"Ah, now you are angry—now you begin to hate me!"
"Never, Elsie! If you tore my heart and stamped on it, I could not hate you."
"But you are angry; and you said you could be patient."
"I could, if you cared for me only the least bit!"
"Oh, you selfish monster! There, Tom, kneel down again; you have shaken my flower out of your coat."
"No," said Tom, passionately; "I can't play now! This is dreadful earnest to me, Elsie, however great sport it may be to you."
"Then you refuse my gift?"
"I can't trifle now—don't ask it."
"And you mean to rush off and leave me?"
"I had better."
"Very well. If you refuse me my one little wish!"
"I'll stay if you want me to," cried Tom. "I'll do anything you bid me. But do be serious for a minute, Elsie. Just answer me one question."
"Only one? Will that satisfy you?"
"To set the matter at rest," pursued he. "I'll never trouble you again. I won't open my lips——"
"Then how shall I know what you want to ask?" she interrupted.
Tom fairly groaned.
"I do believe you are a witch, Elsie; one of those snow women in the old German stories."
"Lurlei—Lurlei!" she sang, flourishing the blossoms about his head.
Tom dashed off the flowers in a blind despair. The scene was growing too much for him to bear.
"Yes," he said, drearily, "I'll go—I'll go! I shan't trouble you again. I hope the day may never come when you will be sorry, Elsie."
He was so pale and trembled so violently, that she was absolutely terrified.
"Tom, don't look so!" she exclaimed. "I only wanted to tease you. I wouldn't have you leave me for the world; I should be wretched!"
"Now you are kind again! I will stay. I won't tire you with telling you of my love—"
"But I want to hear," interrupted Elsie.
"Oh, little child, it could do you no good! I suffer, Elsie, I suffer!"
"Tom, you're a goose—what you call a goney!"
"I know it, dear!"
"And you are just as blind as a bat."
"I suppose I am," he replied, dejectedly.
"And you're too stupid to live," cried Elsie, going into a great excitement. "Don't you know a woman can say one thing and mean another?"
"Yes," said Tom, with more energy, "I do know that. I know it too well."
"Great Mr. Wisdom!" said she mockingly. "Then can't you understand—don't you see?"
He looked at her in bewildered surprise. She was smiling tenderly in his face.
"Elsie!" he cried.
She let her hands fall in his.
"I don't want you to go," she whispered, "never—never!"
"You love me—you will marry me?"
She did not speak, but she made no resistance when Tom caught her to his heart and rained kisses on her face, utterly bewildered and unable to comprehend anything except that happiness had descended upon his long night at length.
But Elsie raised herself, pushed him off and said, with a dash of her old wickedness:
"I'll tease you to death, Tom!"
"I can't believe it!" he exclaimed. "Oh, say it once—say 'I love you!'"
"I do love you, Tom—there!"
In an instant she flashed up again, while he was covering her hands with kisses, crying:
"My little Elsie! My own at last!"
"No more sentiment," said she. "Let's be reasonable, Tom; the catastrophe has reached a climax."
But it was a long time before Tom Fuller could regain composure enough to talk at all coherently, or in what Elsie termed a sensible manner.
"It's so sudden," he said. "And to have so much happiness just when I thought the last rope was going out of my hand! Why, I feel like the fellow who clung all night to the side of a precipice, expecting every moment to be dashed down a thousand feet, and when daylight came found he had hung within a foot of the ground all the while!"
"The comparison is apt and delicious," said Elsie, laughing.
"And you love me! Only say it again, Elsie—just once!"
"I won't!" said she. "But I'll box your ears if you don't stop behaving like a crazy man."
Tom caught Elsie up in his arms and ran twice with her across the floor, paying no more attention to her cries and struggles than if she had been a baby.
"That's for punishment!" said Tom.
"Let me down! Please let me down!" pleaded Elsie. "I know you'll drop me! Oh, you hurt me, Tom!"
Tom placed her on the sofa and seated himself by her side. But she started away and ran upstairs, sending back a laugh of defiance.
When Elsie entered her boudoir, flushed with laughter and breathless with running, she threw herself on the azure couch, and gathering her ringlets in a mass between her hand and the warm cheek under which it was thrust, fell into a deeper train of thought than was usual to her.
"It's done, and I don't care. He loves me, and I must be loved. He's rich, generous, devoted, worships me and always will, that's one comfort. There'll be no one to halve his devotion or his money with me, no one to look glum if I want to be a little bit extravagant. Grant never refused me anything in his life, but I'm always afraid to ask half that I want. But with Tom everything will be my own. He won't ask a question. Such laces as I will have! As for cashmere shawls and silks, he shall get them for me by the dozens. Elizabeth won't say that such things are out of place then. I shall be a married woman, free of her and this old house too, free of everything, but—but——"
Elsie started up, breaking this selfish train of thought with the action.
"I wish she'd stop talking to me; I don't want to hear about it. Why won't she bear her trouble alone, if she will make trouble about what isn't to be helped? I'll have no more confidences with her, that's certain. It is like breaking one's heart up in little pieces. I don't want to keep secrets, but forget them; and I will, too, in spite of her. She shan't make me eternally miserable with her pining and remorse."
Elsie paused before a mirror as these thoughts rose in her mind and half broke from her lips. She was threading out her curls and trying the effect as they floated, like golden thistledown, over the roses of her cheek. All at once she started, and a look of pale horror stole to her face; the hand which had been wandering among her hair dropped to her side, turning cold and white as marble; the lips which had been just parted with an admiring smile of her own beauty, lost every trace of color. She still gazed intently into the glass, but not at herself. Beyond her pretty image, reflected from the distance, sat a man with a pen in his hand, as if just arrested in the act of writing. Rich shadows of crimson drapery lay around him, and a gleam of pure light from a half-closed upper blind fell across his head, lighting it up grandly.
It was a magnificent picture that Elsie gazed upon, far beyond her own image in the glass. But she only saw the man, without regard to his surroundings, and the very heart in her bosom turned sick with loathing or with fear.
It was North, looking at her through the open door, with a sneering smile on his lip—North in the very chamber of her brother's wife, quietly seated there as if he had been master of the house. For a full minute Elsie stood, forming a double picture in the glass with that bold, bad man, then her color came hotly back, and she turned upon him, brave with indignation.
"You here!" she said, advancing into the room till its crimson haze overwhelmed her. "You here, and in this chamber! Get up at once and begone. If my brother finds you under his roof he will shoot you on the spot."
"Never fear, pretty one," said North, with an evil gleam on his face. "Two can play at a game of that sort. If he made the first assault nothing would give me more pleasure. Self-defence is justifiable in law, and his will is made."
Elsie was trembling from head to foot, but she leaned one hand heavily on the table that he might not see her agitation.
"Man, man, you would not—you dare not meet my brother. You that have wronged him so!"
"Excuse me," said North, biting the feather of his pen and looking down on a sheet of note-paper on which he had been about to write; "I do not see this wrong so clearly. If a woman's heart will wander off in any forbidden direction, am I to blame because it flutters into my bosom? And if other hearts follow after——"
"Stop!" cried Elsie, stamping her little foot passionately on the carpet. "How dare you speak of a fraud so black, of treason so detestable! I am his sister, sir, and have something of his courage, frivolous as people think me. Persecute her or provoke me too far and I will tell him all."
"Indeed you would not," answered North, quietly.
"What should prevent me?"
"She will. You dare not break a solemn promise to her."
"I dare!" she almost shrieked, clenching her little hand in a paroxysm of rage. "I will, if ever you come here again."
"No; I think not. Women are weak creatures, but they generally find strength to keep secrets that bring ruin in the telling. You cannot be over anxious to see this proud brother of yours commit murder on——"
"On a villain—a household traitor—a—a——"
Elsie stopped for want of breath.
"Be quiet," said North, rising sternly and towering over her. "I have no dealings with you. One might as well reason with a handful of silkweed thrown upon the wind."
"But I will have something to say—everything to say. You have pursued her, plundered her, tortured her long enough. More than once she has been on the brink of discovery by your persistence in prowling over the grounds and from her attempts to conceal your rapacious extortions. All this must end."
"With all my heart; let the lady accede to my terms and I disappear."
"What are those terms?"
"I will write them, and your own fair hands shall give her the note."
Elsie did not answer, but her white lips closed firmly, and her blue eyes glittered like steel in the glow of a hot fire, as he dipped his pen deliberately in the bronze inkstand and began to write.
"There," he said, folding the note and presenting it to her with a princely air, as if her courage had impressed him with respect; "place this in her hands and she will know how to carry it out."
Elsie took the note and hid it away in the folds of her dress.
"Do not fail," he said, before taking his hat from the table.
"I will not," answered Elsie. "But these cruel visits must cease now and for ever. I will give the note only on this condition."
"Her answer will decide that. Now, good-bye."
He reached forth his hand, smiling pleasantly upon her; but she clenched hers, as if tempted to strike him for the insolent offer, and turned away biting her pale lips.
The hand, rejected with such disdain, fell towards the hat which North placed lightly on his head, casting one glance in the opposite mirror as he did so. Then, with the elastic step of a man retiring from a festival, he left the chamber, while Elsie looked after him with wondering eyes and parted lips, astonished by an audacity which was absolutely sublime.
The young creature stood with bated breath till his light footsteps died away in the nearest passage. She listened anxiously, but heard no door close or further movement of any kind. His exit was noiseless as his entrance had been.
When Elsie was left alone she sat down in the dim light of Elizabeth's room, pushed the hair back from her forehead and pressed both palms on her temples, where pain was throbbing like a pulse. She moaned and cried out under the sudden anguish, for resistance to suffering of any kind was killing to this young creature, and the reaction which followed that passionate outburst of feeling left her helpless as a child.
During fifteen or twenty minutes Elsie sat pressing both hands to her head, while her eyes filled with tears, and her lips quivered like those of an infant grieved by some hurt it cannot understand. A voice from the outer passage aroused her. It was that of Tom Fuller, who had worked himself into a state of intense excitement from fear that his rough tenderness had mortally offended its object.
"Miss Mellen—Elsie, do come down and speak to a fellow. I'm sorry as can be that I made such a donkey of myself and frightened you away. Just give one peep out of the door, darling, to say that you will forgive me by-and-bye, and I never will kiss you again so long—that is if it's very disagreeable."
The door of Elsie's chamber opened and a face all flushed with tears, through which a smile was breaking, looked out on the repentant Tom.
"Oh, Elsie, darling, I didn't mean it, and you've been crying all this time. If somebody would take me out and lynch me I'd be obliged to 'em—upon my soul, I would."
"Never mind, Tom. I'm not angry—only such a fright, with crying," said Elsie, reaching her hand through the opening, which he forthwith covered with penitent kisses. "It's only a headache."
"A headache! dear me, what a brute I am. But wait a minute. I'll send right to the city for a dozen bottles of bay rum, or schnapps, or something of that sort."
"No, no," answered Elsie, laughing herself into semi-hysterics, "I shall be better in a minute."
"And come downstairs—will you come downstairs?"
"Yes, yes; wait a minute while I get the tangle out of my hair."
Tom retreated to the staircase and waited with his eyes fastened on Elsie's door like those of a good-natured watchdog. As for the girl herself, she bathed her face in cold water, chilling the pain away, straightened out her curls, twisted all her hair in a great knot back of the head, and came out softly, like a dear little forgiving nun, filled with compassion for other people's sins.
Tom followed her into the little morning-room where his confession had been made, and sat down on the sofa to which she retreated with great caution, as if she were afraid.
"Won't Bessie and Mellen be astonished," he insinuated; "I do wonder how they will look, when we tell 'em how it is."
"You won't have an opportunity of judging just at present," replied Elsie.
"Why won't I?"
"Because I don't choose you to say one word about the matter to any human being until I give you permission."
"Now, what is that for?" asked Tom, somewhat discomfited.
"Just because I prefer it," answered the young lady.
"But I want the whole world to know how happy I am," said he.
"Tom Fuller," cried Elsie, menacingly; "are you going to begin already to dispute and annoy me, after what I've just suffered, too?"
"Lord bless you, no! I am as sorry as can be."
"Then do exactly as I tell you," continued she, "and promise me not to mention what has happened till I give you leave."
"It's a little hard," said Tom, "not to be able to show how happy a fellow—why, I shall tell in spite of myself."
"If you don't promise, I'll take back every word I've said—"
"I will! I will!" he interrupted, terrified at the bare threat. "Don't be angry, pet; I'll do just as you say."
"That's a nice old Tom; now you are good and I love you."
"But you, won't keep it long, Elsie?"
"No, no; but just at present I choose; I told you what a terrible tyrant I should be."
"I like it," said Tom, with the thorough enjoyment of her mastery, which only an immense creature like him can feel in a pretty woman's graceful tyranny.
"So much the better for you," said Elsie.
"Oh, little girl, we will be as happy as the day is long!" cried he.
"And you'll never contradict me?"
"Never!"
"And I shall have my own way more and more every day?"
"Well," said Tom, thoughtfully; "I don't see how you could easily; but you may try."
Elsie laughed; his oddity amused her.
"You are a perfect ogre of a lover," cried she. "What a head of hair!"
"It never will keep in order," said Tom, pressing down the shaggy locks with both hands.
"Let them alone," said Elsie; "you look more like a lion that way; I like it."
She was gracious and playful as a kitten, but Tom's happiness was disturbed all too quickly by the entrance of Victoria, crying:
"Missis horse runned off wid her; but she y'arnt hurt; she's a comin' in de carriage."
Out of the room Tom and Elsie went, anxious to learn the full meaning of her words.
The husband and wife galloped joyously on for miles and miles in the soft light of that delicious afternoon; with every step the gloom and the shadows seemed to lift themselves from each heart, till they were cordial and gay almost as Elsie herself.
These few happy hours, soon to be dimly overclouded, were so bright and sweet, that even in the midst of after trouble, their memory would come up like fragments of exquisite melody, haunting those two people.
Whatever the secret was which oppressed Elizabeth, its recollection was put aside for the time, and Mellen gave himself up to the pleasure of the hour with all the intensity of a nature which enjoys and suffers so sharply, that even trifles can make for it a keener excitement than great happiness or acute suffering bring to more placid characters.
"You are not tired, Bessie?"
"Tired, no! I could ride on forever!"
"See how the waters shine in the sun; they seem so full of joyous, buoyant life, that it gives one strength to watch them."
Elizabeth could fully share in his enthusiasm, and she allowed her poetical fancy full play, indulging in beautiful comparisons and earnest talk, which unveiled a phase of her nature seldom revealed except to those who knew her well.
"I never heard a woman talk as you can," said Mellen, admiringly; "we shall have you writing books, or coming out as a genius yet."
Elizabeth laughed gaily.
"You need not be afraid; I know you would not like it."
"Indeed I should not; it springs from my selfishness I know, but I like to keep your real self entirely for my own life."
The afternoon was wearing away when they turned homewards, but still retained its brightness and beauty, as their hearts kept the new glow which warmed them.
They galloped down the long hills and through the level groves till they were nearly home.
The sunlight faded—a strong breeze swept up from the ocean, and a sudden cloud obscured the sun; one of those abrupt changes so common in autumn fell upon the sea, robbing the day of its loveliness, and making it so cold and leaden that it was more than dreary from contrast with the glorious morning.
They were near the gates which led into their own domain, when a man came running swiftly towards them, and as he passed looked up in Elizabeth's face.
Whether her horse was frightened by the stranger rushing so abruptly past him, or whether she gave some nervous jerk to the reins, was not apparent; but a sharp cry rang from her lips, the horse made a simultaneous spring, and though a good rider, Elizabeth was unseated and thrown from her saddle. Mellen sprang from his horse and bent over his wife.
"I am not hurt," she said faintly, "not hurt."
The old woman who lived in a little house at the entrance of the grounds which they had transformed into a lodge, came out at that moment, and being a Yankee woman of energy and resources, caught Elizabeth's horse, and was ready to lend a helping hand wherever it might be required.
While this woman led the two horses within the gates and fastened them, Mellen raised his wife and carried her into the lodge. She was deathly pale and trembling violently, though in reply to his anxious inquiries, she repeated the same answer:
"I am not hurt—not at all hurt."
She drank a glass of water, lay down for a few moments on a cane-bottomed settee, which the room boasted as its principal elegance, then insisted upon rising.
Mellen sent the woman on to the house, with orders for the people to send down the carriage, as he would not have permitted Elizabeth to walk, even if her strength had seemed more equal to the exertion than it really was.
"Did that man frighten the horse?" he asked, when she appeared composed enough to speak. "The whole thing was over before I knew it—even before I saw him clearly he was gone—you cried out—the horse started—"
"No!" she answered with feverish earnestness, "the horse started first—I should not have shrieked but for that—why should I?"
"The scoundrel must have frightened the horse; did you recognise him?"
"He was running fast, you know, and darted into the woods so suddenly."
"I should like to have lain hands on him!"
"He meant no harm. Gipsy has grown shy of late. Don't think about the matter—there is no mischief done."
"But there might have been great danger; I cannot bear even now to think of it."
Elizabeth closed her eyes wearily; her recent elation of spirits was quite gone. She looked so pale and ill that Mellen could not feel satisfied that she had suffered no injury.
"You are sure that the fall has not hurt you, Bessie?"
"Quite sure," she answered, in the same changed voice; "don't trouble yourself about me. I was only frightened."
Mellen could not understand her manner, but he said nothing more. She lay back on the settee, and closed her eyes while he stood there regarding and wondering whether she lay thus from weakness or to escape further conversation.
At last the woman returned and announced that the carriage would be down immediately.
"That are man frightened the horse," she said; "I was a looking out of the window—it's my belief he's a hanging about the place for no good."
"Have you ever seen him before?" asked Mellen.
"Why, I think it's the chap you was a talking with one day, Mrs. Mellen," said the woman.
"I thought you did not know him?" observed Mellen, turning quickly towards his wife.
She sat upright, gave him one of her quick, indignant glances, and answered coldly:
"I simply said he ran by me so fast I could not tell whether I knew him or not."
"Wal, it was the same fellow," pursued Mrs. Green; "I'm sure of that."
"Do you remember?" questioned Mellen.
"I do not," replied Elizabeth haughtily.
Mellen colored and bit his lip, but he saw the woman looking curiously at them and said no more.
"I wish, Mrs. Green," he said, "you would take great care to close the gates at night; we are near enough the city for dangerous characters to stray down here."
"Law, sar, we're just as careful as can be. There ain't a night we don't shut and lock the gates. I hope we ain't a coming to no blame; I'm a lone woman and Jem's a cripple. It would be hard on us."
Mellen tried to stop her flood of protestations and appeals, but she insisted upon telling the whole story of every misery she had endured during her life, before she would pause in her plea of sorrow for an instant. By that time the carriage fortunately arrived and they were able to escape the sound of her tongue.
The husband and wife drove somewhat silently home. Mellen was very anxious about Elizabeth, who had recovered her usual serenity of temper, and could do her best to reassure him, though the color would not come back to her face, nor the startled look die out of her eyes.
When they reached the house, Elsie was standing on the steps, and ran down to the carriage full of alarm, having just learned that Elizabeth had met with some accident, while Tom came forward more anxious still.
"Are you hurt? are you hurt?" demanded Elsie.
Elizabeth assured her that she was not in the least injured, tried to laugh at Mellen's solicitude, but looked very nervous still.
"You are sure you are not hurt?" urged Tom.
"Perfectly sure."
"Maybe I'd better run after a doctor though?"
"Nonsense, Tom," she said, a little impatiently, "when I tell you I am not hurt in the least."
Tom and Elsie cried out together to know how the accident had happened, but Mellen gave a very brief explanation, while Elizabeth entered the hall and sat down in a chair to rest.
Tom ran to bring her a glass of wine which she did not want, and they all worried her with their solicitude, till it required great patience to restrain herself from breaking away from them rudely and rushing into the solitude she so much needed.
"If I had hold of the creature that scared the horse, I'd mill him," cried Tom, irately.
"I don't suppose he was to blame," said Elsie.
"Of course not," added Elizabeth; "of course not."
Mellen made no remark; he was watching Elizabeth, who still looked pale and oppressed.
"Do you feel better?" he asked.
"Much, I assure you; don't be frightened about me."
"Bessie is such a heroine!" cried Elsie.
Elizabeth gave one of the irritated looks with which she had sometimes regarded Elsie of late, but made no remark.
"She's a trump!" said Tom; "that's all there is about it."
Elsie laughed.
"I shall go up to my room and lie down," Elizabeth said; "an hour's rest will restore me completely."
Mellen assisted her upstairs and Elsie accompanied them, quite ready to accept Elizabeth's assurance that she was not injured, and doing her best to make them both laugh.
"Accidents seem the order of the day," she said; "it's lucky for us, Bessie, that we always have some one near to help us."
"Yes," was the weary reply.
"Do you think you could go to sleep now?" Mellen asked.
"Perhaps so," she said; "I will try, at all events."
"The best thing for you," said Elsie. "I'll sit with you a little while, and be still as a mouse."
Elsie was never sorry to escape from sickness or unpleasant occurrences of any kind, and could be of no more use in trouble than a canary-bird or a hot-house blossom. But just now she had an object in remaining.
The moment Mellen had withdrawn, she took North's letter from its hiding-place, and thrust it into Elizabeth's hand.
"Thank heaven I've got rid of it at last," she exclaimed, shaking the flounces of her dress as if the note had left some contamination behind.
"How did you get it?" faltered Elizabeth, looking at the folded paper with strained eyes, as if it had been an asp which she held by the neck.
"Oh, Elizabeth, he was in this very room."
"Here! here! Great heavens! why will no one shoot this man?" exclaimed the tortured woman.
"I thought of it, upon my word I did," said Elsie. "But, then, I don't know how to fire off a pistol!"
"How madly we are talking!" said Elizabeth, pressing one hand to her throbbing forehead.
Elsie pressed her own soft palm upon the strained hand, striving to soothe the evident pain. But Elizabeth shrunk away from the half caress, and said, in a low, husky voice:
"Leave me, Elsie, leave me; I will deal with this alone."
The young girl went away with a sense of relief. Then Elizabeth started up in bed, tore open the hateful note, and read it through.
Elsie went in search of Tom; who was walking up and down the veranda, looking anxious still, but his face cleared when he saw Elsie, like a granite rock lighted up by a sudden flood of sunshine.
"How is she?" he asked.
"Oh, a great deal better; she is going to sleep; that is, if Grant will be sensible enough to leave her alone; you men are dreadfully stupid creatures."
"Yes, dear," replied Tom, meekly.
"Well!" said Elsie; "you might show a little spirit at least."
"I thought I was to agree with you!"
"There is nothing I hate so much; if you don't contradict me, I shall die certainly."
"Then, since you want the truth, I must say I think you are a little hard on men in general."
"And you in particular, perhaps?"
"Sometimes you are."
"Indeed!" said she, tossing her curls. "Very well, Mr. Fuller, if you have such dreadful opinions as that, you had better have nothing more to do with me; I'll go away."
"Oh, don't; I didn't mean it," cried Tom, in a fright.
Elsie laughed at his penitence and teased him more unmercifully than ever, but Tom could bear it now with undisturbed equanimity. She had given him happiness, lifted his soul into such a flood of light as he had never thought to reach in this world, and his state of rapturous content utterly defied description.
They walked up and down the long colonnade, jesting and merry, Tom unable to think or talk of anything long except his new bliss, saying all sorts of absurd things in spite of Elsie's expostulations.
"I shall go in at once, if you don't behave more sensibly," she said, snatching her hand from him, as he tried to kiss it. "What would Grant think if he happened to come down."
"Oh, dear," sighed Tom; "how long before you will let me tell him; this having to steal one's happiness is dreadful."
"Oh, you selfish, insatiable monster! not an hour ago you promised to be perfectly content if I would only say I might care for you sometimes, and there now you go!"
"I am a selfish wretch," said Tom, struck with remorse.
"And selfishness is such a dreadful failing," rejoined Elsie.
"It is, I know it."
"In a man."
"Oh!" exclaimed Tom, a little astonished at the close of her sentence.
"Yes," continued Elsie; "It's a woman's privilege."
"It seems to me," said Tom, eagerly, "that women claim a great many privileges, and very odd ones, sometimes."
"Isn't it our privilege!" demanded Elsie, belligerently. "Do you mean to deny that we haven't a right to be just as selfish and whimsical as we please, and that it's your duty to submit?"
"If you'll let me kiss your hand I'll acknowledge anything you desire," said artful Tom.
"Then I won't, and if you value your peace in the slightest degree, I should advise you to behave more decorously."
Elsie drew herself up, and looked as prim as a little Quakeress, who had never indulged a worldly thought in all her days.
"I wish you would come into the music-room and sing to me," said Tom, struck with a bright idea.
"Nonsense, you don't care about music?"
"Indeed I do; your voice is like an angel's."
"You couldn't tell whether I was singing something from Trovatore or Yankee Doodle?" replied Elsie.
Tom rubbed his forehead again, fairly bewildered; but whether he knew anything about music as a science or not, he listened to Elsie's singing with his heart, and very sweet music it was.
"You shall teach me," he said.
"A hopeless task, Tom! And you really have some voice if you only had any ear."
"Oh," said Tom, putting up his hands, as if taking her words literally.
"Oh," said Elsie, with a shriek, "they prove your race beyond a doubt; don't fear."
Tom laughed, good-natured as ever.
"But come in," he urged; "you will get cold, with nothing on your head."
"You are not to become a Molly," said Elsie.
"I won't," replied Tom, "nor a Betty, nor any other atrocity; only just come in, like a duck."
Elsie allowed herself to be persuaded for once, and they went into the house, seating themselves at the piano in the solitary music-room, enjoying the hour after their own fashion, with no apparent perception of the shadows which lay upon the hearts of the husband and wife in that darkened home.
Some time after Elsie had gone, Mellen returned to his wife's chamber. She lay with one hand partially over her face, but was watching him all the while; there was an eager expression in her eyes, as if she longed to have him go away, but was afraid to express the wish.
"Do you feel sleepy, Bessie?" he asked.
"I think so," she replied; "don't let me keep you shut up here any longer—go down and play chess with Elsie."
"You will come down after you are rested?"
"Oh, certainly; I will be down to tea."
He kissed her and turned to leave the room.
"What are you going to do?" she asked, huskily.
"I have some letters to write; I shall go to the library in order to do it in peace—Elsie is certain not to come there."
"Good-bye," said Elizabeth, speaking with hysterical sharpness, which jarred a little on Mellen's quick ear.
He was gone and the door closed; Elizabeth raised herself on her elbow and remained listening till the sound of his steps died upon the stairs, then she threw aside the shawls he had flung over her, and sprang to her feet.
"Not a day's rest," she exclaimed, "not an hour's—not one! I must go out and answer the demands of this villain. If Grantley should meet me—I don't care—I must have it out! I shall go mad in the end—I shall go mad!"
She wrung her hands in a sort of fury, and paced up and down the room with quick, impatient steps.
"I might go now," she said at length; "he is in the library—it is growing dark, too."
She stopped before one of the windows and looked out; the afternoon was darkening under the mustering clouds and a heavy mist that had swept up from the ocean.
"Coming nearer and nearer," muttered Elizabeth, pointing to the waving columns of fog as if she were addressing some unseen person; "just so the danger and the darkness gather closer and closer about my life!"
She turned away, urged forward by the courage with which a brave person is impelled to meet a difficulty at once, threw a shawl about her and left the room.
She ran through the hall to a back staircase seldom used, and which led into a passage from whence she could pass at once into the thickest part of the shrubbery.
At the foot of the stairs she paused an instant, listened then with a quick, choking sigh, opened the door and hurried away.
Seated in his library, Mellen found it impossible to fulfil his task of letter writing. He could not account for the feelings which crept over him. The quiet content of the afternoon was all gone; and in its place came, not only anxiety about his wife, but a host of wild suspicions so vague and absurd, that he was angry with the folly which forced him to insult his reason by dwelling upon them.
The confinement of the house became absolutely hateful to him. He opened one of the French windows, stepped out upon the veranda and walked up and down in the gathering gloom, looking across the waters where the fog shifted to and fro, like ghostly shadows sent up to veil the ever restless ocean.
At last Mellen passed down the steps and entered the grounds; he was some distance from the house when he heard a sound like a person moaning aloud in distress.
He looked about—the mist and the coming night made it impossible to distinguish objects with any distinctness—but he saw the garments of a woman fluttering among the trees.
He darted forward; with what impulse he could hardly have told; but the woman had disappeared, whether warned by his hasty movement or urged forward by some other motive, he could not tell.
The thought in his mind was—
"That is my wife, Elizabeth."
Then the folly of this suspicion struck him; not an hour before he had left his wife almost asleep in her room, how was it possible that she could be there, wandering about like a demented creature in the misty twilight?
"I will go up to her room," he thought; "I will cure myself of these absurd fancies."
He entered the house and ran upstairs quickly, opened the door of his wife's room and looked in. She was standing before the fire—at the noise of the opening door she thrust something into her bosom—a paper it looked like to Mellen—then she turned and stood silently regarding him.
"You are up," he said.
"Yes," she replied, a little coldly. "Did you want anything?"
"Only to see if you slept—if you were coming down soon."
"I shall be down directly."
He hesitated an instant, then he said:
"Were you not in the grounds just now?"
Elizabeth did not answer; she had let her hair down and was beginning to arrange it, shading her pale face with the floating tresses.
"Were you?" he inquired again.
"What did you ask?" she demanded.
He repeated the question.
"It does not seem quite probable," she said, walking away towards the mirror.
"I thought that I saw you there only a few minutes since," he said.
Elizabeth was busy lighting a candle; after she had succeeded, she replied:
"If you had seen me in the grounds would it have been so very singular."
"No; only as I left you lying down——"
She interrupted him with an impatient gesture.
"I am tired of this," she said passionately. "What is it you wish to know—what do you suspect?"
"Nothing, Elizabeth; I only thought it was foolish if not dangerous to go out on such a night."
He was ashamed of himself now, but she did not offer to help him in his dilemma. She stood silent and still, as if waiting for him to leave the room.
"We will wait tea for you," he said.
"Very well."
As he passed near the sofa his foot got entangled in a shawl which lay on the floor; he picked it up—it was heavy with damp.
"I was given to understand that you had not been out," he exclaimed, holding it towards her.
For an instant Elizabeth looked confused, then she snatched the shawl from his hand, crying angrily:
"Well, sir, I was out—now are you satisfied?"
"Always deception," he said, "even in trifles."
"Of course," she exclaimed, in the same passionate tone, "you make it necessary. I went out because these nervous attacks make me feel as if I were choking—you are so suspicious, you see something to suspect in the most trivial action."
"So you——"
"Told you a lie," she added, when he hesitated; "well, let it go at that. Are you through with this examination—have you any more questions to ask?"
"That tone—that look, Elizabeth; you are not like yourself!"
"No wonder—blame yourself for it. I cannot and will not endure this system ofespionage—I will have my liberty—that you may understand!"
Mellen's passionate temper flamed up in his face, but he controlled it resolutely and did not speak.
"Be good enough to say all you wish and have done with the subject," she continued in the same irritating tone, utterly unlike her old method of parleying or enduring his evil words.
"I have nothing to ask," he said; "you are nervous and excited—we won't quarrel to-night."
He went out of the room, Elizabeth fell upon her knees by the couch, and groaned aloud.
"Oh! I am no longer myself! What wonder! what wonder!"
She drew a letter from her bosom and began to read it, moaning and crying as she read; then she threw it in the fire, stood watching till the last fragments were consumed, then sinking into a chair, buried her face in her hands. She remained a long time in that despondent attitude, her whole frame shaking at intervals with nervous tremors, and her breath struggling upwards in shuddering gasps.
There was a knock at the door at length.
"Who is there?" she called sharply; "what do you want?"
"Miss Elsie wished to know if you were coming to tea," said a servant. "There is a gentleman come to see Mr. Mellen from the city, ma'am."
Elizabeth started up and went on dressing; as was usual with her after one of those strange excitements, a sudden fever crimsoned her cheeks and brightened her eyes.
She went downstairs and received her guest with affable grace, which contrasted painfully with her late excitement, and before the evening was over, seemed to have forgotten the hasty words she had spoken to Mellen, and was like her old self again.
IT was a small room, in one of those mysterious hotels in the narrow streets near the Battery, which appear to be usually appropriated to foreigners, and about which dark-whiskered, sallow-faced individuals may be seen lingering at all hours of the day, their very faded, seedy appearance calling up images of duns, scant dinners, and a whole train of petty evils.
The chamber was small, but not uncomfortably furnished, though the articles had originally been of the tawdry fashion which such places affect, and had probably not been new by several stages when first established there.
The remains of a fire smouldered in the little grate, but the ashes were strewn over the hearth. The torn and frayed carpet was littered with loose cards, and the whole apartment was in hopeless confusion which added greatly to its original discomfort.
In the centre of the room was a small table covered with empty champagne bottles and glasses, standing in half dried puddles of wine, with a bronze receiver overflowing with cigar ashes all huddled untidily together, and giving repulsive evidence of a long night of dissipation.
The low bedstead had its moth-eaten, miserable attempt at a canopy swept back and heaped carelessly on the dirty counterpane by a man in a restless slumber, just as he had thrown himself down, ready dressed, long after daylight peered in through the broken shutters.
His appearance was in keeping with the room; a soiled dressing-gown, that had once been very elegant, was wrapt carelessly about him; his black hair streamed over the pillow, and gave an almost ghastly effect to his face, as he lay in that troubled dream, already pale and worn from many sleepless nights.
It was a handsome face, but one from which a physiognomist would have shrunk, had he seen it in its hard truthfulness, without a gleam of the fascination which it was capable of expressing in guarded moments and under more fortunate circumstances.
The sleeper was on the sunny side of mid-age, but his countenance was one of those which carries no idea of youth with it, even in early boyhood it was so marked by craft and recklessness that nothing of theabandonof fresh feeling ever left an imprint there.
It was nearly noon, but he had not stirred or opened his eyes; once or twice the dilapidated chambermaid, who performed a slatternly duty in that part of the building, opened the door and peeped in, but her entrance had not served to arouse him, and she knew better than to venture upon any further attempt.
Suddenly he woke from a troubled dream and looked about him.
"I dreamed they were railing me up in a coffin," he muttered; "pah, how plainly I heard them driving in the nails!"
He turned upon his pillow with a shuddering oath, but that instant there came a knock at the door, this time quick and impatient—it was the first summons which had caused him that unquiet vision.
"Come in," he called out; "the door isn't locked."
The man raised himself indolently on the bed and looked towards the door—it opened slowly and a woman entered the room.
Her face was concealed under a heavy veil, but the man seemed to recognize her at once, for he started up and gave a muttered execration as he caught sight of his untidy appearance in the little mirror.
Then he hurried towards his visitor, who had closed the door and stood leaning against it.
"You have come," he exclaimed; "so kind of you—excuse the disorder here—I did not know it was so late."
He held out his hand with a smile, but she turned away with a gesture of abhorrence which had no effect upon him save that it deepened the smile to an ugly sneer.
She threw back the long veil and displayed her face—the visitor was Elizabeth Mellen.
"Pray be seated," he went on, placing a chair near the hearth; "this room looks dreadful, but I was up late and overslept myself—had I dreamed you would favor me with so early a visit, I should have been prepared."
She glanced at the table, which bore evidence of the manner in which the night had been passed, and said abruptly, pointing towards the cards scattered on the carpet:
"Did those things keep you wakeful?"
He smiled complacently.
"Nothing ever escapes your eye, dear lady. Well, I won't deny the fact—we were playing cards a little. I was not absolutely fortunate," he answered, with another disagreeable smile; "but you know the old proverb—'Lucky in love, unlucky at cards,' so I never expect much from the mischievous paste-boards."
Her face flushed painfully to the very waves of her hair, then grew whiter than before; she sank to a seat from positive inability to stand.
"I have brought you no money," she said, abruptly, looking in his face with sudden defiance.
His brows contracted in an ugly frown, though his lips still retained its smile—he looked dangerous.
"That is bad, very," he said; "I wonder you should have come all the way here to bring these unpleasant tidings!"
Elizabeth did not answer; she had drawn towards the hearth and was pushing the ashes back with the point of her shoe, gazing drearily into the dying embers.
"You received my letter?" he asked.
"Yes—don't send in that way again, or let yourself be seen. You frightened me so that I fell from my horse."
"How sad! I should never have forgiven myself had any harm resulted from it," he said, so gravely, that one could not tell whether he was in earnest or mocking her. "You were not hurt—nothing unpleasant occurred! I despaired of seeing you in the grounds after that, and so went away."
She started up in sudden passion, goaded by his attempt at sympathy beyond the power of prudence or self-control.
"I wish I had been hurt," she exclaimed. "I could have borne being maimed for life had I seen the brute's hoofs trampling you down as I fell."
He seated himself opposite her and looked earnestly in her face. These bitter words did not seem to excite his anger—he was smiling still, and his face wore a look of admiration which appeared to excite her still more desperately.
"You are so beautiful in one of these moods," he said; "don't restrain yourself. What a Medea you would make!"
She looked at him with a glance which had the menace of a hunted animal brought suddenly to bay, and ready from very despair to defend itself—in moments like that many a desperate woman has stained her soul with crime—but her companion betrayed no uneasiness.
"You don't like me to say complimentary things to you," he said; "it is unkind to deprive me even of that pleasure."
"I have no time to waste," she said, controlling herself by a strong effort, and speaking in a cold, measured tone. "I came to tell you that you must wait—I can't give you the money to-day—if you were successful with those cards you can afford to be patient."
"My dear friend," returned he, "you know how anxious I am—how I desire to put the ocean between me and this accursed country."
"You will not go when you get the money," she said; "you will drink, gamble—leave yourself without a penny."
"So harsh always in your judgments," he returned, deprecatingly.
"I have no hope of escaping you," she went on; "but I have one consolation—you are ruining me, and that will be your own destruction! My husband suspects me—watches me—the day he discovers a shadow of the truth, there is an end to these extortions."
"Don't speak so angrily—my dear lady! I hardly think your husband would refuse to listen to reason—your proud men will do a great deal to procure silence where a lady is concerned."
"You know that he would not be silent! With his home once broken up, his peace destroyed, he would be utterly careless of the world's knowledge—his wrongs and his revenge would lead him to desperate measures."
"Is it possible? What an unpleasant character! Well, well, we must take pains that he is not enlightened—that is the way—you see how very simple it is."
"I warn you, this is the last money I shall give you for years," she said; "it is only from having these stocks in my hands that I am able to do it now."
"My dear friend, you forget; your husband may give you more stocks," he returned, with a laugh which made her shrink with abhorence.
"Mr. Forbes has promised me the money this week—that will be in time for the steamer."
"How coldly you betray anxiety to have me gone!" he said; "it is really cruel."
"I have no idea that you will go," she returned; "you will spend the money—you will demand more—my husband will discover it. But at least I shall have the satisfaction of knowing that there is no place secret enough, no land distant enough to guard your life safely after that."
He only received her passionate words with a shrug of the shoulders and a deprecating wave of the hand.
"But it is so sad to go into exile alone," he said; "if I could take with me——"
"Oh! you are such a base, miserable coward!" she broke in. "Such a pitiful, dastardly wretch! Don't frown at me—I have never been afraid of you—I am not now! I tell you the hour of retribution will come!"
His face never changed, he made her a gracious bow and said pleasantly:
"You are inclined to do the prophetess this morning—but don't be such a fearful Cassandra, I beg."
She rose from her chair and folded her shawl about her.
"I need stay here no longer," she said, "I have told you what I came to say."
"Don't be so cruel as to run away so soon," he pleaded; "give my poor room the glory of your presence a little longer. You see to what I was driven before I could force myself to trouble you again. These are not proper apartments for a gentleman; you will admit I had an excuse. The whole thing is miserably humiliating."
"I shall be here on Monday," said Elizabeth, ignoring his excuses. "I shall have the money ready for you, but I will not bring it—those letters must be first placed in my hands."
"Ah! you are going to drive a hard bargain, I see."
"You have evaded so often, cheated me so often; I have given you thousands of dollars—this is the last—take it—enough to make you comfortable for years if you are careful; but the letters come into my possession first, and that paper too."
"You really mean to have your freedom, do you?" he asked, jestingly; "to sweep me out of your life for ever; that is hard."
"Don't think to cheat me; neither your forged writing or any pretence will answer here. I tell you I am desperate now—you can't force me down a step farther."
"You are a magnificent woman!" he exclaimed; "a wonderful woman! I don't believe the country could boast another such."
She turned away.
"Now you are angry. But let it pass."
"Remember what I have said," retorted Elizabeth. "I tell you I am desperate now! At least I shall have placed it out of your power to injure any one but myself. I have reached that point when I will have freedom from your persecutions or drag the ruin down on my own head while crushing you."
She was in terrible earnest—he was a sufficient judge of character to see that. It was in her nature to grow so utterly desperate that, whatever her secret might prove, she would find the courage to give it up to her husband and madly urge on the crisis of her fate in all its blackness and horror, rather than endure the slavery and suspense in which she had lived.
"There will be no need of all this," he said. "Place in my hands the sum you have promised, and I will at once put it out of my own power to harm you or yours. After all," he continued, with another sneering laugh, "I am selling my claim much too cheaply; twenty-five thousand dollars is a pitiful little sum, considering what I give up."
"You can get no more—you cannot frighten me! If you betrayed everything you would ruin your hopes of a single penny. I tell you my husband would perish rather than buy your silence. I know him—he might shoot you down like a dog, but would never pay gold to bind your vicious tongue."
"Dear friend, I infinitely prefer transacting this little business with you," he said, laughing again. "We shall not quarrel; for your sake I will content myself with the twenty-five thousand dollars, but I warn you I cannot wait after Monday."
"I tell you it will be ready on that day."
"The letters and that troublesome little document shall be placed in your hands—I promise on——"
She interrupted him contemptuously: "There is nothing you could swear by that would make the oath worth hearing."
The man bowed, as if she had paid him a compliment. He was so utterly hardened that even her burning scorn could not affect him.
"Don't write to me, don't send to me," she said; "it will only be dangerous—more so for you than for me—remember that."
"I can trust you; I have the utmost faith in your word."
She gathered her shawl about her and moved towards the door.
"Are you going already?"
"That bracelet!" she said, with a sudden thought. "You parted with it of course—could you get it back?"
He shrugged his shoulders.
"I received your note concerning it; we will see—very doubtful I fear. But when I am once gone—even if your husband does discover it—there will be no trouble."
She turned her back on him. He started forward to open the door for her, his hand touched hers on the knob, she started as if a scorpion had stung her, but he only cast a smile in her face and allowed her to pass out.
"A wonderful woman!" he said to himself, after she had disappeared. "What a pity she hates me so; the only woman in the world worth having at your feet."
He went to the table, searched among the bottles till he found one that still contained brandy, poured the contents into a glass and drank with feverish eagerness.
"That'll put a little life in me," he muttered. "Well, there is nothing for it but to wait. I must keep myself very quiet. I think I'll have some breakfast—at any rate I can afford to leave this den."
He pulled out a pocket-book with a laugh, glanced at the contents and put it away.
"Luck enough for a parlor and bed-room in the best uptown hotel for a week or so," he muttered; "pah! how I loathe this hole!"
North threw off his dressing-gown, bathed his face in cold water, arranged his dress a little, and went down stairs in search of his morning meal.
Elizabeth Mellen hurried through the narrow street in which the hotel stood, as if trying to walk herself into calmness. Once she murmured:
"Five days more—five! If I can live through them and keep the tempest back I may be safe. If I can! Such a dread at my heart—worse as the time shortens—oh heavens, if discovery should come now when the haven is so near!"