Gus.

"Well, the day passed, and none of you came. Mamma was in a dreadful
way, to be sure, and some of her friends came to visit and console
her. I knew she wouldn't want me, with so many to look after her, so
I asked and obtained leave of absence for a week or two, and as I was
always fond of adventure, I determined, like a second Don Quixote, to
go off in search of you."

"Bravo! Nell," exclaimed Percival.

"I knew how to find the old house, and felt pretty sure Edith was
there, at least, though I confess I had my doubts whether you three
had not been sent to 'kingdom come.' I determined to disguise myself;
and, having colored my face, and procured that horrid tow wig, I
dressed myself in a suit of clothes procured for the occasion. Before
venturing into the power of De Lisle, I determined to see if any one
would recognize me, and I actually chatted for an hour with mamma,
about the farm "to hum," and "Glory Ann Lazybones," without being
recognized. So, of course, I knew my disguise was perfect; and I came,
saw, conquered. That's all!"

"My Jove! Nell," cried Gus, delightedly, "you're a--"

"What?" said Nell.

"A regular stunner!" was the reply.

"Well, I consider that anything but a compliment," said Nell; "and
rest assured, Master Gus, I should never have taken the trouble of
going there to save you--but as it was just the same to take you along
with the rest, I thought I might as well do it. Being wonderfully
amiable, I'm always willing to oblige people when it's no trouble to
myself!"

Conversing gayly thus, they rode along until the red hue of coming
morn appeared in the east.

"Fred and Edith seem to have quite a nice time of it behind there,"
said Nell, looking back; "I expect they're saying a lot of pretty
things to one another."

"Suppose we follow their example," said Gus.

"Perhaps I am _de trop_," observed Percival, smiling.

"Here they come!" said Nell; "wonder if they overheard us."

At this moment Fred and Edith rode rapidly up. The keen dark eyes of
Nell saw in a moment that her sister had been weeping, and that Fred
looked unusually flushed and agitated.

Lifting his hat to Nell, he said, briefly.

"We part here, I believe. Allow me to bid you farewell."

"What! going to leave us?" exclaimed Gus and Percival--while Nell,
completely astonished, silently retained his hand, and Edith bent her
head still lower to hide her falling tears.

"Yes, I must be at N----, to-morrow," answered Fred.

"But I thought you were coming home with us," said Percival.

"I regret I cannot do so. My presence here is no longer required, and
business obliges me to go to N----. Good-bye, Miss Ellen," he added,
with a smile, "give my best wishes to Glory Ann. Farewell Percival.
Gus, when shall I expect to see you?"

"Let's see, a week at the furthest," replied Gus.

"Very well! Until then, _au revoir_! Adieu, Miss Percival."

Her lips moved, but her reply was not audible, as she took in hers the
hand extended. The next moment he was galloping rapidly off in the
opposite direction.

"Now, that's what I call real mean of him," said Nell, pouting, "to go
off and leave us that way. I don't care if he was twice as handsome as
he is, I wouldn't have anything to do with such a fiery-headed fellow
for any possible inducement."

"Very glad to hear it, my dear," said Gus.

"Well, then, you needn't be, my dear! For indeed, I'd no more have
_you_ than him."

"Oh, come now, Nell, you don't mean it!"

"Oh, come now, Gus, I _do_ mean it! And I'd thank you not to be so
confident that I'm dying about you, for the future. If I choose to
amuse myself flirting with you, for want of anyone else, you're not to
imagine I care one pin for you, I'd have you know."

"My dear Nell, if I thought you were serious, I'd take up the first
broken ramrod I could find, and blow my brains out."

"My dear Gus, you can do as you please; only as you happen,
unfortunately, to have no brains, I don't see how you're going to blow
them out. Seems to me, if I were you, I'd try to blow a few _in_,
instead of blowing them out."

"Nell, be serious."

"Gus, I am serious, _awfully_ serious, as you'll find out to your
cost."

"I know you just do this to torment me, you little vixen. But do try
and be good-natured for once, Nell, you know I must leave you in a day
or two, 'and be off to the wars again.'"

"Dear knows, I'll be glad to be rid of you," said Nell, in all
sincerity.

Gus looked hurt, so much so, that Nell looked up, and exclaimed:

"There! gracious me! you needn't look so sulky about it. Of course,
I'll be glad when you go off, for all my other friends of the
masculine persuasion were afraid to pay me the slightest attention,
lest they should be wasting their 'sweetness on the desert air,' that
is to say, on somebody else's property. And I'll tell you what you'll
do, Gus," she added, as though struck by a sudden thought, "go off and
try if you can't captivate Elva Snowe. She's a nice little thing, and
_almost_ as pretty as I."

"I'd rather have you, Nell."

"Oh! I dare say; but you see you can't have me, Gus. It is not
everybody in this vale of tears can get such a prize as I am (not to
be egotistical). Well, dear me! (to change the subject) won't this be
an adventure to talk of. Why, I don't believe one of your wonderful
Lady Aramintas in the romances could have done it better."

"Nor half so well, my dear."

"I always had an immense respect for Joan of Arc," went on Nell, "but
I'll begin to admire myself after I perform two or three more
wonderful deeds of arms. How hot it is! Poor Edith droops like a
flower wilted in the sun."

"I hope you're not going to take to poetry, Nell; if you do--"

"Don't be alarmed, Gus; I have too much respect for the feelings of my
family to be guilty of such a thing; but poor Edith does look
dreadfully used up."

"There is an inn not far from here," observed Gus. "I think we can
procure a carriage of some description there, that will convey you and
Edith home. You must be tired too, Nell."

"Oh! not a bit. I'm never tired, but we must try to get one for Edith.
Wait, I'll tell her."

Nell drew up, and waited until the others had reached her, then in a
few words she communicated her wishes to her brother.

"Yes, that will be best," said Percival; "Edith does look worn out.
How far is the inn from here, Gus?"

"Not more than a mile," replied Gus, "we will soon reach it."

A few minutes brought them to it, and after waiting for breakfast,
they resumed their journey, Edith and Nell comfortably seated in a
light wagon, with Gus driving, while Nugent galloped on to announce
the news at home.

There was a joyful meeting at Percival Hall that night. Nell was
decidedly the _lion_ of the evening, and bore her honors with edifying
indifference. Major Percival, who had only returned a few hours
before, was in raptures, and declared she was "every inch a Percival."
Mrs. Percival gazed upon her with moistened eyes as she thought of the
narrow escape of her children, and the numerous friends of the family
were extravagant in their eulogisms of her conduct.

Edith lay on the sofa, utterly prostrated in body and mind, too
wearied for the exertion of speaking and with her eyes shut, she
listened, while her thoughts were far away. There was one wanting to
make that family-circle complete--one whose name all avoided
mentioning.

A few days restored Edith to her wonted health, again a soft bloom
began to mantle her pale cheek, and her blue eyes grew bright and
radiant once more. A happy circle gathered in the parlor of Percival
Hall each evening--the past making it seem more happy by contrast.

But leaving the inmates of Percival Hall, we must follow the changing
fortunes of Fred Stanley.




CHAPTER XXI.

THE HERMIT'S PREDICTION.

    "My heart is with my native land
      My song is for her glory;
    Her warriors' wreath is in my hand;
      My lips breathe out her story.
    Her lofty hills and valleys green
      Are smiling bright before me,
    And like a rainbow-sign is seen
      Her proud flag waving o'er me."

The little village of Grassfield was in an unusual state of
excitement. Groups of old men, boys, and women were scattered in every
direction, talking over, with exultation, the latest news from the
"seat of war." A splendid victory had been gained by the American
troops, the news of which had just reached Grassfield; and now the
matter was being talked over, in all its bearings, by the delighted
villagers.

In the bar-room of the "Bottle and Bowl," the one solitary inn which
the village contained, was assembled the collective wisdom of
Grassfield. The hostess, a pretty little black-eyed woman, bustled in
and out, attending to her guests, occasionally stopping to glance in
the cradle where a tiny item of humanity lay, with wide open eyes,
making desperate exertions to swallow its own tiny fists.

The unusual sound of a horse galloping rapidly along the street,
caused the whole assembly to rush pell-mell to the door. The horseman
drew up, and consigning the animal to the hostler, passed through the
gaping crowd, and entered the bar-room.

Pretty Mistress Rosie, the hostess, who was busily washing glasses
behind the counter, no sooner beheld him, than, with an exclamation of
joy, she dropped her towel, and running forward, seized him by both
hands, exclaiming: "Why, Mr. Fred, how _do_ you do? I'm delighted to
see you! I am indeed! Where have you been this long time? Fighting
with the rest, I suppose! Well, well, who'd have thought it? Sit down,
sit down! Well, I declare, I _am_ glad. Did you see my Josh, lately?
No, I s'pose you didn't though, or he'd mentioned it. He's off,
fighting like the rest, he is indeed! I had a letter from him last
night; and he says he's quite well, and expects to be home soon. Well,
this _is_ a surprise! Dear me; how glad I am to see you. But sit down,
la me! sit down, Mr. Fred. I declare, I've kept you standing all this
time!"

And having by this time talked herself quite out of breath, the
bustling little woman danced out a chair, and flirting her apron over
it to blow off the dust, permitted Fred Stanley (for he it was) to sit
down.

"And how are all my friends, Mrs. Wilde," he said, with a smile; "for
yourself, I need not ask, for I see you are looking as blooming and
handsome as ever."

"Oh, to be sure," said the lively little woman, "what would hinder me?
All your friends are well, too, and Betsey Higgins is married to the
tailor--you remember her, don't you? the little milliner that used to
be in love with you. There, you needn't be laughing now; if you had
been in Betsey's place, I guess you wouldn't see anything in it to
laugh at. But, bless me! I forgot to show you the baby. He's named
after you, too; for everybody says he's your born image."

Fred laughed, as he glanced down at the little fat, red face, framed
in an enormous cap frill. Mrs. Wilde--evidently delighted at the
striking resemblance between the tall form, and dark, handsome face of
Fred, and the little blinking atom, his namesake--lifted up the baby
and deposited him, with a jerk, into the arms of Fred.

"There!" exclaimed Mrs. Wilde, folding her arms and nodding her head
in a very satisfied manner, "if he ain't your very picter. It takes
after you everyway, too, for it's the quietest, blessedest, young
one--"

Here a loud, shrill yell from the blessedest young one himself
interrupted its mamma's eulogium. Fred, who seemed rather afraid of it
than otherwise, glanced apprehendingly at Mrs. Rosie.

"Ah, you aggravatin' little monkey, you are," said that lady,
snatching it from Fred with one hand and giving it a shake, "stop that
yellin', or I'll give you such a spankin' as ye never had in all your
born days. There, lie in that, then, if you won't," she added,
dropping it into the cradle, and leaving it to its own reflections.

Baby, who seemed quite accustomed to this kind of treatment,
immediately stopped crying, and became so absorbed in contemplating
its own little fat fists as to forget all minor considerations.

"I suppose, Mr. Fred, you're going to stay all night?" inquired Mrs.
Wilde, resuming the washing of her tumblers.

"I rather think not," said Fred, doubtfully, "my horse is lame, so I
was forced to come here. If I find he is well enough to proceed, I
will go on."

"If not, you'll stay; so we needn't thank you for your company," broke
in the little hostess. "Hark! here's somebody else, as I live! I never
did know one to come unexpected, but another was sure to follow. Who's
this, I wonder?"

The wonder was speedily solved, for a young man with an exceedingly
soldier-like air walked the next instant into the bar-room.

"Ah, is it possible? Captain Rogers, my dear fellow," said Fred,
springing up, and extending his hand.

"Stanley! What, in the name of all that's wonderful, drove _you_
here?" exclaimed the new-comer in surprise.

"Where did you expect I would be?" said Fred, smiling at his look of
astonishment.

"With your regiment, to be sure! But hold on; I haven't seen my old
sweetheart Rosie, yet. Ah! Rosie, here you are, as pretty as ever, I
see. Why didn't you send me an invitation to the wedding? Well, never
mind, it's not too late to salute the bride yet!"

A sound box on the ear was his reward, while Mrs. Rosie's cheeks grew
most becomingly red.

"What's this?" said the young man, who bore the little woman's
indignation with most exemplary coolness, as his eye fell on the
cradle--"a baby! La! what a comical little concern! I say, Rosie, you
don't mean to say--"

But Rosie who wasn't going to put up with his impudence, administered
another box on the ear with no very gentle hand and seizing baby,
immediately decamped.

Captain Rogers looked after her and laughed.

"Did you know, Fred, Rosie and I kept up quite a spirited flirtation
winter before last. 'Pon my honor, I was quite spooney about her one
time, too, but Josh Wilde came along and cut me out."

"I never knew you when you weren't spooney about some one," said Fred.

"Oh! to be sure! there's nothing like it. Don't you know what the song
says:

    "I am in love with twenty;
      I could adore as many more;
    There's nothing like a plenty."

"You hardly find as much time to flirt now, as you used to, I fancy?"
said Fred.

"Why no, not quite; but when an opportunity presents itself, I always
improve it. By the way, Fred, they say old Percival has two or three
very pretty daughters. Pshaw man! never redden so; I intend to
cultivate the old gentleman the first chance I get, for the sake of
ma'amselle Estelle--Edith--what's her name?"

"You may spare youself the trouble, my very dear friend. She would not
notice you."

"Don't believe it," said Captain Rogers, glancing at the mirror.
"Never knew a female heart could resist me yet! But _nous verrons mon
ami_! When have you seen Ralph De Lisle?"

Fred started at the name.

"Why, what of him?" he demanded.

"Oh! nothing, only they say you've cut him out there. Serve him right,
too; he's an infernal villain!"

"Have you seen him lately?" said Fred, biting his lips to repress his
impatience.

"Saw him yesterday with young Bates, out on some expedition of
mischief. But Stanley, is it really true that you've won his lady-love
from him?"

"Captain Rogers, if you wish us to remain friends, you will say no
more on this subject," said Fred sternly.

"Whew!" with a prolonged whistle. "You're confoundedly touchy,
Stanley. Well, that's one proof you're guilty. And now, may I ask, if
I can do so without offending you, whither are you bound?"

"To N----, to join my regiment."

"That's lucky! Are you in much of a hurry."

"Why, no; not particularly."

"Then might I ask you to grant me a favor?"

"Certainly, my dear Rogers; anything in my power."

"Thank you, thank you!" interrupted Rogers, eagerly. "These dispatches
I have been ordered to convey to Colonel M----; but an affair of a
most pressing nature requires my presence in another direction. Now,
if you would deliver them, you would render me an inestimable
service."

"With all my heart, my good fellow. Stand and deliver."

"It's rather a dangerous business," said Rogers, drawing a
formidable-looking document from his breast-pocket. "You will have to
make your way through the forest to reach Colonel M----'s quarters;
and there are lurking parties of Indians and tories forever prowling
about--"

"Say no more about it," interrupted Fred. "I am too well accustomed to
danger to fear it; besides, who would shun danger in the service of
his country?"

"You will start to-night, I suppose?"

"Oh, certainly; there is no time to lose. Here comes our pretty
hostess, so not a word!"

"Well, Rosie, I'll take a drink and be off. What have you done with
that pocket edition of Josh Wilde?"

"None of your business, Will Rogers," replied Rosie, saucily. "Here,
take this, and be off; I can't be bothered with you."

Captain Rogers laughed, drained the glass she handed to him, chucked
her under the chin, shouted a careless good-by to Fred, sprang on his
horse, and amid many an admiring glance from the bright eyes of the
village damsels, rode off.

"I think I had better follow him," remarked Fred, turning carelessly
from the window.

"You'll wait for dinner, won't you?" said Rosie. "Come now, I'll take
no refusal. I have ever so many things to say to you. There, I knew
you would," she added, as Fred smiled. "Just walk into the parlor,
dinner 'll be ready in a minute."

So saying, she laughingly pushed Fred into the parlor, closing the
door behind her, and leaving him to amuse himself during her absence
as best he might.

Fred seated himself, and taking up a volume of Goldsmith's works was
soon absorbed in the pages of "She Stoops to Conquer," when the door
opened, and Mistress Rosie stood again before him.

"There's a gentleman out here inquiring for you, Mr. Fred," said the
little hostess.

"For me?" said Fred, in surprise. "Who can it be?"

"He looks like some of those old robbers in the pictures," said Mrs.
Wilde, "with a long cloak wrapped around him, and his hat pulled way
down over his eyes. Will I show him in?"

"I suppose so," said Fred, inwardly wondering who the mysterious
personage could be.

The door opened, and the figure of a man wrapped in a long, black
cloak, with his hat pulled far down over his eyes, stood before him.

"To whom am I indebted for the honor of this visit?" said Fred,
rising.

"To a friend, young man; one who is no stranger to you." And removing
his hat, Fred beheld the white locks of the Hermit of the Cliffs.

"A friend you have indeed proved to me, good father," said Fred,
frankly extending his hand. "Even now you were in my thoughts, though
I hardly expected the honor of this visit."

"You will ever find me near you when danger is at hand," said the
hermit.

"Danger?" said Fred. "And what danger threatens me now?"

"A soldier's life is always dangerous," replied the old man,
evasively; "especially with so many enemies as you have."

"Let it come, then," said Fred, carelessly. "I am too well accustomed
to danger to shrink from it now."

"Perhaps you think you carry a charmed life," said the hermit; "and
that because you have escaped the bullet of the executioner, and the
halter of De Lisle, you can rush into greater dangers, and come forth
scatheless. Young man, I say to thee, beware! Last night, when the
stars rode in solemn splendor through the heavens, I read thy fate.
All was dark and ominous. _The shadow of the scaffold fell redly
across thy path._ The steel of the assassin is sharpened for the
heart of one you love, and for the crime of another shall you die.
Again I say to thee, beware! Be warned in time, else you shall repent
it when too late!"

The deep, intense, passionate solemnity with which he spoke awed
involuntarily the fearless heart of Fred. A sensation of fear, not for
himself, but for one dearer than all the world beside, crept over him.

"Old man!" he exclaimed, seizing him by the wrist with a vice-like
grip, "who is this for whom the steel of the assassin is prepared?
Speak, and tell me, for I must know."

"That I saw not," replied the hermit, calmly. "Can the lips of man
reveal what the stars speak not? Guard against the danger which hangs
over yourself, and trust the rest to a higher power?"

"Psha! I might have known 'twas but silly raving," said Fred, shaking
off the superstitious feeling that had for a moment overcome him. "If
you have nothing more definite than this to warn me against, good
father, I fear your words have been in vain."

"And thou wilt not be warned?" said the old man, sadly. "It is only
when the danger is at hand you will believe me? Did I not warn you
before, and did not my words prove true? Hast thou forgotten thy
powerful enemy, De Lisle?"

"I am not likely to forget him; but I fear him not," said Fred,
scornfully.

"So thou didst say before," said the hermit, calmly; "and yet you fell
in his power, and would have died by his hand, but for the heroism of
a young girl. The same thing may happen again, when there will be no
one at hand to aid you."

"Forewarned is forearmed," said Fred. "Ralph De Lisle will find it not
so easy to get me once more within his clutches; and should we ever
meet in open warfare, then, good father, you will find it your duty to
bid _him_ beware instead of me!"

"Rash youth! thou canst not read the book of fate as I can," said the
hermit, sorrowfully. "Again I tell thee, danger is at hand--nay, hangs
over thy head, and over one for whom you would give your life. In the
hour of doom thou canst not say there was no one to warn thee of thy
danger."

The tone of profound melancholy in which the last words were uttered
touched Fred. Not that he believed what the old man said--his words he
considered the mere idle raving of a moonstruck idiot, who warned him
of danger after hearing of his narrow escapes, and knowing De Lisle
was still his enemy. But his evident affection for him and interest in
his fate reached his heart.

"Accept, at least, my thanks for the interest you manifest in me,"
said Fred; "although I may never make use of your warning, I feel
grateful to you for it. And now, let me ask you why should you care so
much for one who is a stranger to you, and whose father you have
spoken of in the most opprobrious terms?"

A moment after, he was sorry he had asked a question which seemed to
act like a galvanic shock on the hermit, whose head fell heavily on
his clasped hands, while his whole frame quivered with emotion.

"My dear sir," said Fred, starting up, "if I have said anything to
hurt your feelings, believe me it was quite unintentional, and I am
sincerely sorry for it."

"Say no more, say no more!" said the hermit, raising his head, and
startling the young man by the deadly paleness of his face, "I am
subject to these sudden shocks, and do not mind them. Some day,
perhaps, before I die, should you survive me, you will know who I am.
But until that time comes, let what you already know of me suffice.
You think me crazed--perhaps I am; but there is at least 'method in my
madness.' Believe me to be your friend--your _best_ friend on earth.
You say you are a stranger to me. Believe it not. Long before you saw
me, I knew you; and when you least fancied it, I have been watching
over you. I ask neither your love nor confidence in return. Should we
both live, the time will come when you will give both willingly. And
now, farewell! I have come to warn you, but you heeded not my words.
In the hour of your darkest trial, when your summer friends desert you
in the winter of affliction, I shall be near. When danger threatens,
look for me. Until then, farewell."

He wrapped his cloak around him, drew his hat down over his eyes,
bowed with dignity and was gone ere Fred could frame an answer.

"Strange being!" thought the young man, throwing himself into a seat,
and leaning his head on his hand. "How dark and mysterious are his
words! Can it be that that simple old man really reads the secrets of
futurity? 'Thou hast hidden from the wise and prudent, and revealed
unto babes.' Wonderful being! Will those ominous predictions come
true? I have already seen his words verified, and why may not those
likewise? 'The shadow of the scaffold falls across my path.' Well,
though I have escaped twice, I begin to think I have been born for a
halter, after all. I can easily account for my narrow escape from
shipwreck by the wise old proverb, that anyone born to be hanged will
never be drowned. It's a pleasant anticipation, truly."

"Why, Mr. Fred, you look as dismal as if you had lost your last
relation," said the merry voice of Rosie Wilde, breaking in upon his
reverie. "Goodness gracious me! have you seen a ghost, or are you
thinking of suicide? If you are, I've a bottle of _lodlum_ out in the
bar that will send you sleeping comfortably to the other world in less
than no time. Ha! ha! ha!"

"Egad! I've a strong notion to follow her advice, and cheat Jack
Ketch, after all," muttered Fred.

"Well, now, dinner's ready, so never mind talking to yourself just
now, for fear I might overhear you. So come along."

Fred laughingly accompanied Mrs. Wilde to the dining-room, where they
sat down to a comfortable meal, to which both did ample justice.

An hour after, as Fred stood in the parlor with Mrs. Wilde, previous
to starting, another horseman galloped up and alighted at the inn
door.

"I'll have General Washington himself here next, I expect," said Mrs.
Wilde, who was rocking the cradle. "Your coming brought them all, I
think; for I haven't had so many visitors before this month of
Sundays."

"Landlady!" called a high, imperious voice, that made Fred start and
flush to the temples.

"Coming, coming!" answered Mrs. Wilde, hurrying from the room.

Half an hour passed by. Fred stood with his arms folded across his
breast, all his indifference gone, and a look of fierce sternness and
intense hatred on his face. Well he recognized that voice.

"Gone at last," said Mrs. Wilde, again making her appearance.

Fred looked out, a young man passed out of the door, sprang on his
horse and rode off, but not before Fred had caught a full view of his
face.

It was Ralph De Lisle.

"Well, I regret to say I must leave you now, Mrs. Wilde," said Fred,
turning from the window, and striving to banish the shadow that had
gathered on his brow.

"Very sorry to hear it," said Mrs. Rosie, "but I hope to see you soon
again."

"Rest assured of that, my dear madame," said Fred. "I shall certainly
visit my little namesake as soon as may be. Good-bye until we meet
again."

Raising the plump little hand she extended to his lips, Fred passed
out, sprang on his horse, and was soon out of sight, while the pretty
little hostess of the "Bottle and Bowl" stood in the doorway, watching
him until he disappeared.

Night found him making his way slowly and with difficulty along the
slippery forest-path in the direction pointed out by his friend,
Captain Rogers. It was a gloomy, disagreeable night. A thin, drizzling
rain was falling, a cold, sharp wind was sighing drearily through the
trees. There was no light, save the faint sickly glow of the spectral
moon, as she lifted her wan face over the bleak tree-tops, through the
dull, dark clouds that scudded across the sky.

Urging his horse with rein and spur, Fred bent his head to the storm,
and proceeded slowly onward. There was a strange presentiment of evil
hanging over him--an oppression of spirits he had never felt before.
It might have been caused by the words of the hermit, his chance
glimpse of De Lisle, which he felt half-inclined to consider an omen
of evil or it might have been caused by the dismal night and the
lonely path he was pursuing. He strove to shake off these
superstitious fancies, knowing there might be more tangible evils at
hand, for there were always lurking bodies of Indians prowling about
in the woods. Now and then the cry of some wild animal would break
upon his ear, making his horse start and snort with terror, but no
enemy had molested him, and ere morning he trusted to be far from
danger.

Suddenly an abrupt turn in the road brought him in view of a scene
that made him start and draw back in alarm.

In the centre of a large semi-circle, evidently the work of Nature,
and not of art, a large fire was burning. Gathered around it were some
twenty half-naked, hideously-painted savages, who, with a large keg,
which Fred well knew contained rum, were evidently bent upon making a
night of it, in spite of the inclemency of the weather.

To escape without being discovered was now Fred's idea. He turned
noiselessly to proceed in another direction, but his horse reared at
the sudden blaze of light, and gave a loud neigh of fear.

It reached the keen ears of the Indians. Snatching up their weapons,
they sprang to their feet, while a series of diabolical yells rent the
air, followed by an ominous silence.




CHAPTER XXII.

THE STAKE.

    "Through the leafy halls of the wild old wood,
          Rang an echo full and free.
    To the savage shout of a fearful band,
    As they bound the white man foot and hand
          To the sacrificial tree."

                                --H. MARION STEPHENS.

Escape was now out of the question. Resolved to sell his life as
dearly as possible, Fred drew his pistols, and two of the foremost
savages, with wild howls, bit the ground. Maddened by the sight, the
remainder sprang fiercely upon him, and in spite of his desperate
resistance, he was overpowered by numbers and securely bound. They
next turned their attention to their fallen companions. One of them
was only wounded, but the other was quite dead. A long, low wail was
heard, as he who appeared to be their chief touched the fresh
scalp-lock which dangled at his belt.

The savages now gathered in a cluster, and appeared to hold a
consultation, while Fred, bound to a tree, inwardly wondered what Dame
Fortune had in store for him next. In the red light of the fire, the
scene resembled one of Salvator Rosa's wild paintings. The dark,
gloomy forest in the background, through which the wind sighed a
dirge-like chant. The wild faces, gleaming eyes, and horribly-painted
bodies of his captors, giving them the look of demons in the lurid
glow of the fire.

Fred waited eagerly for the result of this conference. Now and then he
would catch some fierce exclamation, but as they spoke in their own
language, he, of course, understood not a word. Often, too, he would
catch a look directed to himself that boded him no good. At last, they
seemed to have arrived at some conclusion; for, rising to their feet,
they returned to their former places round the fire, glaring savagely
upon him as they passed.

Left alone, Fred was soon lost in thought. He seemed to himself a mere
foot-ball in the hands of Fate, to be tossed wherever the fickle
goddess willed. In the power of the Indians, he well knew that death,
speedy and bloody, must be his doom. Death and he had been too often
face to face for him to shrink from it now; but to die thus, afar from
all who ever knew or cared for him, might have chilled the stoutest
heart. To die on the field of battle; fighting for his country, would
have been glory; but such a death as he well knew was now in store for
him, was indeed appalling. He thought of Edith, freed from the power
of her mortal foe, and happy at home, and wondered if she would ever
hear of his fate. He thought of the strange, mysterious hermit, and of
his dark prediction of coming danger so soon fulfilled.

He turned his eyes to where sat his captors. Some of them, overpowered
by the effects of the fire-water, were stretched on the ground asleep,
looking like dark statues in their rigid repose. The others still sat
drinking, some whooping and yelling fearfully in their intoxication,
the rest silently staring at them, evidently more than half stupefied.

Fred's position was painful in the extreme. The ligatures which bound
his wrists behind him were tied so tightly, that they seemed cutting
their way into the flesh. His position was painfully constrained, his
head being the only portion of his body he could move.

To add to his sufferings, the storm which had for several hours been
threatening, now burst in all its fury. A blaze of lightning, so vivid
that it seemed as though the heavens were one vast sheet of flame,
followed by a terrific crash of thunder and flood of rain, and the
storm was upon them in full fury. Roused from their slumbers, the
stunned and half-drunken savages gathered together in evident dismay.
The wind howled a perfect tornado, the lightning still flashed in one
continual sulphurous glare, the thunder pealed as though the heavens
were rending asunder, and the rain fell in perfect torrents. A tall
tree, scarcely three yards from where Fred stood, was shivered to
atoms by a blinding flash, and another was torn violently up by the
roots and hurled almost at his feet.

For nearly two hours the storm continued in all its fury. Then the
sullen clouds began slowly to break away, the lightning still flashed,
but at rare intervals; the thunder growled far off in the distance,
the wind abated its fury, and though the rain still fell, it was no
longer in drenching torrents. The savages recovering from the effects
of their first alarm, and still stupid with liquor, again stretched
themselves on the wet ground, and soon lay motionless, like hideous
figures in wax.

Fred, wet, cold, and benumbed, stood waiting the approach of day. His
arms felt as though they were dead, having swollen from being so
tightly bound. As he thought of the fearful fate for which he was most
probably reserved, he had more than once, during the raging of the
storm, wished that some friendly flash of lightning had freed his
spirit, and borne him from their power.

The hours of that dreary night wore on, but Fred thought it the
longest he had ever known. The gray, foggy light of morning at last
stole over the tree-tops, coming slowly and unwillingly, as though
reluctant to behold the disasters of the preceding night. Fred
recollected that at that time, twenty-four hours before, he had bade
adieu to Edith, and something akin to despair filled his heart, as the
certainty that he should never see her again stole over him.

His captors had by this time arisen, and were now busily engaged in
making their morning meal. This over, some of them went in search of
their horses where they had left them the preceding night, while two
others approached the prisoner, and having unfastened the thongs which
bound him, placed before him a sort of hard, coarse cake made of
Indian corn, a gourd filled with water, and made signs for him to eat.

It was some time before he could comply, for his hands were stiff and
benumbed, and the food none of the most palatable. Knowing, however,
Nature must be sustained, he essayed to eat; and by the time he had
finished his meal, the rest returned with the horses.

Fred was permitted to mount his own horse; and with one of his captors
on each side of him they dashed off at a rapid gallop.

They rode on for several hours, avoiding with the utmost care all
white settlements, and a little before noon they halted at a running
stream to rest their wearied animals. Fred alighted, and was bound as
before, to prevent his escaping, while his captors once more regaled
themselves with their coarse food.

All traces of the previous night's storm had now vanished. The sun
shone in unclouded splendor, and at any other time Fred would have
admired the beautiful scene around him, but now his eyes were fixed on
his captors.

They were a savage, blood-thirsty looking set, hideously painted, and
frightfully ugly, looking fiercer and more barbarous in the clear
light of day than when he had seen them first. They ate in solemn
silence, and having finished, again mounted and rode off, seldom
speaking, save when he who appeared to be their chief addressed to
them a few brief words, evidently concerning their journey.

Toward evening, the party again halted, and made preparations for the
night. Fred was again bound, but in such a manner as would permit him
to lie down. The savages then proceeded to kindle a fire; and seating
themselves around it, after partaking of their evening meal, of which
Fred received a share, they stretched themselves on the damp earth,
and were soon buried in sleep, with the exception of one who remained
to keep guard.

It was a lovely night. The moon rode in radiant brightness through the
blue arch of heaven. One by one the solemn stars came out, looking
with their pitying eyes on the pale face of the captive. The cool
south wind lifted his long, dark locks off his noble brow. The air was
redolent with the odor of flowers, and with a sing-song sound in his
ears, Fred fell asleep.

And sleeping, he dreamed once again in fancy he stood by the side of
Edith, whispering in her ear "the tale which ladies love to hear."
Suddenly a shadow fell across his path. Edith was torn from his side,
and with the rapidity of thought, he found himself swinging by the
neck from a halter. A shriek of mortal agony reached his ears, and
looking down, he beheld Edith struggling in the arms of De Lisle, now
transformed into a hideously-painted savage. With a start, he awoke to
find his dream, in part, realized.

The red hue of coming morn was already crimsoning the sky. His savage
captors were up and gathered together in a circle, as if holding a
consultation. Among them, Fred beheld the fierce, dark faces of three
or four of De Lisle's tory band; and standing above him, with his arms
folded across his breast, and a look of fiendish triumph on his face,
was Ralph De Lisle himself.

"So," said De Lisle, slowly hissing the words through his closed
teeth, "so, Fred Stanley, we have met again."

"So it seems," replied Fred, calmly.

"You see, sir, you are in the hands of fate, and that you cannot
escape me. No doubt you fancied, when you so cleverly freed yourself
from my power, that you were safe. Now you are convinced of your
mistake. Since our last meeting, I have daily prayed I might soon hold
you in my clutches once more, and now my prayer is granted."

"Which proves that your master, the devil, is good to his own," said
Fred.

"You are pleased to be facetious, my good friend. Well, I can excuse
that in one whose hours are numbered. Fred Stanley, Dame Fortune has
favored you long. One time I almost fancied you bore a charmed life;
but fate can bear you no farther than the end, and your hour has come.
For your present risk you have no one to thank but yourself, and,
being such a hot-headed fool, our dusky friends yonder will prevent
your getting into any more scrapes, by sending you to heaven where you
belong, the first opportunity. Dream no longer that you can escape.
Yonder sun, which is rising, you will never see set. Ere three hours
we will have reached the Indian village, where the stake is prepared,
and your doom is sealed. No power, either in heaven or earth, can save
you now. And if, as you say, the devil is my master, I most sincerely
thank him for preserving you from the rope, since it has reserved you
for the far more horrible fate of death by slow torture. I shall
faithfully, like a true friend, stand by you to the last, and
witnessing your death agony, console you by the agreeable information,
that in spite of Fate, Edith Percival shall yet be mine. Doubtless,
she imagines, as you did a few hours ago, that she has escaped me
forever. Like you, she will find her mistake ere long; and I swear,
she shall repent in dust and ashes for her scorn of me. Ha! you change
color. I thought that would touch you. I see you can fear for her
though not for yourself. Well, every indignity that woman can endure
shall be hers, until your dainty lady-love shall weep for the hour she
was born."

De Lisle paused, while his eyes actually blazed. An infernal spirit
might have envied the diabolical triumph that shone in his face.

"Villain! monster! devil!" cried Fred, almost maddened by his words.
"An hour of fearful reckoning will yet come for all this."

"You are disposed to moralize, my dear Stanley," said De Lisle, with
his usual mocking sneer. "Well, doubtless, the near approach of death
does incline men that way. As for the future reckoning you threaten
me with, believe in it if you will; as for me, I have a spirit above
such hypocritical whining and preacher's cant. However, I will not
argue the matter now, as in a few hours you will have an opportunity
of knowing which of us is right. If, when you reach the other world,
you really do see the gentleman in black--my master, you know--just
give him my compliments, will you, and tell him I trust he will always
remain as true a friend to me as he has up to the present. Ah! here
comes my friend, Long Knife--suggestive name, isn't it? I will leave
you to meditation and prayer, hoping you will offer up a good word for
Edith and _me_, while I consult with yonder dusky chieftain." And
lifting his hat with mock politeness, De Lisle turned on his heel and
strode away.

It would be impossible to give an idea of the torrent of fiery,
passionate, maddening thoughts that leaped in burning chaos through
the brain of Fred. The image of Edith in the power of De Lisle, that
demon in human form, was ever before him. And he knew of the fate in
store for her, and yet was unable to assist her. He grew maddened,
frenzied at the thought, and struggled to burst his bonds, until,
finding all his efforts ineffectual, he sank back exhausted.

Standing at a few yards distant, talking to a frightfully-painted
savage--who, from the number of feathers waving from his scalp-lock,
appeared to be a chief of unusual distinction--stood De Lisle. He saw
the impression his words had made, and the smile of gratified hatred
on his lips; and the light of triumphant malice in his eyes made him
appear more of a demon than ever.

After a few moments rapid conversation, the parties separated, and
mounting their horses, prepared to start. Fred rose as before, guarded
by two of the Indians. De Lisle put himself at the head of his own
men, not more than half a dozen in number, and all dashed off.

For over three hours they rode on rapidly, and almost in silence. Now
and then De Lisle would turn to converse with the man Paul Snowe, who
formed one of his party; but this was only at intervals, and each
seemed too much absorbed in his own reflections to talk.

At length, as they reached the summit of a high hill, the whole party
drew rein, and paused for a moment. Below them lay an Indian village,
enveloped by encircling hills, and forming a sort of circle of thirty
huts or thereabouts. The whole population of the village seemed to
have turned out to meet them; and with wild shouts, more than half of
Fred's captors dashed off, leaving him with De Lisle's men and the
others to follow more slowly.

As Fred neared the village, he turned to gaze on them, and was forced to
think that a more repulsive-looking set he had never beheld. The women
were even worse than the men, with their flat, unintellectual-looking
faces, dirty persons, and savage, unpitying eyes. Every look was bent
upon him, as he rode past, but all were fierce and stern, and even the
children seemed to glare with their dark eyes as fiendishly as their
parents.

One of the Indians made a sign for Fred to dismount; and bidding him
follow, led the way toward one of the huts, the crowd opening right
and left to allow them to pass. Pushing aside the skin which served
for a door, he motioned him to enter, and then binding him hand and
foot, he seated himself beside the door to keep guard, with his
scowling black eyes fixed on his prisoner, with the steady gaze of a
basilisk.

Fred had made no resistance, knowing it would be worse than useless;
and now he sat with his eyes fixed upon the ground, striving to
collect his thoughts and think calmly. In vain, all was wild confusion
in his heart and brain, everything seemed red and dancing before his
eyes. Death! death! seemed written in fiery characters everywhere he
turned. Never had he felt so dreadful a certainty that his last hour
was come, than when sitting there, expecting each moment to be led
forth to the stake. He felt at that bitter moment that De Lisle's
words were true, and that it would have been better to have died by
the halter than to be reserved for the fearful doom now in store for
him. His bodily suffering almost equaled the mental, for the ligatures
which bound him were cutting into the quivering flesh, and his posture
was so constrained that he could not move. He strove to pray; but the
hated image of De Lisle, at such times, would rise before him, driving
away the pitying form of his good angel, and filling his mind with
fierce, bitter thoughts.

And so two or three hours passed away. His savage jailer still
crouched at the door, glaring upon him with his eyes of fire, his
half-naked, horribly-painted body and scarred face giving him the
appearance of some hideous painting, rather than a living man. Now and
then a bright ray of sunshine would steal in through some chink,
falling like an angel hand on the black, glossy locks of the captive.
There was a drowsy stillness in the air, rendered more oppressive by
the dull, monotonous hum that came from the village. At length, a
profound stillness for a few moments succeeded. Fred listened in
wonder, and even his guard betrayed some sign of interest. They could
almost hear each other breathe, so profound was the stillness, when
lo! a yell so fierce, so savage, so diabolical that it seemed to come
from the depths of Pandemonium, broke upon their ears. With an
answering cry, the Indian guard sprang to his feet, and turned to Fred
with such a look of fiendish triumph, that he could no longer doubt
what these shouts purported. They were his death-warrant.

A moment after, and the skin at the entrance was burst rudely aside,
and two fierce, hideous-looking warriors entered, and spoke a few
words to the guard, who immediately rushed from the hut. Then
approaching Fred, they severed his bonds, and made signs for him to
rise. With some difficulty he obeyed, for his limbs were cramped and
painful in the extreme. Then motioning him to follow, they led the way
into the air.

It was a golden, glowing summer day. The sun shone in a sky of
unclouded blue, and poured a glow of light and heat over the green
earth. The air was heavy with the odor of flowers, and the clear
chirping of numberless birds mingled gently with the dreamy murmur of
the trees. Never had Nature appeared so lovely to him before, as he
cast one long last, lingering look around.

A series of unearthly yells greeted him as he appeared. The whole
population of the village--warriors, squaws, and papooses had
assembled around a large stake, firmly driven in the yielding earth,
and were glaring upon him with their fierce eyes.

Around the stake was a pile of fagots ready to be set on fire, and
leading him toward it, they bound his arms firmly behind him to the
stake.

Almost unknown to himself, there had been hitherto a wild hope still
lingering in Fred's breast--a hope that Fate or rather Providence had
not reserved him for a doom so fearful. But now the last faint spark
of hope died out, and with it went all his wild, tumultuous thoughts,
and a deep, settled calm took their place.

He looked up. Before him stood De Lisle, his arms folded across his
breast, gazing upon him with his evil eyes. The sneering smile of a
demon was on his face, all the intense hatred and revenge he had ever
cherished, glowed in his features, and a light of intense malignity
glittered in his serpent-like eyes.

"Well, Fred Stanley, we have met for the last time," he said,
mockingly. "You see now the death you were born for--your doom is to
roast alive by a slow fire."

Fred made no reply. Fixing his eyes on De Lisle's face he gazed upon
him so long, so fixed, so steadily, that involuntarily De Lisle
quailed before him. It was but for a moment, however, and recovering
himself, he went on.

"And have you no message to send to Edith? I go from here to-night,
and with the help of my master, before referred to, I shall carry her
off in spite of them all, to where they will never again behold her.
Look as fierce as you please, my good fellow; I rather enjoy it than
otherwise, since it tells me you _feel_. Once, had I not hated you so
intensely, with a hatred that became part of my very being, I could
have envied you for the heart you had won, a heart which I will yet
trample under my feet, until your fate will seem an enviable one
compared with hers. She despised me, spurned me with contempt for the
gay, the handsome, the fascinating, the gallant Fred Stanley, and in
her turn she will learn what it is to be spurned. No one who has ever
yet injured me escaped. To the very ends of the earth I would follow
them, like a bloodhound following a trail, until I had wreaked my
vengeance. You wronged me, insulted me, and you see the result--a fate
so dreadful that manhood must shudder to contemplate it, will be
yours. Her turn comes next, for now that you stand on the threshold of
eternity, I swear to you, Fred Stanley, that neither Heaven nor earth
can turn me from my purpose."

"Monster!" exclaimed Fred, in a voice that sounded low and unnatural
with intense horror, "is this the return you make for all Major
Percival has done for you? For myself, I neither have nor shall ask
for mercy from _you_, fiend that you are--I would not accept it if
offered; but gratitude to the old man, who has been more than a father
to you, should restrain you from a crime that even these blood-thirsty
savages around us would shrink from committing. Man! man! if there is
one spark of human nature in your fiendish heart, you will not bring
the gray hairs of that old man with sorrow to the grave."

"Ha! ha! and Fred Stanley can plead for the man who spurned him like a
dog!" laughed De Lisle, scornfully. "If you continue in this strain, I
shall begin to think you are a saint--have you canonized, and let
Edith know you died in the odor of sanctity. Your eloquence is quite
lost, my good friend; that one spark of human nature you see, does
_not_ exist in my fiendish heart. Say, my friend, was it not for
pretty Edith you were pleading that time, instead of her doting old
fool of a father? Spare him!--ha! ha!--why, I have a long score
against him, too, that must be wiped out by a few of his doubloons.
When he refused to compel his love-sick daughter to marry me, I vowed
vengeance against him as well as the rest; and, as I don't like to be
in people's debts, I shall take care to cancel it as soon as
possible."

"If there ever was a devil in human form, it is you, Ralph De Lisle!"
exclaimed Fred, with a look of hatred and loathing; "to pursue thus,
with the vengeance of a tiger, an old man and a helpless girl for some
fancied wrong. Had it been a _man_--but old age and helplessness. Oh,
_coward_!"

De Lisle's face grew livid with rage, as he half drew a pistol, and
advanced a step toward him.

Fred observed the action; and his heart bounded with the hope, that in
his rage, De Lisle might shoot him, and thus save him from a more
terrible fate.

The hope was in vain, however. De Lisle saw the quick gleam of his
eye, and stepping back, he replaced the pistol in his belt saying, in
his customary sarcastic tone:

"No, don't flatter yourself I'll end your sufferings so speedily. I
have no intention of depriving my good friends here of the pleasant
scene they anticipate. I must confess it _is_ rather new for me to
allow any one to call me a coward, and let him escape immediate
chastisement, but circumstances alter cases, you know. I perceive Long
Knife approaching, to give the signal for the fagots to be lighted,
and our red-skinned friends are growing impatient. So farewell, Fred
Stanley! I wish you a pleasant journey to the other world, and a
cordial welcome when you arrive there!"

He bowed with most ceremonious politeness, and stepped aside, as the
savage chief approached. Waving his hand as a signal, one of the
Indians approached, and thrust a lighted brand among the combustibles.

In a moment the whole pile was in a blaze. With screeches and yells
that can be likened to nothing earthly, the savages joined hands and
danced madly around the flames that rose crackling, and blazing, and
roaring as though exulting in their power.

Fred raised his eyes to the bright sky above him for one farewell
glance. It was such a glorious day, bright and radiant with sunlight.
All Nature looked peaceful and lovely; in the breast of man alone,
fierce, dark passions existed--they alone thirsted for each other's
lives.

Higher and higher rose the flames, fiercer and fiercer they blazed,
faster and faster they spread, until he stood alone within a red,
lurid circle of fire. The heat and smoke were beginning to grow
unbearable, for the flames had not reached him. Fixing his eyes on the
devouring monster, Fred silently committed his soul to Heaven. One
last thought of Edith, and then all were turned to that dread Unknown,
to which he was so rapidly approaching.

The cries, whoops, yells and screeches of the savages each moment
increased, as they danced madly outside the ring of fire. He scarcely
heeded or heard them, until suddenly they died away. Every voice was
arrested--the mad dance ceased--and all stood as if transfixed.
Following the direction toward which every eye was now turned, Fred
beheld a sight which filled him with amazement.




CHAPTER XXIII.

A NARROW ESCAPE.

    "Oh! ask me not to speak thy fate--
      Oh! tempt me not to tell,
    The doom shall make thee desolate,
      The wrong thou mayst not quell.
    Away! away! for death would be
      Even as a mercy unto thee."

The cause of their astonishment was soon explained. There, before
them, like a spirit, in his flowing robes and snowy hair, stood the
Hermit of the Cliffs!

With a grunt expressive of surprise and satisfaction, not unmingled
with awe, the chief advanced to meet him. There was something truly
imposing in the majestic appearance of the old man--his fantastic
robes fluttering in the air, his long white hair and beard flowing
over his shoulders. There was an evident reverence and respect for
this singular old man in the hearts of the Indians, who looked upon
him as a superior being--something more akin to the Great Spirit than
to his fellow-men.

Pointing with his hand toward the prisoner, the hermit addressed the
chief in his own language, in a tone more of command than entreaty. At
first, his words were listened to impatiently--then angrily--and
finally with a sort of awe. As the hermit went on, increasing in
vehemence, the warrior listened in superstitious silence, and when he
had concluded, he bowed his head, and, followed by the hermit, turned
toward his own people, who had stood watching them, during their
conference, with looks of mingled respect and curiosity, and began
addressing them in their own language. As a matter of course, Fred
understood not a word; but, from the savage eyes that were every now
and then turned toward him, he judged he was the subject of their
conversation.

Surprise, first, and then rage, was depicted on every face, while
knives and tomahawks were brandished, with fierce yells. But the loud,
harsh voice of the chief made itself heard above the din, in tones of
anger and command. The warriors gradually relapsed into sullen, dogged
silence, while every eye was directed toward the captive, glaring with
concentrated passion and disappointment.

When the chieftain ceased, the hermit addressed the enraged crowd.
High and clear, like the silvery tones of a trumpet, his voice rang
out, soothing the waters of passion which the words of their chief had
lashed into fury. As they listened, their noisy demonstrations of rage
gave place to low, deep growls and sullen mutterings, while they
glared like wild beasts upon Fred, whose position at the stake was now
almost unbearable.

As he folded his arms across his breast, and ceased speaking, the
warriors fell sullenly back, and the chief himself, leaping over the
burning circle, freed the bonds of Fred, and motioned him to follow.
No second invitation was necessary to make him leave his place of
torture, and the next moment he stood beside the hermit, who scarcely
gave him a single glance, as he turned again and addressed the chief.

During these proceedings, which occupied but a few moments, De Lisle
had stood watching them, like one who cannot believe what he sees. Now
he advanced to where the trio stood, and with a face perfectly livid
with rage and disappointment, he turned toward the hermit, and angrily
exclaimed:

"Sir, what means this? By what devilish art have you bewitched these
savages into giving up their prey?"

"It means, sir, that your evil machinations are again defeated by me.
I use no devilish arts, as you well know; but there is a Power higher
than that of man--a Power that can defeat man's most cunning scheme,
in its own good time!" answered the hermit, with grave dignity.

"Death and fury! Old man, cease your prating!" exclaimed the maddened
De Lisle. "Though this copper-colored fool here has given him up, by
Heaven! I will disappoint you yet, and you shall bear from hence but a
dead carcase."

He drew a pistol as he spoke; but, ere he could fulfill his threat, it
was struck from his hand by the chief, who brandished his tomahawk
before his eyes with a fierce yell, and would doubtless have prevented
his ever drawing another, but for the intervention of the hermit.
Motioning De Lisle back with a majestic wave of the hand, he said:

"Away, sir! One word from me, and you and your band of cut-throats
there will, in five minutes, be in eternity! Though you can show no
mercy to others, mercy shall be shown to you. Away with you!--your
very presence is pollution!"

"I obey, most reverend dealer in magic," said De Lisle, with a mocking
bow and smile, though his face was perfectly ghastly with suppressed
passion, "but think not, though you are triumphant now, you have
conquered Ralph De Lisle. I swear I will yet have threefold vengeance
on thee, hoary sorcerer, and on this double-dyed traitor beside you!"

With a fierce exclamation Fred sprang forward, and De Lisle would
doubtless have been felled to the earth, but the hermit laid his hand
on the young man's shoulder, and said, sternly:

"I command you not. 'Vengeance is mine, saith the Lord, and I will
repay.' Leave this fiend incarnate to a higher Power. His race will
soon be run."

"Ha! say you so, good father?" said De Lisle, ironically. "It may be
so, but I will send a few of your particular friends before me, to
announce my coming. I regret leaving such pleasant company, but
'necessity knows no law.' I trust soon to have the pleasure of meeting
you both again. Until then!"

He bowed, lifted his hat, and with the same cold, sneering smile on
his lip, he turned away. Whispering a few words in the ear of Paul
Snowe, whose eyes were fixed as if fascinated on the hermit, he gave
his men the order to mount. Ere five minutes had elapsed, they were in
their saddles and away.

"We must follow their example," said the hermit to Fred. Then, turning
to the chief, he spoke a few words in the Indian language, to which
the other answered by a nod; and making a sign that they should follow
him, he turned and forced his way through the group of dogged-looking
warriors, whose glances toward Fred were anything but friendly.

Fred's horse was led forth together with the hermit's. The chief
himself mounted, and gave some order to his followers, upon which some
half dozen sprang into their saddles, and the whole party dashed off.

As they reached the summit of the hill, Fred paused a moment to look
back. Scarcely eight hours had elapsed since he had stood in the same
spot--but how different were his feelings! Then he stood on the
threshold of death, with his deadly foe on one side and blood-thirsty
savages on the other. Now he was safe and free, or at least on the
high road to freedom, saved by the same mysterious being who had saved
his life before. All the events since his capture had passed so
rapidly that he was almost tempted to believe it was but a troubled
dream. A glance, however, at his dusky companions soon convinced him
of the unpleasant reality, and quickening his pace he descended the
hill, and bade a last and unreluctant adieu to the Indian village.

Near the spot where Fred had been made captive their savage escort
left them, and the preserver and preserved went on their journey
alone.

For a time they rode on in silence. Both were too deeply absorbed in
thought to converse. At length the hermit looked up and said:

"Yours was a narrow escape, my friend. You were indeed literally
snatched a brand from the burning."

"And to you I owe it," replied Fred, gratefully. "You seem fated to
place me under a debt of gratitude. I will not attempt to thank you
for saving me from a doom so dreadful. No words of mine--"

"I want no thanks," interrupted the hermit. "If you really feel
grateful, let your gratitude be inward, and manifest itself by actions
instead of words. I know the world too well to place much confidence
in hollow promises!"

"How did you discover I was a prisoner?" inquired Fred, whose
curiosity could no longer be restrained.

"Very easily. I foresaw danger when you started, and followed you."

"Then you were near me during my journey," said Fred. "I wonder the
savages did not discover you."

"I was near you at first, but was unable to ride forward as rapidly as
your party. However, I followed your trail, and reached the village a
few hours after, and providentially in time to save your life."

"It is most wonderful they would surrender a captive at the stake,"
said Fred. "Your power, sir, seems to be omnipotent."

"I had a strong claim on the gratitude of the chief," said the hermit.
"Once, when I found him alone, wounded and almost dying, I had him
borne to my dwelling, and nursed him until he recovered. Since then he
has been anxious to redeem the promise made at the time, to grant me
the first favor I ever asked of him; and as your life chanced to be
the first, he was forced to grant it. Besides," he added, with a
smile, "his superstitious followers consider me something more than
mortal, and labor under the delusion, that in offending me they will
draw upon themselves the wrath of the Great Spirit."

"Your power extends over more than superstitious savages," said Fred,
"my father, stern and haughty as he is, quails before you, as he has
never done before any other living man. Would I knew the secret of
your mysterious power!"

A shadow passed over the face of the hermit, and when he spoke again,
his voice was unusually low and solemn:

"Some day, ere long, perhaps, you will learn all. Until that time,
rest in peace, and believe this mystery is all for the best. I go now
to my home on the cliffs, but something tells me we will soon meet
again."

"Well, let it be for joy or for sorrow, the meeting will be welcome,"
replied Fred; "but why should you reside in that lonely spot--why not
seek a home with your friends?"

"Friends?" repeated the hermit, almost bitterly, "who in this selfish
world deserve that sacred name? No, I have done with trusting the
world; my experience has taught me how much reliance there is to be
placed in it. I would be alone with nature--watching the mighty,
ever-moaning sea, listening to the wild shrieks of the wind, or gazing
upon the blue lightning, I am happy. I never wish to mingle with my
fellow-men more."

"Strange, eccentric being," thought Fred, as he gazed on the pale face
of his companion, now lit up by enthusiasm. "What strange vicissitudes
he must have passed through!"

"What do you think now of my prediction?" said the hermit quietly,
after a few moments' pause.

"Think?" replied Fred, "why, that your prophecy has in a most
unpleasantly short time been fulfilled, and I must apologize for ever
presuming to doubt its truth."

"I fear still greater dangers are in store for you," said the hermit,
gloomily.

"From what quarter now?" inquired Fred.

"From your mortal enemy, De Lisle. There was something perfectly
fiendish in his look as he left us; and it needs no soothsayer to tell
he is even now plotting against you."

"Well, it seems to be a drawn battle," said Fred, with a half smile,
"he plotting and you counterplotting. As for me, I seem like a
rudderless craft in the stream of life, drifting whichever way the
current sets. It is useless striving to guard against dangers when we
cannot foresee in what shape they may come. So, my dear sir, I shall
preserve the even tenor of my way, and place my trust in Providence
and _you_!"

"Youth is always hopeful and blindly trusting," said the hermit; "but
Heaven forbid my presentiments should prove true, for there may be
dangers worse than death. _Disgrace_ to you would be a thousandfold
worse."

"Disgrace!" exclaimed Fred, almost furiously, while his face flushed;
"who dares couple my name with disgrace?"

"De Lisle will endeavor to do so, rest assured," said the hermit;
"there--there is no need of looking so fierce about it. Do you imagine
there is anything he can do to injure you in the opinion of the world,
more especially in that of the Percivals, that he will not do? And,
speaking of the Percivals, I presume that is your present
destination."

"No," said Fred, "I go there no more. Would to Heaven I had never gone
there."

"It would have been better for all parties," said the hermit; "but the
past can never be recalled, and you can only endeavor to atone for it
by absenting yourself for the future. Edith's love for you has
remained firm throughout, and will to the end--for her you need have
no fear. The war will soon be over, and there can be little doubt
which side will be victorious. Major Percival's views may change in
time, and his fair daughter may yet be your bride. Who can tell what
the future may bring forth?"

"Who, indeed?" thought Fred, "though I fancy that prediction is
altogether too good to prove true."

"And now farewell!" said the hermit, when they emerged from the forest
road. "I go to my wild home amid the cliffs, while you go to follow
the path of glory. It may be, when we meet again, many things now
hidden in darkness shall be brought to light. When in danger, remember
you have a friend in the Hermit of the Cliffs."

He turned in a direction opposite to that taken by Fred, and was soon
out of sight.





CHAPTER XXIV.

THE LAST RESOLVE.

    "There was a laughing devil in his sneer,
    That raised emotions both of rage and fear;
    And where his frown of hatred darkly fell,
    Hope, withering, fled--and Mercy sighed farewell."

                                        --THE CORSAIR.

Months passed away. Hoary winter had shrunk back before bright,
smiling spring, and the golden summer days were approaching again.
Many exciting events had taken place since the circumstances recorded
in the last chapter, for the war was over, and America was free.

It was a dark sultry night in June. In the back parlor of an
unpretending-looking inn sat two men conversing. They were our old
acquaintances Ralph De Lisle and his amiable friend Paul Snowe.

"Well, what is this wonderful plot you have in your wise head now, De
Lisle?" inquired the man Paul.

"A plot that, like some great medicines, must either kill or cure!"
answered De Lisle; "one that makes Edith Percival mine beyond hope of
redemption."

"I never knew one of your plans yet that you were not equally sure of.
Take care this does not prove a will-o'-the-wisp like the rest," said
the other, with a sneer.

"No, by Heaven!" exclaimed De Lisle, setting his teeth fiercely; "this
night Edith Percival shall either be my bride or that of death; this
night the crisis of her fate and mine has come."

"Bah! bah! all foolery, all child's play!" said Paul Snowe, in his
bitter, jibing tone. "You lay wonderful plans, and see them slip
through your fingers when they are in your power. This girl, who has
made such a fool of you, was for a week under the same roof with you;
her lover and your mortal foe was likewise within arm's length of you.
Well, you let both go, let them give you the slip, and laugh at you
and your plans in safety."

"For that I may thank your dainty daughter and that villainous young
scoundrel Joe Smith," said De Lisle angrily. "I should have liked to
have twisted her treacherous neck for her on my return, and would have
done so but for you."

"I have no doubt of it," said Paul, deliberately filling a glass of
brandy; "but you well know you are too completely in my power to play
any of your tricks off on me. What would you do if I took a fancy to
split some day, and let all out?"

"_If you would_," exclaimed De Lisle, his face growing absolutely
livid with rage as he drew a pistol, "I would--"

"What?" said Paul Snowe, with his cold, deriding smile, as his leader
paused.

"Shoot you like a dog!" hissed De Lisle through his clenched teeth.

"Two could play at that game, my worthy captain," said the man,
carelessly, touching a long knife he wore. "If I took a fancy for
peaching, there would be a slight obstacle in the way of your shooting
me--something like this." And Paul made a peculiar motion under his
left ear, indicative of hanging.

"Villain!" said De Lisle, "there _was_ a time when you would not dare
to be thus insolent. But boast away; I fear you not; you are too
careful of your own precious jugular to risk it by such an experiment.
I fancy when Ralph De Lisle swings, Paul Snowe will keep him company."

"Perhaps so. Well, it's a comfort to think the world will wag just as
merrily when we are gone. There will be few tears shed over our
grave--eh, captain?"

"You forget your affectionate daughter," said De Lisle, sneeringly.

"Oh! Elva? She will be better without me; but for her sake I will
avoid Jack Ketch as long as possible. But to change the subject, which
is getting rather personal when you talk of hanging: how do you
propose to abduct Miss Percival?"

"I shall not abduct her, my good friend; she must come with me of her
own free will, or not at all."

"Faith! you're getting mighty particular. I've seen the time you
weren't so choice, and was glad to get her by hook or by crook."

"Yes; but that time has passed; and my proud Lady Edith shall sue to
me now as I have heretofore done to her. Love and hatred, worthy Paul,
are nearly akin. Next to myself, I loved that girl better than
anything on earth. Well, she jilted me for this dashing rebel--or
patriot I suppose I should say now, since they have triumphed--and I
hate her now with an intensity far surpassing any love I ever felt for
her. _Now_ I would, as far as love is concerned, a thousand times
rather marry your pretty daughter Elva than she."

"Much obliged for the honor," said Paul, dryly. "But, in the name of
my 'pretty daughter Elva' I beg respectfully to decline the
illustrious alliance."

De Lisle smiled scornfully, but, without noticing his words, went on:

"Affection, therefore, you see, has nothing to do with my wish to make
Edith Percival my wife. Hatred and revenge are my sole motives. She
loathes the very sight of me, I know; and there is no other means by
which I can punish her for it so well. Her lover, too--Master
Fred--will feel it more than anything else I could possibly do.
Therefore, these are my reasons for wishing to marry pretty Edith."

"Well, I didn't ask you for your reasons," said Paul. "I don't take so
much interest in either of you. You say you are going to make her
marry you. Now, how are you going to do it?"

"Listen!" said his friend, with a sardonic smile. "I have learned that
my quondam lady-love has taken a fancy to a sick girl in the
neighborhood, and visits her very often. A brother of the invalid--a
child of nine--goes for her when wanted. This little fellow I told to
meet me to-night at a place I appointed, but I have not yet told him
what I want. I think I can manage to induce him to bring Edith out. I
will meet her--urge her to fly with me--and if she persists in
refusing--"

"Well, and if she does?" said the man, looking up.

"_I will stab her to the heart!_" exclaimed De Lisle, in a fierce,
hoarse whisper, while his eyes glittered with a demoniacal light.

Paul Snowe drew back involuntarily at the strange, wild expression on
his companion's face. There was a look almost of horror on his face as
he exclaimed:

"No, no!--devil as you are, you would not murder an unoffending girl!"

"Ha, ha!--Paul Snowe turned preacher!" mocked De Lisle. "When was it
your conscience became so tender, honest Paul?--since the night your
Spanish knife let the moonlight through Dandy Dan's backbone for
calling you a liar--eh?"

"Perdition seize you! Hush!" exclaimed Paul, growing pale. "I meant
not to dissuade you from it; but it will be discovered, and then we
will _swing_, you know."

"Well, it's swing with us any way, sooner or later. One may as well be
hung for a sheep as a lamb, Paul," said De Lisle, recklessly.

"To be sure," said Paul, turning uneasily in his chair, and draining
another glass of brandy. "But where's the use of being so desperate?
You ought to take precautions."

"So I have, my honest friend. If it does come to the worst, I think I
have arranged matters in such a manner that all the blame will fall on
the shoulders of that meddler, Fred Stanley."

"Ha! you have?--in what way?"

"This dagger belongs to him; I saw his name engraved on it; and,
thinking it might be useful to me, I took charge of it. About three
hours ago, I saw him parting with Major Percival, and the major
foaming and scolding like an enraged washerwoman. Shortly after, he
mounted his horse, and left the village in hot haste. Now, if the
major's daughter is found mur--well, you know what I mean--to-morrow
morning, with _his_ dagger somewhere near, that circumstance, taken in
connection with his quarrel with the major, and subsequent flight from
the village, will, without doubt, place the worthy youth's neck in a
tight place, and convince the world generally, and his admirers
particularly, that, after all his escapes, he was born to be hanged in
the end."

There was a wicked and most sinister smile on De Lisle's lips, a
glittering light in his evil eyes, that involuntarily made Paul Snowe,
hardened in crime though he was, draw back in horror. There was
something so fearfully cold-blooded in the manner in which he unfolded
his diabolical plot, that his listener placed his hand on the hilt of
his knife, and looked for a moment into De Lisle's gleaming eyes in
silence.

"Well, what do you think of it?" demanded De Lisle, at length.

"Think!" repeated Paul; "why, that if there ever was a fiend incarnate
on earth, you are one!"

"Ha! ha! Well, no matter for that. Do you not think my plan a safe
one?"

"I neither know nor care, Ralph de Lisle. If you are safe yourself,
all right; if you are _not_ safe, all right likewise. I will have
nothing to do with your diabolical plans; therefore, as I said before,
I neither know nor care whether you are safe or not."

"Insolent villain!" exclaimed De Lisle, springing fiercely to his
feet; "you shall repent this!"

"Hands off, De Lisle!" said Paul, boldly confronting him. "I am not
afraid of you. Commit your own murders for the future; I will have no
more to do with such a cold-blooded assassin."

For a moment, De Lisle glared upon him like a wild beast; but the bold
eye of Paul Snowe quailed not beneath his burning gaze. Seeing how
little he was feared, De Lisle changed his tactics, and throwing
himself back in his chair, he said, with a forced laugh:

"Well, we won't quarrel, Paul; we have been friends too long to part
in anger, and especially about such a _trifle_."

"I never was friend of yours, Captain De Lisle," said Paul, doggedly.
"Villainy bound us together; but the link of crime is very different
from that of friendship."

"Well, have it your own way," said De Lisle, with affected
carelessness, as he replaced the dagger within his vest. "And now I
see by yonder time-piece that 'tis time I was keeping my appointment
with little nine-year old. You'll wait for me here, of course?"

"No, I won't!" was the short, sharp, and decisive reply. "I have
waited for you too long, as I may yet find out to my cost. You and I
part to-night, De Lisle," continued Paul Snowe, rising, and taking his
hat. "I intend leaving the country as soon as possible; and, if you
wish to avoid the hangman, you will follow my example, and let Edith
Percival alone. Don't turn so white about the gills, man; I won't
peach. But you know, however long the fox may run, he'll be caught by
the tail at last. So, as we are parting, I'll take a last glass with
you, in memory of old times. Here's wishing you long life and an
escape from the halter."

"I'll drink no such toast!" said De Lisle, biting his lips to keep
down his increasing anger. "Here's to the bright eyes of your daughter
Elva."

"So be it then," said Paul, refilling his glass; "and on those same
bright eyes _you_ will never look again, my susceptible friend.
Good-night, De Lisle, and luck be with you."

He turned and quitted the room. De Lisle looked after him with an evil
smile as he muttered:

"Say you so, worthy Paul? That remains to be seen. And now for the
drama of the evening. Shall it be a tragedy or a farce? Well, ere
midnight I will know."

He drank deeply, as if to nerve himself for what was approaching; and
then, muffling himself in his cloak, and drawing his hat down over his
brow, he quitted the obscure inn, and disappeared in the gloomy night.




CHAPTER XXV.

THE OLD HOUSE ON THE BLUFF.

    "A willing messenger--Crime's ready tool--
    A thing of flesh and blood that may be bought
    And sold like vilest merchandise."

The sky was dark and overcast with storm-threatening clouds. The moon
struggled feebly on her way, shedding a sickly, watery light over the
earth. The wind had been rising all the evening, and now blew chill
and raw, accompanied by a thin, light drizzle. Lights were twinkling
here and there through the village as De Lisle passed along; but there
were few abroad--a circumstance he rejoiced at, lest he should be
discovered. Those who did meet him as they hurried homeward, paused to
stare in surprise at the tall, dark, muffled figure which strode along
as though gifted with the famous seven-league boots.

Faster and faster he walked; for, half mad with excitement, he strove
to lose memory in the rapid motion. His head, hot and throbbing, felt
as though it would burst. He paused for a moment, and, leaning against
a tree, took off his hat that the cool breeze might relieve him. His
long, dark locks streamed wildly in the wind behind him, and his heart
throbbed so loudly that every pulsation sounded like the stroke of a
sledge-hammer. His hands were red with blood--his soul dark with
crime; but never had he meditated so dreadful a murder as weighed on
his heart to-night. The shadows, as they flitted by, looked to his
heated imagination like spectres rising from the grave to warn him
back.

The village clock struck nine. He started at the sound, and, unable to
remain longer inactive, started on more rapidly than before. As he
walked, he suddenly lifted his head, and beheld the churchyard before
him. To reach the place where the boy was to meet him, he must pass
it. The tombstones gleamed white and ghastly in the dim light. How
they seemed to glare upon him with their cold, pale eyes!

He shuddered, and hurried on faster than ever. His rapid walking soon
brought him to the place of rendezvous; it was an old deserted house
on the black hill-side, known as the Barn on the Bluff. It had been
untenanted for many a day, and was only used as a shelter for sheep on
stormy nights. No other house was near it on any side. It stood alone,
black, grim, and dismal--a fit place for the dark scene it was to
witness that night.

A boy of about nine--a vacant-eyed, stupid-faced urchin--stood
shivering beside one of the broken windows, and endeavoring to peer
out into the gloom. Hearing approaching footsteps, he started from his
corner, and met De Lisle in the doorway.

"If you'd stayed much longer, I wouldn't a waited," said the boy,
rather sullenly. "Why didn't you come sooner?"

"It's time enough," said De Lisle. "Do you think you'll find Miss
Percival at home now?"

"Be sure I will," replied the boy. "They've a party to-night, and
she'll be sure to be there."

"A party!" muttered De Lisle; "that defeats all my plans. Why didn't
you tell me this before, you young rascal. She won't come with you if
they have a party."

"Yes she will, too," said the boy. "She did it afore, and she told our
Harriet any time she wanted her she'd come, and no bother about it."

"Well, will you go and tell her your sister is dying, or any other lie
that you think will be likely to bring her here. See, I will give you
this gold guinea now, and a dozen when you come back."

"Will you, though?" exclaimed the boy, his eyes sparkling with
delight.

"Yes, if you bring her here alone. Mind, don't tell her there is a man
waiting for her here. You have to pass this Bluff on your way home,
have you not?"

"Yes; but there's another, shorter way."

"Oh! well, don't mind the shorter way. Bring her here--_alone_,
mind--alone. Do you think there is any danger of her being accompanied
by any one?"

"No, I guess not; she often came with me alone to see Harriet as late
as this."

"Oh! very well, then; go now and don't be long. Remember, if you bring
Miss Percival here alone, you shall have my purse upon your return."

"All right," answered the boy, touching his cap, as he quitted the old
house and bounded down the hill.

Folding his arms across his breast, and drawing his cloak closer
around him, De Lisle leaned against the broken doorway, and strove to
still the wild tumult within, and think. _Think!_ how could he think
with heart and brain burning and throbbing with such a blinding
intensity of pain. His face was deadly pale, his eyes inflamed and
blood-shot, his lips dry and parched. A horror, nameless and hitherto
unfelt, was stealing over him. It was as if some dread calamity were
hovering over his own head.

All was profoundly still. The lights in the village below were going
out one by one, as the simple villagers retired to rest, little
dreaming of him who leaned silent and alone in the old house with such
a tumultuously throbbing heart. The wind wailed dirge-like through the
trees, and at intervals the harsh, ominous croak of a raven--that evil
bird of night--as it flew past, would break upon his ear, startling
him like a galvanic shock.

"Would this night were over!" he muttered, taking off his hat, and
shaking back his black locks. "Am I turning coward, that I quake thus
at every sound? Ralph De Lisle, courage, man! 'Tis but a girl more or
less in the world, and there is no one to know it."

No one to know it! A stray gleam of moonlight breaking through the
clouds, fell on his face white as that of the dead, but lighted up
with such intensely burning eyes. No one to know it! A still small
voice, deep down in his heart, and silent for many a year, rang out
with one word, clear and distinct. A host of memories--memories of his
almost forgotten childhood--rushed back to his mind. Again he felt his
mother's gentle hand straying amid his hair; her soft voice
whispering, as she passed from earth: "Love and fear God, my son, and
meet me in heaven." How reproachfully her loving eyes rose before him
now. Again in fancy, he wandered, hand in hand with Edith, as he had
often done in childhood, or lay on the grass at her feet, while she
sang for him the sweet "Evening Hymn," and he thought the sky not half
so blue and beautiful as her eyes. Words he had long forgotten came
again to his mind; the simple, earnest prayer he had said in his
boyhood, night and morning, like some wandering strain of music rose
to his lips. It was the last struggle between good and evil in his
heart. His better nature seemed for a moment to prevail. He turned to
quit the old house, when the image of Fred Stanley arose before him.
The struggle was past--he stayed. His good angel covered her bright
face and wept, and Ralph De Lisle was forever--lost!




CHAPTER XXVI.

CAUGHT IN THE SNARE.

    "'Tis done! I saw it in my dreams--
    No more with hope the future beams.
      My days of happiness are few:
    Chilled by Misfortune's wintry blast,
    My dawn of life is overcast;
      Love, hope, and joy alike adieu;
      Would I could add remembrance, too!"

                                   --BYRON.

Percival Hall was all aglow with light and radiance, music and mirth,
feasting and festivity. The lofty rooms were crowded with the numerous
friends of the family for the last time, for Major Percival had
announced his intention of departing for England in a few weeks, to
reside there permanently.

Weary with dancing, Edith had quitted the ballroom and sought refuge
in the conservatory. The gay sounds of music and dancing came to her
ear softened and mellowed by the distance.

Seating herself in a shadowy corner, her golden hair falling like a
glory around her, she leaned her head upon her hand, while her
thoughts wandered far away. She felt sad and out of spirits, and in no
mood to join the gay revelers. She was about to leave her home for the
shores of "Merrie England," to leave many whom she loved, and who
loved her, behind her. She thought of Fred, but no longer with hope.
At her father's command, they parted forever. Unable longer to resist
the temptation, he had sought the village, and they had one
interview. The major discovered it, and a few hours before, they had
parted after an exceedingly stormy interview, and she had been sternly
forbidden ever to see or speak to him again.

Therefore Edith sat, sad and silent, with tears slowly filling her
deep-blue eyes, and falling unheeded on her white hands. Tears for
him, tears for herself, and a weight heavy and oppressive on her
heart.

The entrance of a servant roused her from her sad reverie. The girl
paused as she approached her, and Edith looked up inquiringly:

"If you please, Miss, little Eddy Dillon's out here. He says his
sister Harriet sent him with a message for you."

"Oh, dear little Harriet! I hope she is not worse. Where is he, Betty?
I must see him immediately," said Edith, forgetting her own sorrows to
listen to those of others.

"Down here at the hall-door, Miss," said Betty. And Edith flew past
her and ran down to the hall-door, where stood little Eddy, cap in
hand.

"Oh, Eddy! how is Harriet?" exclaimed Edith, breathlessly.

"A great deal better--I mean worse, Miss Edith," said Eddy; "don't
expect she'll live till to-morrow, nohow."

"Is it possible? Poor, little Harriet! Oh, Eddy! why didn't you come
for me before?" said Edith.

"Cause I was busy," said Eddy, scratching his head, as he composedly
uttered the lie. "But she wants to see you now, if you're agreeable."

"Certainly, I'll go. Betty, bring me my hood and mantle," said Edith,
promptly.

"Oh, Miss Edith! I wouldn't go to-night, if I was you. It's going to
rain, I'm afraid, and the company--"

"Betty, you musn't talk so. Do you think any such selfish
consideration would make me refuse that dear child's dying request?
Bring me my hood and cloak immediately."

Betty disappeared to obey her; and turning to Eddy, Edith began
inquiring so eagerly about this sudden dangerous turn in his sister's
illness, that the good youth, not having a stock of lies manufactured
for the occasion, got quite bewildered. Betty's re-appearance with the
desired articles relieved him from his dilemma, as she threw the cloak
over Edith's shoulders and tied on her hood.

"Hadn't you better let me or one of the others go with you?" said
Betty. "It's powerful lonesome going along alone."

"Oh! no, thank you; I'll do very well. Eddy and I have often went
alone on the same errand to see poor Harriet."

"What will I say, if anyone asks for you, Miss?" called Betty after
her.

"You may tell mamma where I have gone; and if anyone else asks you,
refer them to her. Come, Eddy, I am all ready."

They went down the steps together, and started at a rapid walk. The
clouds were slowly breaking away, and the moon rode in silvery
radiance through the star studded dome. The cool night breeze brought
a bright flush to Edith's pale cheek and a clearer light to her blue
eyes, as she tripped lightly along, thinking of "dear little Harriet,"
and almost envying her for being freed from earth so soon. Master
Eddy, too, was thinking--a very unusual thing for him, by the
way--and which never occurred, save on an unusual occurrence like the
present. He was wondering what the tall, dark man could want with her,
and whether he had acted quite right in deceiving her as he had done.
Unable to solve this knotty problem, he placed his hand in his pocket
where it encountered and closed upon a guinea, which, in a wonderfully
short space of time, removed all his scruples, just as it would those
of an older person. The recollection of the twelve he was to get on
his return, clinched the argument, and Master Eddy lifted his head and
walked along in the proud consciousness of having discharged his duty
as a man and a Christian should. Having heard the villagers talk over
the story of Miss Edith's rebel lover, he concluded this must be he
come to hold a clandestine interview with her.

"Why are you taking this roundabout way?" asked Edith, as her
companion turned in the direction of the bluff. "The other path is
much shorter."

"Yes, I know it; but the other road's muddy; 'taint so good as this,"
said Eddy, rather at a loss for a suitable lie. "This ain't much
longer, either."

"Oh, very well!" said Edith; "only hurry, I am so anxious to see
Harriet."

Both walked on rapidly, and in silence, until they reached the dark
bluff.

"Where are you going?" asked Edith, as Eddy began to ascend.

"I left something up in the old barn, I must go after. Come with me; I
don't like to go alone."

Unconscious and unsuspecting, Edith followed him up the steep
hill-side. The bright moonlight shone full upon the deserted barn, and
showed it in all its dreary loneliness.

"What a dismal place!" thought Edith; "it looks wilder and drearier
to-night than I ever remember to have seen it before. How ghastly
those mouldering walls look in the cold moonlight!"

Within the shadow of those walls, how little did she dream that he
whom she dreaded most on earth stood watching her. Rapidly she
followed her young guide, whose steps were quickened by the
recollection of the reward, promised on his return.

A tall, dark figure, muffled in a cloak, stepped from within the
shadow of the doorway, and approached them. Something in his height
and air, reminded her of Fred, and, filled with the idea that he had
again sought her to bid her a final adieu, she sprang forward,
exclaiming breathlessly:

"Fred! Fred! can this be you?"

He raised his hand, and, pointing to the lady, made a motion for her
to be silent. Then, slipping the promised reward into his hand, he
whispered, sternly:

"Go!"

"Oh, Fred! this is very rash!" said Edith, as the boy bounded down the
hill-side and disappeared. "What would papa say if he knew of this?"

"Hist!" said De Lisle, disguising his voice in a hurried whisper;
"come in here!"

He drew her arm within his; and, half bewildered by this sudden
meeting, she scarcely realized his meaning until she stood with him in
the old deserted house. He released her arm, and stood between her and
the door, his hat still hiding his face, so tall, so still, so
motionless, that he looked like some dark statue.

"Fred, _is_ this you?" said Edith, a wild thrill of fear shooting
through her heart, at his strange silence. The long cloak that
muffled him fell off, he slowly raised his hat, and she beheld the
pale, fierce face, and intensely burning eyes of her dreaded foe,
Ralph De Lisle.





CHAPTER XXVII.

THE CATASTROPHE.

    "Murder most foul--as in the best it is--
    But this most foul, strange, and unnatural."

                                     SHAKESPEARE.

Stunned, bewildered, giddy, the wild shriek of mortal fear that
quivered on the lips of Edith died away, as she met those fierce dark
eyes she dreaded most on earth fixed upon her with such a fiery,
serpent-like gaze.

She grew dizzy, and gasped for breath; for there was a look more of a
demon than of a man on the face before her. Alone with him in that
deserted house, too far from the village for her cries to reach human
ears--nothing but Heaven could save her now. All the dangers of her
appalling situation burst upon her at once. A dimness stole over her
eyes--the sound of many waters was in her ears--her heart throbbed
like the muffled beating of a drum, and she would have fallen, had she
not grasped the wall for support.

"I see you have not forgotten me, Edith," were his first words, spoken
with cold, bitter sarcasm. "When last we parted, you had decidedly the
advantage of me; now, the tables have turned, and Edith Percival is
again in my power."

She strove to speak; but, though her lips moved, she could not article
a word.

"You mistook me for Fred," he went on, in the same mocking tone; "'tis
a wondrous pity you were disappointed. You need never call on him
again. This night is the crisis of both our lives. For what purpose,
do you think, I have had you brought here?"

"I know not," said Edith, speaking in a voice yet faint from terror.

"Listen, then: this night you must either consent to be my bride, or
you will never live to see the sun rise again!"

His face wore the look of a fiend--his glittering eyes were fixed on
her face; his voice sounded low, hoarse, and unnatural in that dreary
room.

Her lips parted--her eyes dilated with horror; her face was deadly
white, but no cry escaped her. Her very heart seemed for a moment to
stand still at his appalling words, and then--the courage that had
never been hers was granted her in that dreadful moment. In her awful
peril, fear and horror alike passed away, and a feeling of intense
loathing and lofty scorn for him who stood before her took its place.
Drawing herself up to her full height, she shook back her golden hair,
and fixing her large blue eyes full on his face, she said, in a voice
whose very calmness startled even herself:

"My life you may take, for it is in your power; but I would die a
thousand deaths sooner than be bride or ought of thine!"

Her fearless words and undaunted manner were so unexpected that he
started back apace, and stood regarding her in silent wonder. It was
but for a moment, and the fiend within his heart was aroused into fury
tenfold greater than before.

"And you dare defy me thus!" he said, setting his teeth hard together.
"Beware! your life hangs but by a thread."

"I know it; but death is preferable to being the wife of a demon
incarnate, such as you!"

His face grew livid with diabolical passion, and he grasped her by the
arm so fiercely that she could scarcely repress a cry of pain.

"Consent to be my wife, or by all the fiends in flames, this shall
enter your heart!" he hissed, as he brandished the gleaming dagger
before her eyes.

"Oh, Ralph De Lisle, lay not the weight of this dreadful crime on your
soul, I conjure you!" exclaimed Edith, laying her small white hand on
his arm, and looking up in his face with her earnest eyes: "by the
memory of the past, when you were young and guiltless, I implore you
to spare my life! Think of the remorse you will endure for this awful
crime in days to come! Oh, Ralph, Ralph! by the love you bore for me
once, commit not the fearful sin! Think of the eternal woe pronounced
against the murderer hereafter, and have mercy upon yourself!"

The thrilling, the intense solemnity of her tone awed even his heart
of stone. Like some wandering strain of music it broke upon his ear,
and for a moment he paused, appalled at the magnitude of the crime he
was about to commit. But his evil mentor whispered in his ear: "It is
too late to retreat"--and the chord she had touched no longer
vibrated.

"You prate in vain!" he exclaimed; "once again, I ask you, will you be
my wife?"

"Never--never!"

He paused, as if to work his feelings up to the most intense pitch of
maddening excitement. His whole frame quivered, and his ghastly face
was convulsed by rage.

"For the last time I ask you, Edith Percival," he said in a voice
hoarse and choked, "will you marry me or die?"

"_I will die!_"

Her words fell clear and distinct in the deep silence of the lonely
night. Foaming with rage, he drew the slender, glittering knife, and
plunged it up to the hilt in her side!

The hot blood spurted up in his face. With one wild cry of mortal
agony, she fell to the ground.

De Lisle stood above her, ghastly and paralyzed by the awful deed.
With one last effort, she rose on her elbow, fixed her dying eyes on
his face, and drew out the dagger. A torrent of blood flowed over her
snowy hands, and dyed with crimson the floor around. Her white lips
parted, but no sound came forth--her eyes grew glazed and sightless,
and she fell back, stiff, and cold and lifeless.

And there, in the light of the solemn stars, in the lonely silence of
the night, the fearful tragedy had been enacted. The cold glare of the
moonlight, streaming through the broken casement, fell softly and
pityingly on the still form that lay on the ground. The golden hair
fell over her face, but the wild, despairing eyes seemed still fixed
on the face of her murderer, as he stood, like one turned to stone,
above her. Her white festal garments were red with blood, and one
little hand still held the dagger, dyed with the same dreadful hue.

De Lisle stood rooted to the ground, feeling as though he neither
lived nor breathed. Everything danced red and fiery before his
eyes--his brain and heart seemed rending in twain. Heaven of heavens!
how those dying, despairing eyes seemed glaring upon him!

Maddened, frenzied, crazed, he turned to rush from the building. His
foot struck against something, and he stumbled. He glanced down, and
saw it was the fatal dagger. With a fearful oath, he hurled it from
him over the craggy bluff, and fled out into the open air.

He paused for a moment, and pressed his hands heavily to his burning
temples, that throbbed madly beneath his fingers. His eyes were like
burning coals--his lips were hot and parched, and his hands trembled
as though he were stricken with the palsy. The night-wind seemed to
shriek in his ear, "Murderer." Ringing--ringing through heart and
brain, was that last dying cry, until he stopped his ears in agonized
horror.

In all that tempest of remorse and terror, arose before him the
oft-spoken words, "What next?"

What should he do? Whither should he go? His first impulse was to rush
from that dreadful spot, and fly--fly far from the world, far from his
fellow-men, and far from himself. One other idea filled his mind: it
was, to destroy the evidence of his crime--to burn the old house and
what it contained. He could not endure to see it standing there, so
dark and ghastly, seeming to mock him in his agony of remorse. There
was a pile of loose brushwood near. He set it on fire, and paused to
gaze, as

         ----"fierce and high
    The death-pile blazed unto the sky."

How red and fiery the flames looked! Were they too, tinged with blood?

He knew the place would soon be surrounded, and he dare not pause to
see his dreadful work accomplished. Like one pursued by a demon, he
fled, and paused not until he had gained the village. There was no one
astir; all were buried in peaceful repose, unconscious of the awful
crime that had just been committed. How the murderer envied them as he
flew past.

He paused not until he had gained his own room, and locked himself in.
A flask of brandy stood on the table. Glass after glass of the fiery
liquid he drained, to drown recollection; but all in vain--all in
vain! Those dying eyes--that despairing cry--that last imploring gaze,
were before him still; and he paced up and down the room like a
maniac, not daring to pause one moment in his rapid walk.

"Fire! Fire!"

The cry ran through the streets, and roused him into action. All was
bustle and confusion. Men were rushing through the streets toward the
scene of the tragedy. He could not endure this dreadful inaction
longer. Opening the door, he left the inn, and mingling with the
crowd, rushed toward the burning house.

Amid all that crowd, no one strove so zealously to extinguish the
flames as he. In the wild excitement, there was no time to think, and
he worked as though his very life depended on it. All their efforts
were, however, vain--higher and higher rose the flames, rearing their
heads, red and fiery, into heaven, until De Lisle almost fancied they
were crying for vengeance on him.

Suddenly a bright sheet of flame shot into the cloudless sky--the next
moment there was a loud crash, as the whole building fell, a mass of
red, fiery ruins, to the ground.

De Lisle felt as though the sight was leaving his eyes, as he
witnessed that last act in the fearful tragedy of the night. The
people wondering how the fire could have originated, were hurrying to
their homes. He dared not venture to go with them; for, in his
excitement, he fancied every one could read "murderer" in his face. He
turned, and plunged into the dark pine woods, scarcely knowing whither
he went, only striving to escape from himself and his haunting
remorse. He could hear _that cry_ as the wind wailed like a lost
spirit through the trees--he could see those imploring eyes still
before him, wherever he went. He put his hand over his eyes, to shut
them out, but all in vain--they were still before him: so mournful, so
beseeching, so sadly reproachful.

"Oh, that this night were over!" he said, wiping the perspiration from
his heated brow. "What have I done, that I should be tortured thus?
Oh, for the waters of Lethe, to drown maddening memory! Shall I never
again know peace?--can I never escape from myself?"

Through the dim, solemn woods he paced until morning. The red sunlight
gilded with golden glory the green tree-tops, and the murderer shrank
from its bright, keen gaze like the guilty thing that he was. He
hurried to his rooms, drained glass after glass of brandy, and then
flung himself on his bed, to lose the recollection of what he had
done, in feverish sleep.




CHAPTER XXVIII.

NEXT MORNING.

    "And over all there hung a baleful gloom--
    The step stole fearful though each shadowy room.
    Dark, sumptuous, solemn as some Eastern pile
    Where mutes keep watch--a home without a smile."

                                             BULWER.

The red light of coming morn dispersed the revelers from Percival
Hall. One by one they departed, until where lately all was music and
mirth, profound silence reigned.

And father and mother, brother and sister, all slept, little dreaming
of the fate of her they loved. During the night, when the gay hours
flitted by on "rosy wings," no presentiment of what was passing in the
lonely house on the Bluff arose before them to mar their festivity.
And now, all unconscious of her absence, or her dreadful fate, they
slept peacefully.

"Where is Edith?" asked Major Percival, as the family assembled, a few
hours after, around the breakfast-table.

"Don't know, I'm sure," replied Nell, to whom the question was
addressed; "I haven't seen her since early last night."

"She was not among the dancers during the morning," remarked Gus; "I
missed her, and heard several wondering at her absence."

"Strange," said the major, frowning slightly. "What must our guests
have thought? Edith has acted very strangely of late."

"Perhaps she is ill," said Mrs. Percival, anxiously. "Tell one of the
servants, Ellen, to go up to her room and see."

"I'll go myself," said Nell, rising, and hurriedly leaving the room.

In a few moments she re-appeared, and with a look of alarm, announced
that Edith was not in her room and that her bed had not been slept in
at all that night.

"Where can she be?" said Mrs. Percival, now thoroughly alarmed, "Good
Heaven! something must have happened."

"Ring the bell, and see if any of the servants know," said the major,
more angry than frightened.

Nell obeyed, and in a moment Betty made her appearance.

"Have you seen Miss Edith this morning?" demanded her master, as she
entered.

"This morning? No, sir."

"Do you know where she is?" said the major, for the first time
beginning to feel slightly alarmed.

"Yes, sir; little Eddy Dillon came here for her last night, saying his
sister Harriet was dying, and wished to see her. She went with him,
and bade me tell you, ma'am, but I found no chance."

"Oh, then, she's safe enough, I suppose," said the major, while Mrs.
Percival drew a long breath, as though relieved.

At this moment, Nugent sauntered carelessly in.

"Well, good folks, have you heard the news?" he asked, throwing
himself indolently on a lounge.

"No--what news?" said Nell.

"Why, the old barn on the Bluff was burned down last night," said
Nugent.

"Burned down! it must have been the work of an incendiary, then," said
his father.

"Doubtless it was, though I cannot see what could have been the object
for which it was done," replied his son.

"Some mischievously-inclined person, who wished to rouse the
villagers," suggested Gus.

"Very likely; 'twas fit for nothing but a bonfire. Where's Edith?"

"At the Widow Dillon's."

"The Widow Dillon's! Why, she hasn't been there since yesterday
morning."

"_What!_"

"She has not been there since yesterday morning," said Nugent,
decidedly; "I was going past there about half an hour ago, and Mrs.
Dillon called me in to see her little girl. Harriet begged me to tell
Edith to come to her immediately, and Mrs. Dillon said she had been
longing for her since she had been there yesterday morning."

"What can be the meaning of all this?" said the major, rising
hurriedly, while Mrs. Percival grew pale with terror. "Her son came
here for Edith last night, and they both departed together."

"She must have left him then, sir," said Nugent, "for she certainly
did not accompany him home. He was in the cottage while I was there,
and made no mention of her having started with him; neither did the
widow allude to her having sent for Edith at all. And now I recollect,
she said she would have sent for her last night, but on account of
the ball, she thought she would not trouble her."

"Oh, Major Percival, something dreadful has happened," said Mrs.
Percival, rising in great agitation; "I feel it! I know it! She has
been carried off again, and we shall never see her more!"

"Nonsense, Mrs. Percival! She is doubtless somewhere in the village,"
said the major, concealing his own alarm. "I will go in search of
her."

"Let me accompany you," said Nugent, springing up; for the many
dangers Edith had recently escaped, made them doubly anxious.

Both quitted the house together, and walked rapidly in the direction
of the village.

"I fear there may be danger, father," said Nugent, uneasily; "the
whole affair seems rather mysterious."

"Heaven forbid!" said his father, hurriedly; "but we must see this boy
with whom she departed, and learn what has happened from him."

They walked on in silence, until they reached the widow's humble
cottage. Mrs. Dillon met them in the doorway, looked alarmed and
excited.

"Oh, Major Percival, I'm so glad to see you! Just look here," and the
widow displayed a purse filled with bright, gold guineas.

"Why, Mrs. Dillon, what piece of good-fortune is this you have met
with? You haven't robbed a bank, I hope," said young Percival.

"No, indeed, Mr. Nugent," said the widow, anxiously. "'Twas _he_
brought this home." And she pointed to where sat her hopeful son and
heir, with his finger in his mouth, looking doggedly on the ground.

"Eddy; why, man alive, where did _you_ get all this money?" said
Nugent, giving him a shake. "Look up, sir. Have you turned
highwayman?"

The boy sat in sulky silence.

"I'm terribly afeared he stole it," said the widow, in evident
distress; "he won't tell where he got it, and I know he never came
honestly by it."

"This is serious," said the major, and must be seen to. "See here, my
fine fellow," he said, sternly, "where did you get this money? Have
you stolen it?"

"No, I didn't steal it," said the boy sullenly.

"Where did you get it, then? Answer me, or I'll have you committed to
prison," said the major with increasing sternness, in order to
intimidate him.

Eddy looked up, and seeing the inflexible look on the face bending
over him, burst into tears.

"Come, my little man, don't cry," said Nugent, patting him on the
head; "tell the truth, and nothing shall be done to you. Where did you
get it?"

"The man gave it to me," sobbed Eddy.

"What man?" inquired Percival.

"The man wot told me to bring Miss Edith to the bluff, last night."

"_What!_" exclaimed the major, catching him so fiercely by the arm,
that the boy uttered a cry of pain.

"Father, be calm," said Nugent, though his own face grew deadly pale,
"we must hear all the particulars, and if you frighten him so, he will
not speak. Begin now at the first, Eddy. Who was this man?"

"I don't know--he didn't tell me his name," replied Eddy.

"Can you describe him? What did he look like?"

"He was tall and dark, with black hair and whiskers, and wore a long
black cloak. I couldn't see his face 'cause his hat was pulled away
down."

"When did you meet him first?"

"Yes'day evening. He asked me if Miss Edith didn't visit Harriet, an'
I said yes; and then he told me to meet him on the bluff at nine
o'clock, and that he would pay me well."

"Did you go?" asked Nugent, growing more and more excited.

"Yes, I went and waited for him in the old barn. He came and told me
to go up to the Hall, and say Harriet wanted Miss Edith--and then
bring her to him and he'd pay me--I--"

The boy paused, and glanced in terror at the agitated face of the
major.

"Go on," said Nugent, hoarsely.

"I'm afraid," said the boy, again beginning to cry.

"Go on, go on, go on!" said the younger man, impatiently; "no one
shall touch you. Did you obey?"

"Yes. I went up to the ball and Miss Edith came with me. She ran
forward when she saw the man, and called him _Fred_, and he gave me
this money and told me to go, and as I ran down hill, I heard her say:
'_Oh, Fred, this is very rash!_' and then she went with him into the
old house."

Father and son gazed into each other's faces, pale with undefined
terror.

"Well, what else?" said Nugent, almost giddy with strange
apprehension.

"Then I come home," went on the boy, reluctantly; "but I wanted to
hear who he was, and what he was going to do. So I came back and stood
where I could see them without they seeing me. I couldn't see his
face, 'cause he had his back turned, but I could hear them talking.
He asked her to go with him and marry him, or something, and she said
she wouldn't, and then--" Again the boy paused, and covered his face
with a shudder.

"Well, _and then_," said Nugent, in a voice that sounded husky and
unnatural.

"He got awfully angry, and took out a long knife; and I got frightened
and ran away," said the boy, trembling at the recollection.

Nugent paused for a moment to master the emotions that threatened to
unman him. Then, with an effort at calmness, he said:

"And what followed next?"

"I went home and went into bed," continued Eddy, "until I heard them
singing out 'fire,' and then I got up and went to the bluff, and the
barn was burning. I saw the man in the crowd, but I was afraid to
speak to him, he seemed so wild-like. When the barn was all burned
down, the people went away, and I saw him go off into the woods, and
that's all I know."

"Merciful Heaven!" exclaimed Nugent, reeling back, as though stunned
by a heavy blow, "Edith is _murdered_!"

"And Fred Stanley is her murderer," said the major, in a voice so deep
and unearthly, that it seemed to issue from the jaws of death.

"It cannot be! it cannot be! it is monstrous! impossible! absurd!"
exclaimed Nugent, in wild excitement. "Fred Stanley could _never_ be
an assassin!"

"I tell you he has murdered her," said his father, in a tone of
concentrated fierceness; "and by the heaven above us, his life shall
pay for hers. An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth, and a life for
a life!" he cried, rushing madly from the house.

Nugent followed; and feeling the necessity for calmness and firmness
in the dreadful crisis, he laid his hand on his arm and arrested his
flying steps.

"Father, father! be calm! be calm for Heaven's sake! Think of my
mother, if she sees you thus, and hears this news; the shock will kill
her. For her sake compose yourself and be calm."

"Calm, sir! _dare_ you talk of calmness when my daughter has been
foully assassinated? Oh, Edith! my child! my child! I will not think
of mourning for thee until I have had vengeance on thy murderer!"

"Father, it is _impossible_ that Fred Stanley has been guilty of this
dreadful deed. I will _never_ believe it!" cried Percival, excitedly.
"A nobler heart never beat within the breast of man than his."

"Who else is there to have done such an act?" said the major,
passionately; "did we not part in anger a few hours before I tell you
there was murder in his flashing eyes, as I watched him ride away. You
heard how it occurred. He urged her to fly with him. She, dreading my
anger, refused, and no doubt maddened by her resistance, he slew her
on the spot. Oh, my daughter! my daughter! why was I not near to save
you from so dreadful a fate!"

He wrung his hands, and groaned aloud in bitter anguish.

"But the villain shall meet his doom," he again exclaimed, with the
old fierceness flashing in his eyes; "this very day shall he be
arrested!"

They walked on in silence, until they reached the foot of the bluff.

"Let us visit the scene of the tragedy," said Nugent, as they paused
for a moment to contemplate the heap of black, smoking ruins.

They turned to ascend. Scarcely had they gone a dozen steps, when the
major's eye fell on something bright gleaming among the rocks. He
stooped to pick it up, and started back with a cry of horror.

It was the fatal dagger, red with still undried blood. As he turned it
over, his eye fell on the name engraven on the handle--_Frederic
Stanley_.

"Just Heaven! how wonderful is thy retribution!" he exclaimed, as he
handed the knife to his son. "With this fatal blade the deed was done,
and the murderer's name is on it. In the excitement of the moment, he
has cast it away and forgot it."

Pale with horror, Nugent examined it. He had often seen the dagger
with Fred; it had been given him by his father in his boyhood, and was
prized as his gift. To doubt his guilt longer, seemed out of the
question, and yet how _could_ he believe him guilty. Fred Stanley, so
brave, so generous, so noble-hearted, guilty of so dreadful a crime.
Oh, never, never! The thought was too unnatural to be entertained.

They stood at length, gazing with feelings impossible to describe on
the smoldering remains of the fire. There Edith had been slain, and
her body had perished amid the flames.

It was with very different feelings they stood gazing upon the charred
and smoking ruins. In Major Percival's breast, above every other
feeling, was the fierce, burning desire for vengeance. He could
scarcely think of sorrow, so intense was his desire for revenge; it
seemed an injustice to her memory to allow her murderer one moment
longer to burden the earth. Hanging seemed a thousand times too good
for him, and he would have given worlds to see him broken on the
wheel, tortured on the rack, or roasted at a slow fire for the crime
he had committed.

In Nugent's heart, horror for his sister's dreadful fate, a feeling of
remorse that he had not been near to save her, were mingled with
agonizing doubts, whether or not to believe Fred Stanley guilty. One
moment, he almost hated himself for believing him capable of such an
action; and then the startling train of circumstantial evidence would
arise before him, until there seemed no longer room for the shadow of
a doubt. Amid all this war of conflicting emotions, neither of them
suspected Ralph De Lisle, whom they imagined far away.

"Ha! what have we here?" exclaimed Nugent, suddenly, as a portion of a
blue scarf caught his eye, lying under a charred and broken stick. He
picked it up. Both recognized it as one Edith had worn that fatal
night. It was of rich, blue silk, embroidered with silver fringe, and
now more than half burned. It was spotted with blood, and near the end
was a hole, exactly such as would be made by the dagger.

"It is but another proof of his guilt," said the major, in a low,
thick voice. "Oh, Edith! Edith! but there is no time for mourning!
When Justice is satisfied there will be time enough for tears."

His eyes were burning and tearless, his face was deadly pale, but
there was a look of fierce determination in his face.

As they re-entered the village, they were met by the bustling little
landlord of the inn.

"Ah! good morning, Major Percival! good morning, Mr. Nugent! fine day
this; been up to the fire, I s'pose; queer thing that, queer thing.
S'pose you haven't seen anything of a tall fellow in a black cloak,
and hat over his face, hey?"

"What of him?" said Nugent, with breathless interest.

"Oh, nothing! nothing! only he came here late last night, and ordered
a room; then went out and didn't come in till after midnight. Two or
three minutes after, he was off to the fire, and since then nobody's
seen him. Funny chap! went off without paying the reckoning, and drank
more brandy than I like to think of. Good morning!" And the landlord
bustled away.

Major Percival hurried to the nearest magistrate, to make a deposition
of the case, and obtain a warrant for the arrest of Fred Stanley.
Nugent, finding the task of announcing the dreadful news devolved upon
him, hastened home--stunned and bewildered, like one who walks in a
dream.

Gently as he broke the news to them, the effect was terrible. Mrs.
Percival fell into violent convulsions, and was carried to her room.
Nell grew deadly white, and such a feeling of sickness came over her,
that for a moment she was on the verge of fainting. But when she heard
Fred accused as the murderer, indignation restored her to herself, and
she exclaimed, vehemently:

"I'll _never_ believe it--never, never! I would as soon credit it,
Nugent, if they said you did it yourself. Oh, how dreadful! how
dreadful!--to think we were all here, dancing and enjoying ourselves,
and Edith lying cold and dead, without one friend near to aid her! Oh,
Edith, Edith, Edith! my dearly-beloved sister!"

She covered her face with her hands, and wept so hysterically that
both Nugent and Gus were alarmed. The latter endeavored to console
her; but she pushed him away, saying:

"No, no! let me alone! Oh, Edith, Edith! my murdered sister!"

And all through that day she wandered about the gloomy house, wringing
her hands and repeating that dear name--her pale face, disheveled
hair, and disordered dress, giving her the look of one insane. It was
a silent and gloomy mansion, indeed. The servants, pale with horror,
stole about as noiselessly as ghosts through the house, still as the
grave, save when a wild shriek from the darkened room of Mrs. Percival
would reach their ears. And Nell wandered vacantly about, twisting her
pale fingers and repeating, "Edith! Edith!"--seeing but one object:
the murdered form of her sister.

Through the village the news had spread like wildfire. Men were
gathered in groups at every corner, talking over the tragic
occurrence; women forgot their household affairs to speak of the
goodness of the murdered girl, and weep over her untimely fate--for
Edith was universally beloved. People spoke of it in low whispers, for
the whole affair seemed wrapped in mystery. Never had such a thing
been heard of before in that quiet little village; and they almost
held their breath, as they wondered whose turn it would be next.




CHAPTER XXIX.

THE ARREST.

    "And yet he seems not overcome,
    Although as yet his voice be dumb."

In the little parlor of the "Bottle and Bowl" sat Fred Stanley. He was
stretched at full length on a lounge, leisurely smoking a cigar, and
listening to the merry, ringing voice of Mrs. Rosie Wilde, as she
alternately scolded the servants, laughed with the neighbors, and
talked to the baby. And while he indolently watched the blue smoke
wreathing upward, Fred was thinking.

He thought of Edith, and wondered if he should ever see her dear face
again; of her stern father and his invincible antipathy to himself; of
his hated rival, Ralph De Lisle; of his father, who was on the eve of
departure for England, and whom he had never seen since the night he
liberated him; of the mysterious Hermit, and wondered what new danger
was destined to bring them face to face; and lastly, of himself, as
yet undecided what to do or whither to go.

The quick tramp of a horse's feet dashing down the street arrested his
attention. The horseman drew up and alighted at the inn door. Fred
fancied his form was familiar; but he stood undecided, until he heard
the new-comer pronounce his name in quick, hurried tones. The next
moment, the door was thrown violently open, and Gus Elliott, pale,
haggard, dusty, and travel-worn, burst into the room.

"Gus, my dear fellow! is it possible?" exclaimed Fred, springing up
and grasping his hand. "But," he added, seeing his despairing face,
"what in the world has happened?"

Gus fixed his eyes on his face. He could read nothing there but frank
astonishment. Would a guilty man act and look thus? His doubts, if he
entertained any, vanished in a moment; and wringing the hand his
friend extended, he exclaimed:

"Oh, Fred! then you have not heard? How can I tell you the dreadful
story!"

"_What_ dreadful story? My dear Gus sit down and compose yourself. You
look as though you were insane."

"Do I? I may well look insane. You, too, will look insane, when you
have heard my story."

"Then let me hear it."

"Oh, Fred! my business here is _very_ painful--painful in the
extreme!"

"Then, my dear Gus, let me advise you to get it over as soon as
possible. The longer you hesitate, the worse it will be," said Fred,
resuming his seat on the lounge.

"Have you no idea of what my errand is? I come from Percival Hall."

"Well?" said Fred, inquiringly.

Gus paced silently up and down.

"Does it concern Edith?" inquired Fred, for the first time beginning
to feel alarmed.

"It does."

"What has happened? Good Heaven! Gus, has De Lisle carried her off
again?"

"No, no! worse still!" groaned Gus.

"What mean you?" cried Fred, springing up, white with apprehension.
"Is she--is she--"

"_Dead!_" said Gus, solemnly.

There was a long pause. Gus turned to the window, to hide his
agitation. He did not venture to look at his friend, whose deep,
labored breathing sounded unnaturally loud in the silence of the room.

"Where--how--when did she die?" he asked, at length, in a voice so
altered that Gus started back in terror.

"Fred, my dear friend, prepare yourself for the worst!" he said,
scarcely daring to tell all.

"The worst has passed. Edith is dead! Nothing you can say now will
affect me," he answered, with such unnatural calmness that Fred almost
feared the blow had unsettled his reason.

"Then, Fred, she was--murdered!"

Another long paused followed. Fred's face had grown so sternly rigid
that it looked as though turned to marble.

"By whom?" he asked.

"That is unknown," replied Gus, who shrank with cowardly fear from
telling him all.

"When was she--when did this happen?" said Fred, whose lips seemed
unable to frame the word.

"The night before last. The news has spread like wildfire; and I had
hoped that you had heard it ere this, and so spared me the pains of
being the first to announce it."

"Where is Ralph De Lisle?" said Fred, in a tone that plainly indicated
he had little doubt who was the murderer.

"I know not. Most probably on his way to England, or in the far
Southwest. No one suspects him of being the murderer."

"Who, then, can it be? How could one so sweet, so gentle, have
enemies? Was she robbed as well as murdered?"

"Her body was not found," said Gus, who uttered each word as slowly
and reluctantly as though it burned his lips. "You recollect, perhaps,
the old barn on the bluff?"

"Yes."

"She was decoyed there and slain. The barn was afterwards set on fire,
and her remains were consumed in the flames."

Something like a groan escaped the lips of Fred. Sinking into a seat,
he shaded his face with his hand, and for several moments sat silent
and motionless. Then, without rising his head or looking up, he said,
huskily:

"Tell me the particulars. I would know all."

Sadly and reluctantly Gus complied. Fred sat with his hand still
shading his face--his long dark locks falling heavily over his
temples--so cold and still that he seemed to be slowly petrifying. Gus
related all save who was the suspected murderer--his lips refused to
reveal that.

"You see the affair is wrapped in complete mystery," he concluded.
"But no doubt the murderer will yet be found. No exertion will be
spared to ferret him out. The arm of divine Providence is long enough
to reach him, even to the uttermost bounds of the earth."

Fred did not speak or move. The suddenness of the shock seemed to have
completely stunned him.

"My dear friend," said Gus, going over and laying his hand on Fred's
shoulder, "bear up! It is a heavy blow, and I can sympathize with you;
but never despair! We all knew and loved Edith--we all feel her loss;
but still, despair is useless. Bear up Fred, and be a man! I have
seen you before now face death at the cannon's mouth without wincing;
and will you now sink under affliction like a timid girl?"

Fred looked up, and disclosed a face so pale and eyes so despairing,
that Gus felt his words were worse than useless.

He went and took a seat by the window, and gazed out. Fred, his face
hidden by his hand and his black locks, sat silent and motionless. And
so an hour passed before either moved or spoke.

The sound of a carriage stopping before the door at length startled
Gus. He looked up eagerly, and grew a shade paler, as he heard a
quick, authoritative voice inquire for "Mr. Frederic Stanley."

"Step into the parlor, sir, if you please. He's there with another
gentleman," said the cheery voice of Rosie Wilde.

The door was pushed open; and stern and excited, the sheriff of the
county, followed by a constable, stood before them.

"Mr. Stanley, I believe," said the sheriff, bowing to Fred, who lifted
his head and answered briefly in the affirmative.

"Then, sir, I arrest you, in the name of the law," said the sheriff,
letting his hand fall on the young man's shoulder.

"_Arrest me!_" exclaimed Fred, springing to his feet, and fiercely
shaking off the officer's hand, as though stung by a viper.

"Such is my painful duty, sir."

"In the name of Heaven, sir, upon what charge?" impetuously exclaimed
Fred, now thoroughly aroused into action.

"You are arrested upon charge of having murdered Edith Percival."

Fred reeled as though suddenly struck, and was forced to grasp the
table for support. For a moment everything seemed swimming around him;
then, conscious that the cold, keen eyes of the official were fixed
upon him, he recovered his usual stately firmness, and answered, with
cold self-possession:

"I am ready to attend you, sir. Gus, farewell! Do _you_ believe this
charge?"

"Heaven forbid, Fred!" said Gus, in a choking voice.

"You knew, when you came, I was suspected--did you not?"

"Yes; but it was so monstrous, so absurd, I could not tell you."

"It would have been better if you had; but it matters not now. The
world, no doubt, believes me guilty; but what care I for the world
now? Sir, I am quite ready."

The sheriff bowed, and in his charge Fred quitted the room. Bidding
adieu to Mrs. Wilde, whose lamentations were loud and heartfelt, he
entered the carriage, which was driven immediately toward the county
jail.




CHAPTER XXX.

THE TRIAL.

    "And he for her had also wept,
      But for her the eyes that on him gazed;
    His sorrow, if he felt it, slept,
      Stern and erect his brow was raised;
    Whate'er the grief his soul avowed,
      He would not shrink before the crowd."

A fortnight had passed away since the arrest of Fred Stanley. The
court would sit in another week, and his trial was among the first in
the session.

In his cell the prisoner sat alone. His face was pale but firm, sad
but composed. His long-neglected locks fell darkly over his lofty
brow, as he sat watching a faded sunbeam that stole through the dusty,
grated window. He heard the key turn in the lock; the next moment the
door opened, and Gus entered.

Fred arose and extended his hand, saying, with a sad smile.

"This is indeed kind, Gus! All the rest of the world seems to have
deserted me but you."

"They believe you guilty, Fred--I do not. I would have visited you
before, but circumstances would not permit. When does your trial come
on?"

"To-morrow week."

"You have engaged counsel?"

"Yes, Mr. Joice--one of the best lawyers in the State."

"That's well. Oh, there's no fear of your acquittal, Fred. It seems
incredible to me how you could ever have been suspected."

"You forget the circumstantial evidence."

"Nothing _but_ circumstantial evidence, nevertheless, my dear friend."

"True, but much slighter has been found sufficient to condemn a man
before now."

"But it will not in your case. I feel sure of it! It is impossible,
Fred, that you can be convicted!" exclaimed Gus, impetuously rising
and pacing the cell.

"Well, never mind that now. What's the news from the outer world? What
does public opinion say of me?"

"Public opinion's a--fool!"

"In many cases it is, no doubt; but what does it say of me?"

"It says you're--guilty."

"I thought so," said Fred, quietly. "This charitable world is always
inclined to look on the worst possible side of things. No doubt there
will be an immense crowd at the trial."

"Oh, of course! you never saw such excitement. Your family and the
Percivals being so highly connected, nothing else is talked of. People
are looking forward to the trial with an eagerness and anxiety you can
have no idea of. They are crazy to get a sight of you, too, and you
may expect to endure a pretty prolonged stare from a couple of
thousand eyes on that day. This exaggerated anxiety would be ludicrous
were it not so annoying," said Gus, biting his lip.

"Where are the Percivals now?" inquired Fred, after a pause.

"The major and Nugent are in town, here Mrs. Percival, whose life is
despaired of, is at home; and poor Nell, half-insane with grief, is
with her."

"Is my father here yet?"

"Yes; I saw him yesterday, looking as though fifty years had lately
been added to his age; but as proud and haughty as ever. 'Tis said he
will wait until after your trial, and then leave for England."

"I suppose he imagines me guilty, like the rest?"

"No doubt; but when your trial is over, and your innocence clearly
proved, perhaps they will change their tune."

"It matters little," said Fred, "even though I am acquitted; public
opinion will still believe me guilty, and I will be just as much a
murderer in the eyes of the world, as though I had been condemned. But
what do I care for the opinion of the world?" he added, drawing
himself proudly up, while some of the old haughtiness flashed in his
eye, and curled his lip. "I live in a world of my own, as high above
theirs as heaven is above the earth. But you, dear Gus--I should be
sorry to lose _your_ faith in my integrity. How will you be able to
maintain your belief in my innocence, against such an overwhelming
mass of testimony as will be brought against me?"

"Though all the world should believe you guilty, Fred, I never will,"
replied Gus, firmly.

"Even though I should be condemned?"

"Even though you should be condemned!"

"Heaven bless you, my dear friend," said Fred, grasping his hand,
while tears sprang to his deep, dark eyes.

"And now I must leave you, Fred," said Gus. "I will see you to-morrow
again, if possible. Meantime, remember the old motto: 'Hope on, hope
ever.'"

"There remains but little for me to hope for," said Fred sadly.
"Hitherto, I have always borne an unsullied name; but now, the
disgrace of this trial for murder will cling to me for life."

"Nonsense, Fred! the world is not so unjust! 'Before morning dawns,
night is ever darkest.' There are bright days in store for you yet,
believe me."

"You are unusually full of 'wise saws' to-day, Gus," said Fred with
something like the old smile flitting over his handsome face. "I shall
wait impatiently for your coming, to-morrow; for, shut in this black
hole, it seems like a glimpse of the outer world to catch sight of
you."

Gus knocked at the door to be let out. The jailor opened it, and the
youth disappeared.

       *       *       *       *       *

The day of trial came at last. Even at early morn the streets were
crowded by the excited mob, anxious to catch a glimpse of the prisoner
when he should be led forth. Stores were closed; for men forgot to buy
and sell in talking over the dreadful murder, and the assassin's
probable fate. Women forgot their ordinary occupation, to chat over
the demerits of the case; for the prisoner being young, handsome and
highly connected, deeply interested the fair sex. Even children forgot
their marbles and tops in the all-absorbing topic; and played at
"trials," and talked of judge and juries, instead of kites and
pen-knives. In short, nothing was thought or spoken of, but the one
exciting subject--the trial of Frederic Stanley, on the appalling
charge of murder.

The doors were at length thrown open--the crowd rushed in, and the
court-room was filled to suffocation. A deep, low murmur, like the
surging of the sea, filled the air, as the mighty crowd swayed to and
fro. The murmur increased almost into a roar as the prisoner, in the
custody of the sheriff, entered. The dark, scowling faces on every
side showed how deeply the mob were prejudiced against him, and it was
with the utmost difficulty order could be maintained.

Fred entered with the careless grace habitual to him--his fine head
erect, his keen, dark eyes fixed calmly on the excited crowd. More
than one scowling glance fell before his haughty, scornful eye; and
the public were forced to think that he looked far more like some
captive prince than an assassin. If he were guilty, he certainly
betrayed no sign of it.

Taking his place at the bar, Fred glanced again at the crowd in the
court-room. There sat Major Percival, with a brow stern and dark as
night, his eyes fixed on the prisoner with a look of such intense
hatred and loathing, that he seemed longing to tear him limb from
limb. Near him sat Nugent, his eyes fixed on the crowd, his brow
clouded; but there was a look far more of sorrow than of anger on his
face. That he believed him guilty there could be little doubt; and for
a moment a feeling of despair weighed on the heart of Fred at the
thought: "If Nugent Percival, with his open, generous nature, and
noble mind, believed him capable of murder, what could he expect from
strangers?"

At the opposite end of the court-room, with his arms folded across his
breast, his cloak thrown over his shoulders, and wrapped in his
haughty pride as in a garment, sat Sir William Stanley. His face was
cold and stern, his eye clear and unpitying, his mouth firm and rigid.
Whether he believed in his son's guilt or not, it would be hard to
determine. Nothing could be read from his face; all was stern and
expressionless there.

Again he glanced over the crowd. Whichever way he turned, nothing met
his eyes but fierce looks and sullen glances. Those who had been his
friends in other days, sat with downcast eyes and averted faces; no
kindly look was there. Not one among all that immense crowd, if called
upon to pronounce his doom, but would have shouted: "Guilty! guilty!"

He turned away with a feeling of despair at his heart, but his outward
bearing was bold, undaunted, and almost defying. He glanced at the
Bench. Even the presiding judge seemed to have made up his mind as to
the guilt of the prisoner, judging by the look his face wore.

As for the jury, little could be read from their blank faces, but more
than one of them he knew to be his personal enemies.

Amid all that assembly, there was but _one_ who in his heart believed
in the innocence of the prisoner. Gus, faithful to the last, stood by
his side, returning every look of hatred directed toward his friend
with compound interest, and endeavoring, by his cheerful face and
hopeful glances, to encourage him to trust for the best.

Having taken his place, the usual charge was read, arraigning the
prisoner with the willful murder of Edith Percival, by stabbing her
with a knife, on the night of the fifth of June. Fred listened with
outward calmness to the charge, and when the clerk of the court asked
the usual question: "Frederic Stanley, how say you--are you guilty or
not guilty of the felony with which you are charged?" his dark eye
flashed and his lip curled, as he answered, with cold haughtiness:

"Not guilty!"

The State's attorney then arose, and proceeded with his address. No
pen can describe the emotions which his eloquence and pathos produced
in minds already made up to believe the prisoner's guilt. To destroy
any favorable impression the well-known nobleness and generosity of
the prisoner might have made on the minds of the jury, he spoke of the
excesses to which blind rage will often excite even the most tranquil,
of his known haughtiness and fiery temper, which could never endure
opposition.

He dwelt long and eloquently on each trifling circumstance that could
by any possibility heighten his guilt, until Gus grew pale with
apprehension.

As he proceeded to state the case, the audience were wrought up to a
pitch of the highest excitement.

He stated that the prisoner at the bar had conceived a passion for his
unhappy victim, knowing her to be the betrothed of another; how by his
artful words he induced her to forget her plighted engagement and turn
her affections to himself, that he had audaciously disclosed his
feelings to the father, boasting of his ascendancy over her at the
same time; that meeting with what he deserved, an indignant dismissal,
he had departed in high anger; that some time after, her former
engagement being broken by a circumstance not necessary to mention,
the prisoner, on the evening of the murder, again made his appearance
in the little village--thinking, no doubt, he was now sure of success;
that he was met by the young lady's father, who refused to permit him
to see her, that angry words ensued, and the prisoner rode off in
high displeasure; but instead of leaving the village, had by means of
a little boy, decoyed his victim to a lonely house, and there, upon
her steadily refusing to fly with him, murdered her.

The prosecuting attorney spoke of all this at length, not with the
brevity with which it is summed up here.

He referred to the gentle and amiable character of the unhappy young
lady--her beauty, her goodness, and the deep, trusting affection for
himself with which her murderer had inspired her. How unsuspectingly
she had been betrayed into meeting the unworthy object of her love,
and because her sense of duty was greater than her affection for him,
was, as she stood there with him, alone and helpless, basely
assassinated.

So touching was the picture he drew, so pathetic were his words, that
all the women present sobbed convulsively, and even among the men,
many eyes, all unused to the "melting mood," grew dim, and flashed
still more fiercely through their tears on the prisoner, who, with his
face shaded by his hand, strove to hide the agony he endured, when the
speaker dwelt on the harrowing fate of his beloved Edith.

The State's attorney concluded by saying he would prove his statements
by _facts_--stern, undeniable facts--by competent and respectable
witnesses, whom he would now call in the order of the circumstances
they were to prove had occurred.

"Major Percival will take the stand."

The major advanced, and after the usual oath, testified that the
prisoner at the bar had conceived a passion for the deceased, which
she returned, that the prisoner had boldly informed the witness of it,
and that they had parted in high anger. That on the evening of the
murder the witness had accidentally met the prisoner, and accosted
him, demanding his business there, knowing he could have come for no
good purpose; that the prisoner had audaciously told him he came to
see his daughter once more before leaving the country; that he
indignantly bade him begone, and that the prisoner in a rage had rode
off, and that he had not seen him since until to-day at the bar.

Being cross-examined, he admitted, that at parting, the prisoner had
made use of no threats, and that his own words had been angry and
insulting. The witness was then allowed to retire.

The next witness called was Nugent Percival.

He corroborated the testimony of his father; and further deposed, that
after learning the particulars of the murder, he had, in company with
his father, visited the spot; that he had found a dagger, stained with
blood, which he knew to be the property of the prisoner, as it bore
his name, and had been the gift of his father. That he likewise
discovered a portion of a silk scarf, which he knew the deceased had
worn on the night of the murder.

The dagger and scarf were produced, and identified by the witness.

A severe cross-examination followed, but nothing more was elicited.

Sir William Stanley was then called; who, after closely examining the
dagger, pronounced it to be the same he had himself given his son.

Fred listened like one thunderstruck to this testimony. That the
dagger was his, there could be no doubt, and he now recollected having
lost it a short time previous to the murder; but had troubled himself
little about it--never dreaming it would yet bear so fatally against
him in a court of justice.

Gus, who had listened with equal surprise, now stooped down and
whispered:

"Bah! that proves nothing. The murderer might have accidentally found
it or stolen it to lay the blame on you."

The third witness called was Edward Dillon.

Master Eddy came up with a swagger, evidently in the highest spirits.
Convinced that nothing would be done to him for his share in the
transaction, and elated by the reward promised him if he told the
truth boldly, he was in excellent humor, and delighted to find himself
shining off before so great a crowd.

"Witness, do you understand the nature of an oath?" asked the State's
attorney.

"'Spect I do," said Eddy, seriously.

"What is an oath?"

Eddy laid his finger on his nose in deep meditation; but, evidently,
the question was a poser. He glanced appealingly at the judge, but
that high functionary was looking at him through his gold-rimmed
spectacles, with silent but overwhelming dignity. Finding no help from
this quarter, Eddy scratched his head with a look of intense
perplexity.

"Witness, what is an oath?" solemnly repeated his interlocutor.

"Well, if I must, I _must_, though I plaguey hate to," said Eddy.
"When you told the tailor day afore yesterday when he asked you for
his bill, to 'go to the devil,' _that_ was an oath."

A roar of laughter from the crowd followed this, while the attorney,
who was noted for now and then indulging in profanity, turned crimson
with rage.

"Silence, sir, and answer to the point," he angrily exclaimed. "Do you
know where you'll go to when you die if you take a false oath?"

"Well, I s'pose I'd go where they say all the bad folks and the
lawyers go."

And Eddy gave his head a peculiar jerk, to designate the place below.

Another snicker from the crowd followed this, and convinced by this
time that Eddy really did know the nature of an oath, the court
concluded that that promising young gentleman should be sworn.

"Witness, look at the prisoner at the bar."

Eddy turned and favored Fred with a patronizing nod and grin.

"Now, witness, you have seen the prisoner. Do you know him?"

"Well, I can't say that I am particularly acquainted with him,"
answered Eddy gravely.

"Have you ever seen him before?"

"Well, now, I really couldn't say for certain, you know. Think I have,
though."

"Does he look like anyone you have ever seen?"

"If he had a long cloak on, and a hat pulled over his face, I would be
s'prised if he looked uncommon like the chap as got me to go for Miss
Edith."

"Witness, on your oath, can you testify that this is not the same
person who paid you on the night of the murder to bring the young lady
to the lone house on the bluff?"

"'Twas after night, and his hat was away down over his face, and the
rest of him was kivered up by a big cloak, and not having the eyes of
a cat, I couldn't 'stinguish him precisely. He was 'bout the size of
that 'ere prisoner, though, and--yes, he had long, black hair like
him, too--I saw that."

"Well, now tell the jury all that passed between you and the murderer
that night."

Interlarding the narrative with many explanations of his own, not
particularly lucid, and many profound observations on what he thought
and said to "hisself," which were generally cut short by the
unceremonious attorney, Eddy proceeded with his tale, which is too
well known to the reader to need repetition here.

When he came to the meeting, where Edith addressed her murderer as
"_Fred_," the prisoner lifted his head and gazed upon the boy with a
look of utter amazement. That he was telling the truth there could be
no doubt, for there was an unmistakable look of honesty and candor on
his face.

Eddy was severely cross-examined by the counsel for the defense, but
all his answers were plain and straightforward, and to the point. At
length, thoroughly exasperated by this raking fire of cross-questions,
he indignantly and stoutly refused to answer a single question more.
And amid the laughter of the audience, Master Eddy was permitted to
sit down.

The girl Betty was then called, who corroborated the evidence of Eddy,
as far as coming for the deceased was concerned, and further
identified the scarf as one the deceased had worn on leaving home.

The landlord of the inn was the next witness summoned, who deposed
that a stranger, answering to the description given of the murderer,
had engaged a room in his house for the night, that half an hour
previous to the murder, he had hastily left the house and turned in
the direction of the old house on the bluff; that he had returned in
great haste, and evidently much excited, and drank a great deal of
brandy; that, upon the alarm of fire being given, he had hastened out
with the rest, and that his almost frantic actions had excited the
wonder of several; that after the fire, he (the witness) had hastened
home, that he observed the assassin plunge into the woods, and
returned to his house no more. Being cross-examined, he could not
swear positively that the prisoner at the bar and the murderer were
one and the same person, as he had not, during the night, procured a
good view of his face, but he _thought_ they were the same--their
height was alike, the color of their hair, etc.

Several other witnesses were examined, but nothing more of importance
was elicited, and the court was shortly after adjourned until the
following day.

On the second day of the great trial, the crowd was even greater than
before--all eager to hear the fate of the prisoner. Every eye was
turned upon him as he entered. Pale, but firm, his eagle eye met the
gaze of that crowd, all anxious for his condemnation, without
flinching, and taking his seat, he lifted his princely head, and fixed
his dark eyes on the Bench as calmly as though the men before him held
not his life in their hands.

When the last witness for the prosecution had been examined, the
defense was taken up, and conducted with great skill and eloquence by
the counsel for the prisoner. He spoke at length upon the high
character his client had always maintained, and enlarged on every
point that could possibly been in his favor. It was evident, however,
his words made but little impression on the minds of the jury.

The counsel for the prosecution then arose, and summed up the
testimony against the prisoner in one mighty, crushing mass of
evidence. When the judge stood up to charge the jury, the silence of
that mighty crowd was so deep that it might almost be felt. It was
quite evident that in his mind there existed no doubt of the
prisoner's guilt, and though he urged the jury to deliberate calmly
upon the evidence, everyone present felt that the prisoner's doom was
sealed.

The jury withdrew to deliberate, and the silence of that mighty crowd
was so profound and ominous that it was painful to witness. Every eye
was directed toward the prisoner, who, with his stately head erect,
his proud, handsome face as cold and firm as marble, betrayed no sign
of his feelings within. Gus, noble, true-hearted Gus, still stood
faithful by his side, his only remaining friend, and looking fierce
defiance at every scrowling glance directed toward Fred.

And what were the feelings of those who in other days had stood by him
during those awful moments of suspense. Sir William Stanley, as stern
and grim as death itself, sat with his lips compressed, his stony eyes
fixed on the floor, his iron face expressing no emotion, whatever.
Major Percival sat, deadly pale, but with the old look of mingled
hatred and triumph on his face. Nugent's head was bowed on his hand,
his face hidden by his falling hair.

Presently the jury re-entered. The foreman arose, and announced that
their verdict was ready. One look at their sad, stern faces, and every
heart stood still, knowing well what was to come.

The judge arose.

"Gentlemen of the jury, how say you, is the prisoner at the bar guilty
or not guilty?"

"_Not guilty!_" cried the clear, excited voice of a female, and
forcing her way through the crowd that fell back in mingled fear and
amazement, a young girl stood before the bench.

Throwing back the veil that hid her face, the new-comer turned slowly
round, and the wonder-struck spectators beheld the pale but beautiful
Edith Percival.




CHAPTER XXXI.

EDITH'S STORY.

    "Then think of this maxim, and cast away sorrow,
    The wretched to-day may be happy to-morrow!"

For a moment the profound silence of intense amazement held every
tongue speechless, every voice silent, and the dense crowd stood
motionless, spell-bound! And then, "Edith! Edith! Edith Percival!"
rang out like the roar of the sea.

The excitement and uproar was fearful; the judge sat transfixed; the
jury gazed on her with mouth and eyes agape; the crowd reeled and
swayed to see one who seemed to have risen from the grave to vindicate
the prisoner; the clerk of the court forgot to cry silence, and stood
staring in speechless astonishment, like the rest.

And Fred--the sudden revulsion of feeling, the unexpected sight of one
he imagined in heaven, came so stunningly upon him, that for a moment
the sight left his eyes, his senses reeled, and he leaned his head
upon the railing, feeling as though he should faint. It was but for
an instant--then all his wonderful power of self-control came back,
and he lifted his head--almost fearing what he had seen and heard was
but a delusion, a dream. But no, there stood Edith alive, lovely and
radiant as when he first beheld her--her soft blue eyes beaming upon
him with such a look of deep unutterable love.

With a passionate exclamation, Major Percival arose to his feet, and
would have sprung toward his daughter, but as well might he have
endeavored to force his way through a wall of iron, as through that
madly excited crowd. Nugent perceived how vain would be the effort,
and though almost delirious himself with overwhelming emotion, he
strove to keep him back from the crushing throng of human beings.

But above all the noise and uproar that filled the court-house, there
arose a cry, a cry so full of unspeakable horror and despair, that
every heart stood still. All eyes were turned in the direction from
whence it came, and there, before them, like a galvanized corpse,
stood Ralph De Lisle. Oh! such a ghastly face, such livid lips flecked
with blood and foam, such wild despairing, horror-struck eyes! Every
face blanched with a deep, unspeakable awe as they gazed.

"Sheriff, I command you to arrest Ralph De Lisle, on charge of
attempting the murder of Edith Percival," called a calm, commanding
voice, that sounded strangely clear and cool amid all that wild storm
of passion and excitement, and waving his arm to where stood the
conscience-stricken man, the Hermit of the Cliffs turned toward the
Bench.

"Never!" shouted De Lisle, fiercely--all his presence of mind
returning with the imminence of his danger, as he struggled madly to
force his way through the waving sea of beings between him and the
door.

But he struggled in vain. The strong hand of the officer grasped his
collar in a grip of iron.

"Dog of a sheriff! release me!" he cried, foaming with rage, and
endeavoring to wrench himself from his powerful grasp.

Half-a-dozen willing hands were raised to aid the officer, when De
Lisle, seeing all hope was past, with the rapidity of lightning, drew
a pistol and leveled it at Edith. She stood white and motionless,
unable to move, while a low cry of horror arose from the spectators.
But his murderous object failed, for as quick as thought, his arm was
struck upward, while the pistol fell to the ground and went off. A
shriek of pain followed, and a boy was raised from the floor,
bleeding, and carried out--the ball having lodged in his ankle.

This did not tend to allay the feelings of the mob, who turned upon De
Lisle, and would have torn him in pieces but for the interference of
the officers. His arms, after desperate resistance, were pinioned
firmly behind his back, and still struggling like a madman, he was
borne to a place of safety.

With the utmost difficulty, peace was at length restored, and Edith
was commanded to tell her story; and then the deepest silence followed
where a moment before all had been fierce noise and wild uproar, and
all ears were bent and necks strained to catch each word that fell
from her lips. But Edith was so weak and faint from excitement, that
her voice was inarticulate. A chair was brought for her, and a glass
of water presented by Gus, who--poor, faithful fellow--scarcely knew
whether he ought to laugh or cry, and consequently did neither, and
then, revived, Edith turned to the Bench, and began:

"I presume all here present know most of the events of that night. Oh,
that dreadful night! I cannot even now think of it without a shudder.

"Thinking I was to visit his sister, I accompanied the boy, Eddy
Dillon, from home. Forming some excuse, he persuaded me to go with him
to the old house on the bluff. As we ascended the hill, the figure of
a man wrapped in a cloak--his face hidden by his hat--stepped from the
old house and stood before us. I imagined it to be Frederic Stanley,
who that evening had been in the village, and thinking he had employed
the boy to lead me there for a clandestine interview, I addressed him
by his name. He did not reply, but said something in a whisper to
Eddy, who immediately ran away. Still, thinking it was Fred, I
followed him into the old house, and again called him by his name.
Still he was silent. I grew alarmed; when he dropped his cloak, raised
his hat, and I saw before me my mortal enemy--Ralph De Lisle!"

Edith shuddered, and covered her face with her hands as memory
conjured up that almost fatal night.

"I was so shocked, so startled, so terror-stricken, that for a moment
I almost fainted. I scarcely know how I rallied, but I was inspired by
sudden courage, and stood fearlessly before him. He urged me to fly
with him or die. Death was preferable to life with him, and I refused.
Blinded, maddened by my refusal, he drew a dagger and plunged it into
my side. Dimly, as one remembers a frightful dream, I recollect
falling to the ground; then I drew out the knife, and then all grew
dark, and with a dull roaring sound as of many waters in my ears,
memory and life were alike for a time lost in oblivion.

"When I again opened my eyes, I found myself lying in the little
cottage among the cliffs, occupied by the aged hermit. For days I
hovered between death and life, and with a care for which I can never
be sufficiently grateful, the hermit watched over me, night and day.
He scarcely ever left me, even for his necessary repose; and owing to
his care, I slowly recovered. He said it would be dangerous to remove
me home, and I was too weak and powerless to care where I was. As he
never went out, we heard nothing of what was transpiring in the outer
world, until yesterday, yielding to my entreaties, he went to inform
my parents that I was still alive. The first person he met related the
arrest of Mr. Stanley, and informed him he was to be tried for
murdering me to-day. With almost frantic haste, he turned home and
told me all; and scarcely pausing to make the necessary arrangements,
we started for this place, and, thank Heaven! we have arrived in time
to vindicate the innocence of Frederic Stanley."

Edith paused and glanced with a look of unchangeable affection toward
the spot where Fred sat--his face alternately flushing and paling with
powerful emotion. There was a moment's dead silence, and then a cheer
that made the old court-house ring came from every excited heart. Yes;
in that moment a complete revulsion of feeling took place in every
breast. Fred's triumph was complete; and with its usual impulsive
inconsiderateness, the mob as heartily rejoiced in his innocence as, a
few moments previously, they had done in his guilt.

"But how were you rescued?" said the judge, partaking of the
universal excitement. "This blank in your story--"

"Can be filled by me," interrupted the hermit, stepping forward. "On
the night in question, passing accidentally--or rather by a
dispensation of Providence which men call chance--near the bluff, I
beheld, to my surprise, a sudden jet of flame shoot up from a pile of
rubbish near. Anxious to know the cause, I hastened up and entered the
old barn. All was deserted and dreary around; and I was about to quit
it, and give the alarm, when my eyes fell on an object lying at my
feet, that almost transfixed me with horror, that froze the very blood
in my veins. There, lying cold and lifeless, bathed in blood, lay
Edith Percival. In a moment, the whole truth burst upon me. She had
been murdered there, and the assassin had set fire to the house to
conceal the evidence of his crime. Should I leave her to perish in the
flames? No; not if I died with her. An almost superhuman strength
seemed to inspire me. I raised her lifeless form in my arms as though
she had been an infant, and turned in the direction of the Cliffs. At
any other time the feat would have been impossible; but a strength not
my own seemed suddenly to have been granted to me, and ere morning
dawned, I had reached my little cottage in safety.

I had imagined her dead; but, to my surprise and joy, I soon
discovered signs of life. Having a little knowledge of surgery, I
examined the wound, and discovered that, though dangerous, it was far
from being mortal. I applied such remedies as I knew to be good in
such a case; and, in the course of a few days, she began to recover. I
did not wish to tell her friends, knowing they would disturb her with
visits, and perhaps insist on having her removed--a proceeding which I
knew would be highly dangerous. The world calls me odd, and
eccentric--perhaps this was one of my eccentricities; besides, I
wished to have the pleasure of returning to her family she whom they
imagined dead. It never occurred to me that anyone but the real
murderer would be arrested. Judge, therefore, of my surprise, when the
first time I left home I learned that Frederic Stanley had been
arrested, and was about to be tried for her murder. I lost no time in
hastening here--and here I am."

And then such another shout as rent the air!--the crowd seemed to have
gone wild. Then the court was adjourned, and the prisoner discharged,
and Edith went over and laid her hand in his, and looked up in his
face with her love-beaming eyes.

The friends of Fred were now pressing around to shake hands and
congratulate him on his triumphant vindication. And first among them
came Gus, with "a smile on his lip and a tear in his eye,"--and who
shook Fred's hand until it ached, and who squeezed Edith's little hand
until her fingers tingled. Then way was made for Major Percival and
his son, the dense crowd opening right and left to allow them to pass.
Their meeting was not a very demonstrative one--it could not be in
that crowded court-room; but it was none the less heartfelt and deep
for that.

"And Fred, papa?" said Edith, gently.

The face of the major grew red with a flush of honest shame and
embarrassment, as he held out his hand. For a moment Fred hesitated;
all his pride rose as he recollected the many indignities he had
received from the man before him. Edith saw the struggle in his mind,
and laying her hand on his arm and lifting her soft, reproachful eyes
to his face, she said:

"_Dear_ Fred!"

He could not resist that witching glance. The next moment, his hand
grasped that of the major's in the warm clasp of friendship.

"And thus do I atone for the past," said the major, placing the hand
of Edith in that of Fred.

In that moment, the past--all its wrongs, and sorrows, and suffering
were forgotten. That instant of bliss more than compensated for the
troubled, stormy past.

There was one other whose eyes fell on that scene. Ralph De Lisle,
pinioned like a malefactor, and led out between two officers, saw it
as he passed. He gnashed his teeth in impotent rage, and his eyes, in
their frenzied despair, glared upon them like the burning orbs of a
tiger. Such a look of undying hate and fierce anguish Lucifer might
have worn, when cast from heaven. His livid lips opened to heap curses
upon them, but words refused to come. His face grew black and
convulsed--his eyes turned in their sockets--he reeled, and would have
fallen to the ground, had not the officers supported him in their
arms.

As they raised him from the ground, a dark stream of blood flowed from
his mouth. In his agony of rage and despair, he had ruptured a blood
vessel.

They bore him off to prison, while the spectators gazed on,
horror-struck. Faint and sick, Edith hid her face in her brother's
shoulder, with a shudder.

"Let us go," said Nugent, turning away, pale with horror, as he passed
his arm around his sister's waist, to lead her from the room.

"You will accompany us, _of course_," said the major, in an imperative
tone to Fred, who glanced at Edith, and bowed, with a smile. "And you,
too," added the major, turning to the Hermit, whose eyes were fixed,
as if fascinated, on Sir William Stanley--as, borne along by the
swaying rush, he was approaching them.

"No," said the hermit, gravely; "my task is ended, and I must return
home."

"Oh, pray come with us!" said Edith, eagerly; "you will be much
happier, I am sure, than living all alone among those dreary cliffs."

But the hermit only shook his head, and steadily refused.

Finding entreaties vain, they turned to go out--when, unable to
extricate himself from the crowd, Sir William Stanley stood directly
beside them. All paused, in momentary expectation. Fred's cheek
flushed, and his heart throbbed, as he caught his father's eye. He
would have held out his hand, but the baronet's stern look forbade it.
Lifting his hat to Edith, he bowed coldly to the rest, and passed on,
with the same look of iron inflexibility his hard face always wore.
Suddenly, his eye fell on the Hermit, who was half hidden behind the
tall figure of Fred. He gave a sudden start, as though he had received
a galvanic shock--his face grew deadly white, and then deepest
crimson, as he plunged into the crowd and disappeared.

A carriage was in waiting, to convey them to Percival Hall. The
hermit, in spite of their united entreaties, persisted in refusing to
accompany them, and at the door bade them farewell. The major, Edith,
Nugent, Fred, and Gus therefore entered, and were soon on their way
home.

They traveled slowly, for Edith was still weak; and the next day,
about noon, arrived at the hall. Who can describe the meeting that
there ensued? Joy seldom kills, and though the shock nearly
extinguished the slight spark of life that yet lingered in the breast
of Mrs. Percival, she slowly began to recover. As for Nell, her first
impulse was to embrace everyone present, which she accordingly did, to
the great disgust of Gus--who would have been infinitely better
pleased to have received them all himself. That young lady remained
quite serious for a day or two; but after that she became the same
incorrigible she had been before. And Gus, driven to desperation,
declared that, of all the trials his friend had been afflicted with,
he had never to endure so severe a trial as Nell Percival.





CHAPTER XXXII.

"THE WAGES OF SIN IS DEATH."

    "Burning heart and beating brow
    Ye are very quiet now."--E. B. BROWNING.

It was night--dark, chill, and dismal. The rain pattered like spectral
figures against the grated windows, the wind moaned and wailed
drearily without.

In his cold, fireless cell, sat the once gay and handsome Ralph De
Lisle. Dark and wild was the storm without, and darker and wilder was
the heart within his bosom. His face was blanched to the hue of
death, and looked still whiter, contrasted with his heavy black locks.
He was half-reclining on his wretched bed--lying so still, so
motionless, that one might have thought him dead, but for the fierce
living light blazing in his wild, black eyes.

It was wonderful how he could lie there so immovable, with such a fire
in his heart; the burning fire of remorse. All his life seemed passing
in review before him, and he almost shuddered to find himself so young
in years, yet so old in crime. His part in the drama of life was over;
and the world would go round as though he never had existed. He felt
like a man who has staked his all on the gaming-table, and lost. The
world had been to him a chess-board, and men and women had moved as he
willed; but an unseen though powerful hand had been playing against
him; another had won, and Ralph De Lisle was check-mated in the great
game of life.

Like some dark panorama, all the events of his life were still passing
before him. He thought of the past--of his boyhood, with all its
bright promises, high hopes, and glorious delusions. How easy all
those noble projects seemed of realization then; but like the mirage
of the desert, one by one they had faded away at his approach. His
radiant day-dreams had all set in a sea of blood and crime, and he had
went down, down, in his rapid career of crime, not daring to look back
at the height from which he had fallen. And then came his visions of
that bright land of light and roses, where Edith reigned queen; and
once more he seemed wandering with her through the dim mystic aisles
of the grand old wood, and watching, with his old feeling of
adoration, the golden sunlight falling on her flowing hair. His prison
walls stretched away, and he saw himself standing in the lofty rooms
of Percival Hall, with Edith blushing and smiling beside him, his
betrothed bride. He saw her so vividly before him with her sunny
smile, and her blue, love-beaming eyes sinking beneath his, that the
almost forgotten love of other days came back, and with the
irrepressible cry, "Oh, Edith! my hope! my dream! my life!" he
stretched out his arms, almost expecting to enfold the radiant vision
before him. It faded away in thin air, and he awoke with a start from
the trance into which he was falling.

The past was gone; he could think of it no longer. And the present!
Could this be he, Ralph De Lisle, the high-born, the haughty--this
convicted felon. Had all his daring projects, all his bold schemes,
from which less reckless minds would have shrunk--all his fearless
deeds, come to this at last? He had trampled the solemn commands of
God and the slavish laws of men alike under his feet; he had committed
crimes that no other would have dared to contemplate, until he had
begun to fancy himself above punishment. He had went on so long in his
reckless career of crime with impunity, that he had forgotten a day of
reckoning must yet come; and now he realized it at length. He could
have made his escape after his diabolical crime had been perpetrated,
but some power within chained him to the spot. He felt sure Fred
Stanley would be convicted and that his triumph would be complete.
After the execution of his rival, his intention was to return to
England, and in God-forgetting London lose the recollection of the
past. But all his projects had fallen to the ground with a crash; she
whom he imagined dead was clasped in the arms of his hated foe, and
her stern father smiled on their union; a life of happiness was before
them--and he was _here_.

What had the future in store for him? His trial was soon to come; and
he saw the eyes of the crowd fixed upon him in hatred and derision.
They, whom if at liberty he would have spurned under his feet, could
now point to him in scorn as the foiled assassin. If the law found him
guilty and he was condemned!--He shuddered as the gallows and all the
fearful paraphernalia of a felon's death rose before him. The maddened
crowd, glaring at him with their savage eyes, and ready to tear him
limb from limb as they had attempted to do in the court-house. And his
rival, his mortal enemy, would be there to exult over his ignominious
death?

But his life might be saved! True, he was as much a murderer as though
his victim had perished in the burning house; but the law might not
find him so. And if he was spared, what then? A long life-time of
drudgery among felons, the lowest of the low, until death would place
him in a convict's despised grave!

Those hands, small and white as a woman's, must grow hard and coarse
with unceasing toil; and he, a De Lisle, born to wealth and honor,
must herd with thieves and murderers for the remainder of his life.
The picture grew too horrible to be longer endured. He sprang from his
bed, with the perspiration standing in great beaded drops on his
brow--his hand clenched until the nails sank into the quivering
flesh--his eyes blood-shot and glaring--an expression of horror
unutterable on his ghastly face! Oh, in that moment, how fearful was
the maddening storm of passion in his guilty heart! A life-time of
agony seemed concentrating into each second as it passed; the blood
seemed to pour like molten lead through every vein; a wheel of fire
seemed crashing through his brain; his very eyes seemed like red-hot
balls of fire.

He strode up and down like a maniac, and springing to the window,
shook the iron bars with the fierce strength of madness! His hands
were cut and bleeding, but he heeded it not, as he struggled like a
caged tiger to wrench them away. All in vain! the strong grating
resisted all his efforts, and he fell heavily with his face on the
stone floor. His head struck on something sharp, and the blood rained
down from a gash in his forehead. He pressed his hand to the wound,
and gazed on the flowing blood with a smile that might have chilled
the stoutest heart.

"Never shall they so degrade Ralph De Lisle," he shouted, springing to
his feet. "This night the tragedy shall be completed, and the gaping
mob cheated of its victim! Do I not hold my life in my own hands! and
shall I live to become a mark for the finger of scorn to point at?
Never! To this world, with all its dreams and delusions; to sun, and
moon, and stars, I will this night bid adieu. Ere morning dawns, this
body, and the spirit it contains, will have sunk into nothingness."

Into nothingness! Was it a dream, or was it the mocking laugh of a
fiend that rang through the lonely cell.

"Eternity! eternity!" he said, passing his hand across his clammy
brow; "can it be that what preachers tell us is true, and that there
really is an hereafter? My mother taught me so once--my mother! fiend
that I am, dare I mention her sacred name! Well, in a few moments I
will have solved that problem, and have learned the mystery that no
living man can ever know."

He walked to the window and listened. How the driving rain beat
against that little casement, how the wind howled and roared. It
seemed to him like the voice of the Destroyer, shouting impatiently
for his prey. From the black pall of night that no eye could
penetrate, white spectral faces seemed gleaming, mocking him with
their deriding laughter. He turned away; amid the war of the elements
and the roar of the tempest, should his dark, crime-stained soul go
forth.

The storm passed away with the morning's dawn. The bright summer
sunshine was streaming gloriously through the window when the jailer
entered. And there, right in the glow of the blessed sunlight, hung
the convulsed form of Ralph De Lisle--dead--by his own hand.

Of all the sights which the sun rose upon, it looked on none more
fearful than that. Without the prison walls, the stream of busy life
flowed merrily on; the bride stood at the altar, the man of business
hurried by, and people talked and laughed as though despair was a word
unknown; and within, stark and cold in the glare of the sunlight, lay
the rigid form of the dead man, his face upturned to the sky, and
staring wide open were the glassy eyes that never would look on aught
in this world again!




CHAPTER XXXIII.

A STARTLING DISCOVERY.

    "And thus through all my life it stalked,
      That deadly, deadly sin!
    Though e'er so fair the outside mirth,
      The spectre sat within."

"Go, Elva, go! I _must_ see him before I die!"

"Oh, father! listen to the storm! How can I go out to-night!"

"Girl! I tell you I _must_ see him--I _must_! Do you hear? Even though
fire were falling from heaven, you should have to go forth, and bring
him to me!"

"But, father, I know not where he is! I could brave the storm; but you
may die here before I return."

"I cannot die--I _will not die_ before you return!" almost screamed
Paul Snowe, tossing in wild delirium on his pillow. "Go, and find Sir
William Stanley, I tell you, and bring him here to me. I cannot die
until I have seen him."

It was that same tempestuous night on which Ralph De Lisle had
breathed his last; and now his accomplice in crime, Paul Snowe, lay
wounded unto death. Strange that, on the same night, both should be
doomed to die.

He lay in the little room of the inn, near Percival Hall. It was the
same house in which De Lisle had planned the murder of Edith a few
weeks before. Perhaps the recollection of that night added to his
delirium, as he tossed on his bed in feverish agony.

A week before, as he loitered round the village, bound by some
unaccountable fascination to the place of the supposed murder, he had
been stabbed in a drunken brawl. Finding his days were numbered he had
caused them to send for his daughter, Elva, who had arrived a few
hours before.

Troubled and anxious, Elva threw her cloak over her shoulders, and,
tying on her hood, hurried out into the driving rain. As she passed
out, she encountered the burly landlord, who gazed at her as though he
had seen a ghost.

"Jerusalem!" he ejaculated, in amazement "you ain't surely going out
anywhere in the storm, Miss Snowe?"

"Can you tell me where Sir William Stanley is to be found?" inquired
Elva, hurriedly.

"Well, no, I rayly can't; but his son lives up to Percival Hall.
Likely he can tell you."

"Percival Hall!" said Elva, with a start. "Does it belong to Major
Percival."

"Yes'm."

"Has he a daughter, Edith?" inquired Elva, with increasing agitation.

"Yes'm," again responded mine host, looking rather surprised at the
emotion she manifested.

"Edith! dear Miss Edith!" exclaimed the impulsive Elva, in a sort of
rapture, as she darted out into the blinding storm.

"Well, I never!" said the jolly landlord, opening his eyes in
amazement, until they resembled two midnight moons.

In a moment she was back again, and by his side. "Can you tell me
which way I must go to reach Percival Hall?" she asked, breathlessly.

"Yes'm. Keep on straight for a spell, then turn to the right, and
take the forest road. Mind, and don't go the other way, or you'll
break your neck over the cliffs. You'd better let me send Jemmy along
with you, to show you the way, 'cause--oh! she's gone! She's a queer
one, and no mistake," said the worthy landlord, hastening to raise up
the spirits of his guests by pouring his own spirits down.

Meantime, Elva pursued her lonely way through the driving rain and
blinding storm, toward Percival Hall, almost flying along, in her
haste to reach it. I scarcely know whether it is proper to tell a
young lady's thoughts or not; but certain it is that, though Edith
occupied a prominent place in her mind, Edith's brother occupied a
place still more prominenter (I don't know whether that's according to
Webster, or not).

But Elva, bewildered by the storm, her own thoughts, her haste, and
the strangeness of the place, forgot the landlord's directions, and
took the road leading to the cliffs. On she went, stumbling and
slipping over rocks and crags, at the imminent danger of breaking her
neck. Suddenly, the flash of a light caught her eye, and, walking in
that direction, she soon found herself before the home of the Hermit
of the Cliffs. Elva rapped loudly; and, a moment after, the door
opened, and the hermit stood before her, holding a lamp in his hand,
the full light of which fell on his imposing figure.

With a half-suppressed scream of mingled terror and surprise at this
singular apparition, Elva turned to fly, when she was arrested by the
mildly kind voice of the hermit:

"Fear not, my daughter; the Hermit of the Cliffs is the friend of all
mankind."

Elva paused, and stood hesitating.

"Come in out of the storm, my child. It is a wild night for a young
girl like you to be abroad."

Reassured by his friendly words and wishing to know more of this
strange-looking personage, Elva, who was naturally courageous, entered
the cottage.

She glanced curiously around, but there was nothing very singular
about it. It was fitted up as any other common room might have been,
and was singularly neat and clean.

"Now, my child, what can I do for you?" said the hermit, in his grave,
pleasant tones.

"I started for Percival Hall," answered Elva, "and, being a stranger
here, I lost my way; and, guided by the light of your lamp, I wandered
here, and sought admittance."

"You had better stay here until morning," said the hermit; "the night
is too stormy for you to venture abroad."

"Oh, no! I cannot. My father is dying, and I cannot rest until he sees
Sir William Stanley. I must hasten to Percival Hall immediately, if
you will be kind enough to show me the way."

"Sir William Stanley, did I understand you to say?" said the hermit,
with a sudden start.

"Yes. Perhaps you can tell me where to find him?"

"Who is your father, child?" asked the hermit, without heeding her
question.

"His name is Paul Snowe," replied Elva.

"What!" exclaimed the hermit, almost bounding from the floor.

"His name is Paul Snowe," repeated Elva, drawing back in surprise and
alarm.

"Good Heavens! is it possible!" said the hermit, deeply excited. "And
are you Paul Snowe's daughter?"

"Yes, sir," said the astonished Elva.

"What is your name?"

"Elvena Snowe."

"Elvena! Elvena!" repeated the hermit. "Can there be two Elvena Snowes
in the world?"

"Sir, I must go," said Elva, in alarm, beginning to think him insane.

"Wait one moment, and I will go with you," said the hermit, cloaking
himself with wonderful celerity. "Can it be that I will see Paul Snowe
yet once again before I die?"

They passed out, and the hermit turned in the direction of the inn,
holding Elva firmly by the hand.

"But I must go to Percival Hall," said Elva, drawing back.

"Why?"

"To see Sir William Stanley."

"He is not there, child!"

"His son is, then, and he can tell me where to find him. I _must_ go,"
said Elva, wildly.

"His son knows no more of his whereabouts than you do, Elvena. Believe
me: it is impossible for you to find him to-night. If Paul Snowe
wishes anything, I will do as well as Paul Stanley. Do not hesitate,"
he added, as Elva still hung back; "I repeat, it is utterly impossible
for you to find him to-night. Come."

Elva felt convinced that he spoke the truth, and, seeing no
alternative, she allowed him to draw her on, inwardly dreading to meet
her father without the man for whom she had been sent.

On reaching the inn, the hermit demanded to be at once shown to the
chamber of the sick man. As they entered, Paul Snowe half raised
himself on his elbow, and glared at them with his inflamed eyes.

"Elva, is it you?" he cried. "Have you brought Sir William Stanley?
Ha! who are you?"

"Your best friend, Paul Snowe," said the hermit, advancing to his
bedside.

"I should know that voice. Who _are_ you?"

"Men call me the 'Hermit of the Cliffs,' but you knew me by another
name once," was the answer.

"And Sir William Stanley, where is he, Elva? Elva, did you not bring
him?" exclaimed the wounded man in an agony of alarm.

"My friend, you cannot see him. Sir William Stanley is many a mile
from here. You will never meet him in this world again, for your hours
are numbered. Anything you wish to tell him, confide in me, and,
believe me, he shall hear it."

"Can I--dare I tell you? You will not have me arrested?" said the
invalid, wildly.

"No, my friend; you are beyond the reach of human laws. Speak, and
fear not."

"Men say you are good and generous," said Paul, tossing restlessly;
"therefore, since it cannot be helped, I will tell you. Elva, leave
the room. Listen; what I have to say concerns her."

"Your daughter, Elva?"

"She is no daughter of mine; neither is her name Elva. I stole her
when a child. Her name is _Leila Stanley_!"

He fixed his eyes on the hermit's face, to see what effect this
announcement would have; but beyond one sodden, convulsive start, he
betrayed no emotion.

"Go on," he said, after a pause.

"To tell why I stole her, it will be necessary to go back in my
history. I once had a sister--her name was Elvena--whom I loved as I
never loved any other human being in this world. She grew up a
beautiful girl--the pride and belle of our village; but in an evil
hour she met Sir William Stanley. He was young and handsome in those
days, and she soon learned to love him. He pretended to return her
affection; and, under an assumed name, he wooed and won her. She
became his wife--little dreaming she had wedded a baronet. Well, I
must hurry on for I feel that I have but a few moments to live. He
used to go to England, under pretense of business, and, during one of
the occasions, he married again, some high-born lady. He had grown
tired of his first wife, for he was always a heartless villain; but he
wanted his son (they had one child). He came and forcibly tore him
away, and departed for England. I don't know what story he told Lady
Stanley about the child: probably that he had been married and that
his wife was dead, or some other convenient lie. I was absent at the
time, but when I returned I learned what had happened--that my sister
had gone crazy, and wandered off, and, as we afterwards learned, died
in a distant village. I swore a fearful oath of vengeance, and that
oath has been kept. Years passed on before I could go to England, and
seek out my sister's murderer. I found him out at last, and learned
that he had another child--a daughter, whom both he and Lady Stanley
almost idolized. He had stolen Elvena's child from her, and so caused
her death. He should suffer as she had done--he, too, should know what
it was to lose a child; and one day, when she was out playing, I
carried her off."

"My first intention had been to kill little Leila, but I could not do
it. As you may imagine there was a mighty uproar made about Sir
William Stanley's child being kidnapped; the whole country was
aroused, but I eluded them all. I had a friend--the mate of a small
trading-vessel, and his wife consented to take care of the little
lady. I gave her my dead sister's name, and, as Leila grew up, she
forgot she ever had any other parent but me. I brought her here, and,
after a time, fell in with Ralph De Lisle, and joined his reckless
band of licensed cut-throats.

"But during all those years, undying remorse for what I had done
haunted me day and night. Lady Stanley had died shortly after her
child's loss; and when I heard of it, I felt as though I were a
murderer. Do what I would, reason as I pleased, my accusing conscience
slept not. I was not one to inspire affection, but I think Elva really
likes me. I grew fond of the child myself, but I never could endure
her caresses; for at such times the recollection of what I had done
would rush upon me with double force; and I would think how she would
shrink from me in horror, did she know to what I had reduced her--the
heiress of a baronet.

"In after-years, I met Sir William Stanley's son. Loving my sister as
I did, it may seem strange to you I did not love her child also; but I
hated him for his father's sake. He was once imprisoned by De Lisle,
and liberated by Elva, who little dreamed she was freeing her own
brother.

"As I told you, my undying remorse gave me no rest, and I resolved, at
last, to tell Sir William Stanley what I had done, and then, if
possible, fly the country. But the hand of Providence overtook me,
and my tale of crime has been reserved for a death-bed confession.

"The dress Elva wore the day I stole her is in yonder chest,"
continued the dying man, pointing faintly in the direction; "also, a
small locket, containing her mother's portrait. If anything further is
needed to establish her identity, there is a peculiar mark on her arm
that cannot be mistaken, and will set at rest all doubts. And now,
thank Heaven, my story is ended, and justice has been done at last. It
is said that you have great power over Sir William Stanley; therefore,
you will have no trouble in inducing him to believe my dying words."

"Thus it is that Heaven ever confounds the wicked, and brings hidden
things of darkness to light. Thus it is that justice shall be rendered
unto all men at last," said the hermit, clasping his hands solemnly.

"That voice!--that voice!" said Paul Snowe, raising himself wildly on
his pillow. "Has the grave given up its dead? Are you a man or a being
from the world of spirits? Great Heaven, are you--"

Ere the Hermit could speak, the fearful death-rattle resounded through
the room. He clutched the air convulsively with his hands, his
features worked convulsively, his eyes grew fixed and glassy, and
falling heavily back on his pillow--all was over!




CHAPTER XXXIV.

AND LAST

    "All's well that end's well."

Half an hour passed away in the chamber of death, ere the Hermit
moved. He sat gazing, still and silent, on the rigid form before him,
wondering, perhaps, how such fierce passions could have existed in
that clay cold form.

Then he arose, and opening the door, beckoned Elva to enter. Awed by
the expression of his face she stole softly into the room, and
approached the bed. As her eyes fell on the rigid figure stretched
upon it, she sprang back with a wild cry of grief.

For with all his faults, and notwithstanding all his cruelty, Elva had
really loved Paul Snowe. He had been the only friend and protector she
had ever known, and with a passionate exclamation, "Oh,
father--father!" she fell on her knees by the bedside, and hid her
face in her hands.

"My child, grieve not," said the Hermit, laying his hand on her head.
"Paul Snowe was no father of thine!"

She arose and stood before him, with parted lips and wonder-dilated
eyes.

"Not my father?" she said. "Who, then, is?"

"Sir William Stanley."

She did not speak, but still stood regarding him with such a wild,
startled look of incredulity and amazement, that he hastened to
explain.

"Sir William Stanley had wronged him; and to revenge himself, he stole
his only daughter. Your name is not Elva Snowe, but Leila Stanley."

"And this was why he implored me so wildly to bring him Sir William
Stanley," said Elva, in a low, breathless tone, almost bewildered by
this sudden announcement.

"It was; he could not die in peace until he had confessed what he had
done. And now that you know how deeply he has wronged you, can you
forgive him?"

Elva was gazing sadly and intently upon the death-cold form before
her. At the Hermit's question, she looked up, and said, earnestly:

"Forgive him? Oh, yes, as I hope to be forgiven. But this seems so
strange--so improbable--so like an Eastern romance. Can it be that I
really have a father living?"

"And a brother likewise. You have seen Fred Stanley?"

"Yes--yes; I have seen him. He is tall, and dark, and handsome as a
prince. And he is my brother! Something drew me toward him from the
first; but I never, never could have imagined anything so wild as
this! He is somewhere near this, is he not?"

"Yes, at Percival Hall."

"Shall I see him to-night?"

"No; it were better not. The last remains of Paul Snowe must be
consigned to the grave first. For a day or two you will remain with
me, and then all shall be revealed."

       *       *       *       *       *

"What God has joined together, let no man put asunder."

The great drawing-room of Percival Hall was ablaze with light. From
basement to attic the house was crowded with guests, assembled from
far and near, to witness the nuptials of Major Percival's daughters.

Fred and Gus, looking excessively happy, and very unnecessarily
handsome, stood before the venerable clergyman, who, in full
canonicals and imposing dignity, pronounced the words that made them
the happiest of men. Edith and Nell, radiant with smiles and white
satin, blushes and orange flowers, stood by their side, promising
dutifully to "love, honor, and obey;" although, if the truth must be
told, Nell hesitated a little before she could promise the latter.

Suddenly the door was flung open, and in a pompous tone, the
aristocratic butler announced:

"Sir William Stanley."

Had a bomb exploded in their midst, greater consternation could not
have appeared on every face present, as Sir William--pale, wild,
excited, and agitated--stood before them.

"This is an unexpected pleasure, Sir William," said Major Percival,
advancing with extended hand.

"My daughter--my daughter! is she here?" demanded the baronet, wildly.

"Your daughter?" said Major Percival, in surprise. "If you mean
Edith--"

"No, no, no, no! I mean my _own_ child--my long lost daughter, Leila."

"Can he be deranged?" said the major, turning to Fred, with a look of
alarm.

"I am not mad--read that!" said Sir William, handing the major a note.

"Go to Percival Hall," it said. "This night you shall hear of your
lost daughter, Leila."

"It is from the mysterious Hermit of the Cliffs," said the major, in
astonishment. "What can he mean?"

"What he says," said a calm, clear voice, that made them all start, as
they turned and beheld the Hermit in their midst.

"My daughter--my Leila--what of her?" exclaimed Sir William, striding
forward.

"Behold her!" said the Hermit, stepping back, and every eye turned to
the slight girlish figure behind him.

"Elva Snowe!" exclaimed half a dozen voices, simultaneously, while the
baronet started back suddenly at the name.

"Not Elva Snowe, but Leila Stanley," said the Hermit, drawing her
forward. "On his death-bed, Paul Snowe confessed he had stolen her and
resigned her to me. This trinket was on her person when stolen.
Probably you recollect it, Sir William."

"Yes--yes; it was I who placed it on her neck; but if Leila, she bears
on her arm a singular mark--"

"Look," said the Hermit, pushing up her sleeve, and exposing a little
crimson heart; "are you convinced now?"

"My child--my child!" exclaimed Sir William, clasping in his arms the
shrinking Elva. "Thank Heaven, I have found you at last!"

Amazement held everyone silent. But the Hermit advanced and said:

"You have found one child and the other--"

"Shall be mine likewise," interrupted the baronet, approaching Fred,
"if he can forgive the past."

"Willingly, joyfully, my dear father!" said Fred, grasping his hand,
while tears sprang to his dark eyes. "And Elva--Leila rather--may I
claim a brother's privilege?" he added, pressing his moustached lips
to her blushing brow.

"And now for a still more surprising discovery," said Sir William,
turning with much agitation toward the Hermit. "On this joyful
occasion it will not do to have one cloud marring our festivity. If
you can forgive me for the great wrong I have done you, we may see
many happy days together yet?"

For a moment the Hermit hid his face in his hands, while his whole
frame quivered with powerful emotion. Then raising his head, to the
amazement of all present, he removed his flowing white hair and his
long beard. His large flowing robe fell from his shoulders, and lo! a
pale, stately, dark-haired _woman_ stood before them.

Wonder chained every tongue. Sir William Stanley sprang forward and
clasped her in his arms, exclaiming passionately:

"My wife--my wife--my own Elva!"

"Good Heaven! Sir William Stanley, what means all this?" exclaimed
Major Percival, finding his tongue at last.

"It means," said Sir William, raising his head proudly, "that this
lady is my first, my only wife, Elvena Snowe. Deeply have I wronged
her, but I shall strive to atone for it by a public confession
to-night. When I forcibly took her son from her, yonder youth, she was
for a time deranged, and wandered away from the village of her birth.
After a time, a report went forth that she was dead. She heard it,
when sanity partially returned, and resolved never to return to the
spot where she had suffered so much. She found a cottage deserted
among the wild cliffs, and resolved to make her home there. Afraid
that some one would recognize and bring her back, with the cunning of
partial derangement, she disguised herself as you have seen, and for
years lived on alone, until she learned to love the dreary spot. When
the war commenced, I came here, and was followed by my son. She heard
of it, and unknown herself, she determined to watch over her son. I,
as you all know, had condemned him to die. At the eleventh hour, she
came, and by disclosing who she was, saved his life. I believed her,
for the time, to be a being from the world of spirits, and the shock
and surprise was so great that I spared my son. Afterward we met, and
she told me all; but pride would not allow me to confess to the world
my guilt. But now since Leila has been so miraculously restored, I can
trample pride and the opinion of the world under foot, and proclaim
the once Hermit of the Cliffs my wife, in the face of heaven and
earth!"

       *       *       *       *       *

A month later, Sir William and Lady Stanley were bounding over the
blue waves to "Merrie England."

They went not alone; for Leila, now Mrs. Nugent Percival, and her
husband, accompanied her.

Fred and Edith, and Gus and Nell, dwelt long and happily in the land
they loved best.

       *       *       *       *       *

And now, reader, farewell. We have journeyed together long; but
nothing can last forever. All things must have a close, and the
characters who have passed before you must disappear from your view at
last. I, too, must go from your sight--for the daylight is dying out
of the sky, and my task is ended. I trust, however, we may, ere long,
meet again.




                                 THE END




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33 West 23rd Street, New York.




  Transcribers note:

  Punctuation errors were corrected.

  The following printers errors were addressed.

  Page 14 'by' to 'be'
  (produced may be imagined)

  Page 17 'endeaver' to 'endeavor'
  (in the vain endeavor to catch)

  Page 26 'lethary' to 'lethargy'
  (lethargy was creeping over them)

  Page 76 'If' to 'It'
  (It seems to me)

  Page 87 'fall' to 'fell'
  (as the cloak fell off)

  Page 107 'my' to 'may'
  (there may be some crime)

  Page 144 'accidently' to 'accidentally'
  (might be accidentally shot)

  Page 189 'vail' to 'veil'
  (falling like a veil over her)

  Page 190 'De Disle' to 'De Lisle'
  (or has De Lisle)

  Page 196 'on' to 'of'
  (lots of 'em to hum)

  Page 231 'certainly' to 'certainty'
  (so dreadfully a certainty)

  Page 234 'commiting' to 'committing'
  (would shrink from committing)

  Page 239 'branished' to 'brandished'
  (who brandished his tomahawk)

  Page 248 'De Disle' to 'De Lisle'
  (De Lisle smiled scornfully)

  Page 249 'at' to 'as'
  (may as well be hung)

  Page 283 'cowardlly' to 'cowardly'
  (with cowardly fear)

  Page 287 'loftly' to 'lofty'
  (over his lofty brow)

  Page 288 'I' to 'It'
  (It says you're--guilty)

  Page 291 'be' to 'he'
  (whether he believed in his)

  Page 296 'hightest' to 'highest'
  (in the highest spirits)

  Page 306 'accidently' to 'accidentally'
  (passing accidentally--or rather)

  Page 327 'aritocratic' to 'aristocratic'
  (the aristocratic butler)



[End of _Edith Percival_ by May Agnes Fleming]
