THE LEAVENWORTH MURDER

BY AJMTA KAIJIEIiINE GREEN,

Authoress of

"A Strange Disappearance" and

"TIIK SWOKD OF DAMOOI.K3."

XXXII.

MRS BEtDEN'S XAURATIVK,

Cursed, doatv'ctive Avarice Thou everlasting foo to liovo uml Honour. —TIUP'B AlllUM.

Mischief never thrives Without the help ot Woman. -TiibSamk.

It will be a year next July since I first 3iw Mary Loavenworth. I was living at that time a most monotonous existence. Loving what was beautiful, hating what was sordid, drawn by nature to all that was romantic and uncommon, but doomed by my straitened position aud the loneli ness of my widowhood, to spend my days in the woury lound of plain sowing, I had begun to think that the shadow of a humdrum old ago was settling down upon mo, when one morning, iv the full tide of my dissatisfaction, Mnry Leavenworth Stopped across the threshold of my door, and with one smile changed the whole touor of my life

This may seem exaggeration to you, es pecially when 1 tell you thut lior errand was simply one of biiaiucss, she having hoard I was handy with my needle ; but if you could haw Been her as she appeared that day, marked the look with which who approached me, and tho smile with which she left, yon would pardon tho folly of a romnntic old woman, who behold a fairy queen, whern others saw a lovely yoiuif: lady. The fact is, 1 was dazzled l>y her beauty and charms. And when a few days after, she cami again, and crouching down on the stool at my feet, n-dced lenve to sit with mo awhile and rest, sayiii" .she wjh so tired of the gossip and tumult down at the Hotel, and sn longed at times to run away and hide with pome one who would let her act likn tho child she was, I experienced for the moment, I believe, tho truest happi ness of my life., reeling so, it was impos sible for mo not to show it. Somothiug of all that which I had kept repressed till now, awoke in responso to her persuasive gliuice, and before long I found her looking up into my face with manifest pleasure, listening eagerly while I told her, almost without my own volition, tho story of my past life, in tho form of a tender allegory.

The next day saw her in the same p'aco ; and the next; always with the eager, laughing eye, and the fluttering, Uneasy hands, that grasped everything they touched, and broko everything they grasped. But the fourth day she was not there, nor the fifth, nor toe sixth, and I was beginning to feel the old shadow settling back upon me, when one night, just as the dusk of twilight was merging into evening gloom, she came stealing in at the front door, and creeping up to my side, put her hands over my eyes with such a low, ringing laugh that I started.

" You don't know what to make of me ! cried she, throwing aside her cloak, and rovoa'ing herself in full splendour of even ing attire. " I d.in t know what to make of mysi'lf; only," she whispered, "I felt tint 1 must run away, aud tell dome ona, that for the first time in my life, I am fully alive; that a certain pair of eyes have been looking into mi&o, and that not Mary of Scots with all her beauty niul queenlinesi, ever felt herself more of the covcrcign or moro the woman, than I do to-night," And with a turn of her bead, that mint have rivalled any gesture of that beautiful queen, she gathered up her cloak around her, and laughingly cried, " Have you had a visit from a Hying sprite? Has one little ray of moonlight found its way into your prison for a. wee moment, with Mary's laugh and Mary's snowy silk and Hashing diamonds ? Say !" aud slih pattered my cheek, and smiled so bewildering, that even now, with all the dull horror of these aflor-cvents crowding upon me, I cannot but feel something liko tears spring to my eyes at the thought ot it. -

" And so the Prince has como for you?" I whispered, alluding to a story 1 had told her the last time she had visited me; a story in which a girl who had waited all her life in rags and degradation for the lordly knight who was to raise her from a hovel to a throne, died just as her one lover, au honest peasant-lad whom sho had dis carded ia her pride, arrived at her door with the fortune iv hjs hand, ho had spent all his days in amassing for her sake.

But at that sho Hushed and drew baok towards the door. "I don't know, I am afraid not. I—l don't think anything about that. Princes are not so easily woa," she murmured.

"What, aye you going?" I said, "and a'one ? Let me accompany you," But she only shook her fairy head, and replied,—" No, no ; that would be spoiling Uic romance indeed. I have come upon you like a sprite, and like a sprite will I go." And flashing like the moonbeam she was, she glided out into the night, and floated away down the street.. When she next came, I ohsorved a fever ish, excitement in her manner, that assured me even plainer than the coy sweetness displayed 111 our last interview, that her heart had been touched by her lover's at tentions. Indeed flic hinted as much before she left, saying in a melancholy tone, when I had ended my story in the usual happy way, with kisses and marriage, " 1 shall never m iwy I" finishing the ex clamation with a loug-drawn sigh, that somehow emboldened me to say, perhaps because I knew she had no mother, "And why ? What reason can there be for such rosy lips saying their possessor will never marry ?" She gave me one quick look, and then dropped her eyes 1 feared I had nilended her, aiul was feeling very humble, when she suddenly replied in an even but low tone, "I said ' should never marry, because the one man wlu pleases me is the last whom fate will allow me for a husband." "Fate?" repeated I, all the hidden romance of my nature starting into sudden life. "Yes." " What do you mean ? tell me." " Therft is nothing 10 tell," said she ; " only I have been so weak as to—" she would not ray, fall in love, she was a proud woman—" admire a man whom my uncle will never allow me to marry." And (-he ro<e as if t» g", but I drew her back. ''Wnom your uiklo will not allow you to mam1 ?' I ropea'ed, ''why—because he i« poor '!'' '•No; uncle love? money, but not to such an ex'entas that. Besides, Mr Claver ipa; is not poor, He is the owner of a beau tiful place in h;s own country—"

"Own country," I interrupted. "Is he not an American?" " No," she returned ; "ho is an English man." I dirt not ace why she need say Mint in just the way she did, but supposing she was aggravated by come secret memory, went on to inquire,—"Then what diiliculty can there be ? Isn't he—" I was going to say steady, but rcfrairftd. "He ia an Englishman," cried she, in the same bitter tone as before. "Jn saying that, I say it all. Uncle will never let me marry an Englishman." I looked at her in amazement, Such a puerile reuaon as that had never entered my miud, " He Las an absolute mania on the sub ject,'1 resumnd she. " I might as well aik him to allow me to drown myself, as to marry an Englishman." A woman of truer judgment than myself would have aaid, —"Then if that, is fo, why not discard from your breast all thought of him ? Why dance with him, and talk to him, and let your admiration develop into love ?'' But I was all romance then, and angry at a prejudice I could neither understand nor appreciate, I said. " Hut that is mere tyranny ! Why should ho hate the English so? And why, if he does, should you feel yourself obliged to gratify him in a whim so unreason able ?" " Why ? Shnll I tell you, nuntie ?" she said, Hustling and looking away. " Yes,' I returned ; tell me every thing." "Well then, if you want to know the worst of me, as you already know the best, I hate to incur my uncle's displeasure, bocauso— because— i have always been brought up to regard myself as hia hcirw, and 1 know that if 1 .should marry contrary to liis wishes, he would instantly change his mind, and leave me penniless." "But," I cried, my romance a little dampened by this admission, "you tell mo Mr Clavering has enough to live upou, so you would uot want; and ii you love—" Her violet eyes fairly flashed in her amazement " You don't understand," she said ; " Mr Clavering is not poor, but uncle is rich trembling and falling on my breast, "O it soundi mercenary, I kuow," she'sobbed, " but ft is thu fault of my bringing up I have been taught to worship money. I would bo utterly lost without it. And yet—" her whole fiice softening with the light of another emotion, " I cannot cay to Henry Clavering, 'Go I I lov2 my richer bettor than you!' I cannot, O I can not." " You lovo him then," said F, deter mined to get at the truth of the matter if possible. She rose restlessly. " Isn't that a proof of love ? If you knew me you would say it was." And turning, she took her stand be fore a picture that hung on the wall of my sUtinfj-rootn. " That looks liko me," she anid. It was one of a good pair of photographs I possessed. She did not fcem to hear mo ; she was absorbed in gazing at tha exquisite fa jo be fore her. " That U a winning face," I heard her pay. " Sweeter than mine. I wonder if she would over hesitate between lovo and money ? I do not believe she would," her own countenance growing gloomy and cad as she said so ; " slio would think onlj of the happiness she would con fer ; she is not hard like me ; Elcanorc her self would lovo this girl." 1 tliiuk she had forgotten my prcsenco, for at the mention of her cousin's name, she turned quickly round with a hall suspicious look, saying lightly, "My dear old Mamma Hubbiird looks horrified, Sho did not know she had such a very unronuuitic little wretch fora listener, when she was telling nil thoso wonderful stones of Love shying dragons, and living in caves, and walking over burning plough shares as if they were tufts of spring grass, did she?'1 .; MU-"«Jf,?4 „, . £ "No," I said, taking her by an irresis tible impulse of admiring affection iuto my arms, " but if I had, it would have made no difference. I should still have talked about love, and of all it can do to muko this weary work-a-day world sweet and delightful." "Would you? Then you do not think mo such a wretch?" What could I say? I thought her the winsomest being ia tbo world, and frankly told her so. Instantly she brightened into her very gayest self. Not that I tboi.ght then, much less do I tliink now, tbat she particularly cared for my pood opinion; but her Daturo demanded admiration and unconsciously blossomed under it, as a llowcr under the sunshine. " And you wijl still let mo como and tell you how bad I am—that is, if I go on being bad, as I doubtless shall to the end of the chapter? You will not turn mo oil'?" " I will never turn you off." "Not if I should do a dreadful thing? Not if I should run away with my lover some fine night, and leave uncle to dis cover how ill his affectionate partiality had been requited ?" It was lightly said, and lightly meant, for she did not even wait for my reply. But its seed sank deep into our two hearts for all that. And for two days I spout my dma in planning how I should manage, if it should ever fall to my lot to conduct to a successful issue, so enthralling a piece of business as an olopement. You may imagine, then, how delighted I was when one evening Hannah, this unfortunate girl who is now lying dead under my roof, and who was occupying the position of lady's maid to Miss Mary Leavenworth at that time, came to my door with a note from her mistress, running thus : " Have the loveliest story of the season ready for mo to-morrow; and let the prince be as handsome as—as someone you have heard of, and the princess as foolish as your little yielding pet, "Mary." Which short note could only mean that she was engaged. But morning-light did not bring my Mary, nor noon-tide, nor evening. The next day came aud wont, but beyond hearing that Mr Leavenworth had returned—lie had been away travel ling—l received neither word nor token. Two more days dragged by, when just as twilight set iv sho came. It had ueen a week since I had seen her, but it might have been a year by the change I observed in her countenance aud expression. I could scarcely greet her with any show of pleasure, she was so unlike her former self. "You arc disappointed,, are you not," said she, looking at me. " You expected revelations, whispered hopes, and all man ner of sweet confidences, and you see instead a cold, bitter woman, who, for the first time in your presence, feels inclined to be reserved aud uncommunicative." " That is because you havfc had more to trouble than encourage you in your love," 1 returned, though not without a certain shrinking caused more by her manner than words. She did not reply to this, but rose and paced the floor; coldly, at first, but after wards with a certain degree ot excitement lh.it proved to bo the prelude to a change in her manner, for, suddenly pausing, she turned to me and said, "Mr Clavering has left R , Mrs Beldcn."

"•Left!" "Yes, my uncle commanded mo to dis miKH him, and I obeyed." The work dropped from my hands m my heartfelt disappointment. "Ah! then hs knows of your engagement to Mr Claver ing?" " Yes; ho ha 3 not been in the house five minutes before Eleanore told him." " Then she knew?" " Yes;" with a half eigh. " She could hardly help it. 1 was foolish enough to give her the cue in my first moment ot joy and weakness. I did not think of the consequences; but I mi^ht have known. She is so conscientious." " I do not call it conscientiousness to tell another's secrets," I returned. "That is because you are not Eleanore." Not having a reply fot this, I said, "And so your uncle did not regard your engage ment with favour?" "Favour? Did I not tell you lie would never allow mi to marry an Englishman? He said he would sooner see me buried." " And you yielded ? Made no strnggle ? let the hard, cruel man huve his way ?' She was walking oIF to look again at that picture which had attracted hur attention the time before, but at this word gave me one little sidelong look that was inexpres sibly suugestive. "I obryed him when he commanded, if that in what you mean." "And dismissed Mr Claverinc; after having givon him your word of honour to be his wife?" " Why not, when I fumd I could not keep my word ?'■ "Then you have decided not to marry him '!" She did not reply at once, but lifted her face mechanically to the picture. " My uncle would tell you that I had decided to bo governed wholly by his wishes," she responded at last with what I felt was self-scornful bitterness. Greatly disappointed, 1 hurst into tcap. "0 Mary!" 1 cued, "0 Mary!" and in stantly blushed, startled that I had called her by her first name. But flic did not appear to notice. "Have you any complaint to make?" oho asked. "I* it not my manifest duty tn be governed by ray uncle's wishes? Has he not brought me up from child hood? lavished every luxtny upon me? made me all I am, even to the love of richps which lie has instilled in to my soul with every gift he his thrown into my lap, every word he has dropped in my car, since I was old enough to know wlmt riches meant ? Is it for me now to turn my back upon fo-teriug care 80 wise, beneficent and free, just because a man whom I have known some two weeks cliaocca to oiler mo in exchange what he plea«o< to call hij love ?" " But," I feebly e3Bayed, convinced per haps by the tone of sarcasm in which this was uttered that she was not far from my way of thinking after all, "if in two weeks you have learned to love this man more thau everything else, even the riches which make your unclo's favour a thiDg of such moment—" " Well ?" paid she, " what then ?" " Why then I would say, secure your happiness with the man ot your choice if you havo to marry him in swe^rusting to your inllueoce over your uncle to win the forcriveneas he never can persistently deny." You should have seen the arch expression wbich stolo across her face at that. " Would it not be better," she asked creep ing to my arms and laying her head on my shuulder, "would it not be better to make sure of that uncle's favour first, before undertaking the hazardous experiment of running away with a too ardent lover?" Struck by her manner, I lifted her face and looked at it. It was one amused smile. " V, my darling," said I, "you have not, then, dismissed Mr Claverifsg?" "I have sent him away," she whispered demurely. " But uot without hope ?" She burst into a ringing laugh. " O.you denr old Mamma Hubnard, what a match maker you are, to be sure ! You appear as much interested a.% if you were the lover himself." " But tell me," I urged. In a moment her serious mood returned. " He will wait for me," said she. The next day I submitted to her the plan I had formed for her clandestine intercourse with Mr Clnvering. It was for them both to assume names, she taking; mine as one less liable to provoke coojecture than a straueo mime, and he that of Le Hoy Kob. bins. The plan pleased her, and with the slight modification of a secret sign being used on tuo envelope to distinguish her letters from mine, waa at once adopted. And so it was, t took the fatal step which hns involved me in all this trouble. With the gift of my name to this young girl to use as she would and sign what she would, I seemed to part with what was left me ot judgment and discretion. Henceforth I was only her scheming, planuinß, devoted slave. Now copying the letters which sho brought me and enclosing to the false name wo had agreed upon,and now busying myself in devising ways to forward to her those which I received from him, without risk of discovery. Han nah was usually the medium we employed for this, as Mary felt that it would not be wise in her to come too often to my house. To this girl's charge then, I gave such notes as I could noi forward in any other way, secure in the reticence of her nature as well a« in her inability to read, that these letters addressed to Mrs Amy Belden would arrive at their proper destina tion without mishap. And I believe they always did. At all events no difficulty, that I ever heard of, arose out of the uso of this girl as a go-betweeu. But a change was at hand. Mr Clavering, who had left an invalid mother in England, suddenly received notice that she was very ill and requested his immediate return, He prepared himself to obey the summons, but Hushed with love, distracted by doubts, smitten with the fear that once withdrawn from the neighbourhood of a woman so uni versally courted as Mary, he would stand small chanco of regaining his position in her regard, he wrote to her, telling his fears and asking her to marry him before he went "Make me onco your husband and I will follow your wishes in all things," he wrote. " The certainty that you are mine will make parting possible ; without it,l cannot go, no, not if my mother should die without the comfort of saying good-by to her only chili." By some chance she was in my house when I brought this letter from the post office, and I shall never forget how she started when she read i\ But from look ing as it she had received an insult, she speadily settled down into a calm considera tion of the subject, writing and delivering into my charge for copying, a few lines in which she promised to accede to bis request, if he would agree to leave the public decla ration of the marriage to her discretion,and consent to bid her farewell at the door of the church or wherever the ceremony of marriage should take place, never to come into her presence again till such declaration had been made. Of course this brought in a coxiple of days the sure response, " Any thing so you will be mine." And Amy Belden's wits and powcis of planning were all summoned into requisition for the second time, to devise how this matter could be

arranged without subjecting the parties to the chance of detection. I found the thing very difficult. In the first place, it was essential that the marriage should come off within three days, Mr Clavering having upon the receipt of her letter secured his passage upon a steamer that sailed on the, following Saturday ; and next, both he and Miss Leavenwonh were too conspicuous ia their personal appearance to make it at all possible for them to be married without re mark, anywhere within gossiping distance of this place. And yet it was desirable that the scene of the ceremony should not be too far away, or the time occupied in effecting the journey to and from the place would necessitate an absence from the hotel on the part of Miss Leavenworth, long enough to rouse the suspicions of Elea noro; something which Mary felt it wiser to avoid. Her uncle, I have forgotten to say, was not here—haviug gone off travelling again, shortly after the apparent dismissal of Mr Clavering. F then, was the only town I could think of, which com bined the two advantages of distance and accessibility. Although upon the railroad, it was an insignificant place, and had what was better yet, a very obscure man for its clergyman, living, which wai best of all, not ten rods from the depot. It they could meet there ? Miking enquiries, I found that it could bu done, and all alive to the romance of tbo occasion, proceeded to plan the details. And now lam coming to what might have caused the overthrow of the whole scheme; I alluda to the detection on the part of Eleanore of the correspondence between Mary and Mr Ohvering. It hap pened thus. Hannah, who in her goings back and forth, had grown very fond of my society, bad come in to sit with me for a while one evening. She had not been in the house, however, more than ten minutes, before there came a knock at the front door, and going to it I saw, as I supposed, Mary, from the long cloak she wore, stand ing before me. Thinking she had come with a letter for Mr JJlavering, I grasped her arm and drew her Into the hall, saving, "Have you got it? I must post it 10 ---night or he will not receive it in time." There I pauced, for ihe panting creature I had by the arm turning upon me, I saw that it was a stranger. " You have made a mistake," she cried, " I am Eleanore Leavenworth, and I have come for my t»irl Hannah. Is she here?' I could only raise my hand in apprehen sion and point to the girl sitting ia the corner of the room before her. Miss Lea venworih immediately turned back. " Hanuab, 1 want you," said she, and would have left the house without another word but I caught her by the arm. "0, miss," I began, but she gave me such a look, I dropped her arm as if it had been hot steel. '' I have nothing to say to you," she cried in a low, thrilling voice. "Do not detain me." And with a glance to see if Hannah were following her, »he went out. For an bour I sat crouched on the stair just where sho had left me. Then I went to bed, but I did not sleep i> wink that night. You can imagine then my wonder, when with the first glow of the early morn ing light, Mary, looking more beautiful than ever, came running up the steps and into the room where I was with the letter for Mr Clavering trembling in her hand. "Oh 1" I cried in my~joy and relief, " didn't she undcrstandrae, then?" The gay look on Mary's face turned to one of reckless scorn. "If you mean Eleanore, yes. She is duly initiated, Mamma Hubbard. Knows that I love Mr Clavering and write to him. I couldn't keep it secret after the mistake you made last evening, so I did the b?st thing, told her the troth." " Net that you were about to be mar ried ?" "Certainly not. I don't believe in un necessary-communications." " Aud you did not find her as angiy n yo~* expected?" "I will not say that; she was angry enough. And yet—" continued Mary with a burst of self-scoroful penitence, " I will not call Elcanore'sJoftly indignation, anger. She was grieved, Mamma Hubbard, grieved." And with a laugh that [ believe was rather the result of her own relief thau of any wish to reflect on her cousin, she threw her head on one side and eyed me with a look which seemed to say,—" Do I plague you so very mucb, you dear old .Mamma Hubbard?" She did plaaue me and I could not con ceal it. " And will she not tell your uncle ?" I gasped. The naive expression on Mary's face quickly changed. " No," said she. I felt a heavy hand hot with fever, lifted from my heart. "And we still go on ?" She held out the letter for reply. The plan, agreed upon between us for the carrying out of our intentions was this. At the time appointed, Mary was to excuse her self to her cousin upon the plea that she had promised to take me to see a friend in the.next town. Sho was then to enter a buggy previously ordered, and drive here, where I was to join her. We wore tnea to proceed immediately to the minister's house m F , where we had reason to believe we should find everything prepared for us. But in this plan, simple as it was, one thing was forgotten, and that was the character of Eleariore's love for her cousin. That she would suspect something was wrong, we did not doubt, but that me would actually follow her up and demand an explanation of her conduct, was what neither she who knew her so well, nor I who knew her so little, ever imagined possible. And yet that was just what occurred. But let me explain. Mary, who had followed out the programme to the point of leaving a little note of excuse on Eleanore's dressing-table, had come to my house aud was just taking, off her loug cloak to show nip her dress, when there came a commanding knock at the front door. Hastily pulling her cloak about her I ran to open it, intending, you may be sure, to dismiss my visitor with short ceremony when I heard a voice behind me say,—" Good heavens, it is Eleanore 1" and glancing back, saw Mary looking through the window-blind upon the porch without. "What shall I do?" cried I, shrinking back. "Do? why open the door and let her in; lam not afraid of Eleanoro." I immediately did so, and Eleanore Leavenworth, very pale but with a resolute countenance, walked into the house and into this room, confronting Mary in very nearly the same spot where you arc now sitting. " I have come." said die lifting a face whose expression of mingled sweetness and power I could net but admire even in that moment of apprehension, "to ask you, without any excuse for my request, if you will allow me to accompany you upon your drive this morning?" Mary, who had drawn herself up to meet some word of accusation or appeal, turned carelessly away to the glass. "I am very sorry,"* she paid, " but the buggy holds only two, and I shall be obliged to refuse." " I will order a curriaee." "But I do not wish your company, Eloanore. We are off on a pleasure trip, and desire to go as we have planned by ourselves." " And you will not allow me to accom pany you ?"

" I cannot prevent your going in another carriage." Eleanore's face grew yet more earnest in its expression. ''Mary," said she, "we have hecn brought up together. I am your sister in affection if not in blood, and I cannot see you start upon this adventure •with no other companion than this woman. Neither conscience, love, nor the gratitude I feel for our absent uncle Trill allow me. If you go where you propose, I rauat accompany you. Then tell me, shall it be at your side as a sister, or on the road behind you as the enforced guardian of your honour against your will ?" "My honour?" 11 You ore going to meet Mr Clavering." " "Well?" " Twenty miles from home." "Well?" "Now, is it discreet or honourable for you to do this ? If it is, discretion and honour are not the virtues which I have been brought up to think them." Mary's haughty lip took an ominous curve. " The same hand that raised you • has raised me," she cried bitterly. " This is no time to ppeak of that," re turned Eleanore. Mary's countenance ,i I Hashed. All the antagonism of her nature wasarousfd. She looked absolutely Juno- f like in ber wrath and reckless menace. " Eleanore," cried she, "-I am going to F , to marry Mr Wavering. Now do - you wish to accompany me ?" "I do." Mary's whole manner changed. Leaping forward, she grasped her cousin's arm and ■ shook it. "Wby?" cried she. "What do you intend to do?" " Tn witness the marriage if it be a true one, to step between you and shame if any element of falsehood should come in to affect its legality." Mary's hand fell from her cousin's arm. " I do not understand you," said she; "I thought you never gave countenance to what you considered wrong." " Nor do I. Anyone who knows me will > understand that I do not give my approval to this marriage just bscause I attend its ceremonial in the capacity of an unwilling witness." "Then why po?" " Because t value your honour above my own peace. Because I love our common benefactor, and know that he would never ■ Eardon me if I let his darjing bo married, | oweyer contrary her union might be to his wishes, without lending the support of my pre=ence to make the transaction at least a respectable one." " But in so doing you will be involved in i| a world of deception—which you hate." "Any more so than now ?" "Mr Clavering does not return with me, |« Eleanore." " No, I supposed not." . | " I leave him immediately after the cere mony." Eleanore bowed her head. " He goes to Europe." A piuse. " And I return home." " There to wait for what, Mary ?" . Mary's face crimsoned and she turned slowly away. " What every other girl does under such . f circumstances, I suppose. The develop ment of more reasonable feelings in an obdurate parent's heart." Kleanoro sighed and a short silence ensued, broken by Eleanore's suddenly ; ;| falling upon her knees and clasping her cousin's hand. "0, Mary," she sobbed, her haughtiness all disappearing in a gush of wild entreaty, " consider what you are '9 doing! think, before it is too late, of the consequences which must follow such an "■ act as this. Marriage founded upon de ception can never lead to happiness. Love—but it is not that. Love would have W you either to havo dismissed Mr Clavering at once or to have openly accep ted the fate which a uuion with him would brins?. Only passion stoops to subterfuge t like this. And you,"continued she, rising and turning toward me in a nort of forlorn hope very touching to see, "you wlwhave borne and brought up children, will you see this young motherless girl, driven by 1 caprice and acknowledging no moral restraint, enter upon the dark and crooked path die ia planning for herself, without one word of-varning and appeal? Tell me, 1 mother of children, dead and buried, what excuse will you have for your own part in. this day's work,, when she, with her face marred by the sorrows which must follow this deception, com's to you—" " The same excuse probably," Mary's voice broke in chill and strained, " which you will have when uncle inquires howyou came to allow such a very wicked piece of business to be accomplished in his absence ; that she could not help herself, that Mary . if would gang ber am gait, and everyone 'A around must accommodate themselves to it." It was like a draught of icy air suddenly lot loose in a room heated up to fever point. Eleanore stiffened immediately, and draw- I ing back pale and composed, turned upon I her cousin with the remark, "Then nothing can move you?" The curling of Mary's lip was her only ■ reply. Mr Raymond, Ido not wish to weary you with my feelings, but the first great distrust I ever felt or my wisdom in push- - ing this matter so far, came with that curl ■; n of Mary's lip. Plainer than Eleanore's words it showed me the temper with which '■'# she was enteriDg upon this undertaking and struck with momentary dismay, I ad^ ; vaoced to speak when Mary stopped me. :,j| "There now, Mamma Hubbard, don't you go and acknowledge that you are, frightened, for I won't hear It. I »;g have promised to marry Henry Claver ing to-day and I am going to keep niy; word—if I don't love him, she added ■ with bitter emphasis. Then smiliog upon H < me in a way that caused me to forget everything save the fact that shewasgoinij to her bridal, she handed me her veil to fasten. Asl was doing it with very tremb- :,'• ling fingers, she said, looking straight at . Eleanore, "Yon have shown yourself more in terested in my fate than I have ever thought^ . possible. Will you continue to display ■ that concern all the. way to F , or may I hnpa that I shall be allowed to dream in. peace upon the step which, according to you, is about to hurl upon me such dreadful' V consequences?'" \ "Ifl go with you to F ," Eleanore re- :'■ turned, "itis as awitnes?, no more. My sisterly duty is done." " Very well,-then," Marj* said," dimpling ; • with sudden gaiety, "I suppose I shall have to accept the situation. Manima ;,: Hubbard, I am so sorry to disappoint you,; ; . but the bnggy won't hold three. If you are. >v : good you shall be the first to congratulate '■! - me," she whispered, "when I come home : to-night." And almost before 1 knew it,., the two had taken their seats in the buggy that wai waiting at the door. " Good-by," cried Mary, waving her hand from ,': the back, "wish me much joy—of my.'.■; ride." I tried to. do so, but the words wouldn't ;,, f come. I could only wave my hand in ■';..■; resoonse and rush sdbbing into the .. house. 'Or' that day and its long hours of alter* na'e remorse and anxiety, I cannot trust »' myself to speak. Let mo come at once to tlie time when seated alone in my lamp- g lighted room, I waited and watched for the. > , token of tbeir return which Mary had ;;

STAR SATURDAY SUPPLEMENT, SEPTEMBER 30 ; 1882