THE UNIVERSITY 
 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 e))5 
 
 BOOKSTACKS 
 
OONTEISTTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGB 
 
 I. — A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE 21 
 
 II.— FAMILY HISTORY, AND PRESENTIMENTS 37 
 
 III. — GOOD RESOLUTIONS VS. TEMPTATION 62 
 
 IV. — A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS 91 
 
 V. — A BASE DECEPTION 114 
 
 VI. — THE FORGED LETTERS 122 
 
 VII.— rp:velation of a girl’s heart 136 
 
 VIII.— THE lady’s tarn 148 
 
 IX.— the die is cast 174 
 
 X. — THE BETROTHAL 180 
 
 XI. — THE WARNING VERIFIED 197 
 
 XII.— GUARDIAN AGAINST LOVER 217 
 
 XIII. — THE HASTY MARRIAGE 230 
 
 XIV. — THE FLIGHT 240 
 
 XV. — FATHER JEROME 257 
 
 XVI.— ANDREW COURTNAY’S FURT 264 
 
 XVII.— THE VEIL RENT AWAY 284 
 
 XVIII.— THE EXPLOSION 301 
 
 XIX.— ADA DIGBY 309 
 
 XX. — COLONEL THORNE’S SECRET 332 
 
 19 
 
20 , .it c'dNTENTS. 
 
 CHAPTER PAGE 
 
 XXI. — A STRANGE PROPOSAL .... 338 
 
 XXII.— CLAIRE’S RESOLUTION $ 353 
 
 XXIII. — THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL 373 
 
 XXIV. —THE wife’s DISCOVERY 390 
 
 XXV. — THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES 405 
 
 XXVI. — CLAIRE’S RETURN TO THE VALLEY 430 
 
 XXVIL— CLAIRE AT BOMB 439 
 
TIE CLANDESTINE MAREIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE, 
 
 TRAVELLER on foot was passing through a wild 
 
 JTjl mountain gorge in which he had ventured in 
 search of the picturesque. He had been many weeks 
 wandering through the grand scenery of the Blue 
 Ridge, sketch-book in hand, and his portfolio contained 
 many studies that would have been valuable to one who 
 really belonged to the craft this spoiled child of for- 
 tune had chosen, for the time, to adopt as his own to 
 give piquancy to his summer rambles. 
 
 His lithe and active figure, his debonair air, and 
 finely cut features, might have rendered him the beau 
 ideal of a young artist to the romantic fancy of an 
 inexperienced girl, but to those who could read char- 
 acter, those smiling lips and sparkling eyes betrayed 
 something more than the gay carelessness of youth. 
 The dark silky moustache that curled above the for- 
 mer, did not conceal the sensuous fulness of the 
 mouth, nor could the smile that lurked in the vivid 
 black eyes veil the hard expression that at momenta 
 shone from them. 
 
22 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MABBIAGB. 
 
 He carried his portfolio and portable stool strapped 
 upon his back, but his step was as buoyant as if no 
 such burden rested upon him. He sang as he went, in 
 a deep musical voice, which was echoed back from the 
 sides of the narrow caiion through which he was 
 making his way. The rocky walls arose sheer and 
 smooth above his head, with patches of parasitic plants 
 clinging to them, and beneath his feet was the narrow 
 rocky bed of a stream, that sometimes swelled sudden- 
 ly into a torrent. Now, it was but a shallow thread of 
 water, and it was difficult to imagine that a heavy 
 shower would in a few moments render the desolate 
 gorge a most dangerous trap to be caught in. 
 
 Our pedestrian was willing to risk much to obtain a 
 striking study from nature, and he had received more 
 than one assurance that the valley into which this 
 rocky gorge led, was as magnificent a view, as the 
 mountains of Virginia afforded. 
 
 Suddenly the music of his voice was drowned by a 
 loud, sharp peal of thunder, that reverberated through 
 the defile with almost deafening power. He paused 
 abruptly, and muttered : 
 
 This is bad — bad — a storm sweeping through this 
 narrow gulch, will take me from my feet, perhaps 
 drown me in the torrent that may pour through it be- 
 fore I can effect my escape,” and he glanced ruefully at 
 the limestone walls that enclosed him, and with dismay 
 saw that the high water mark was far above his head. 
 
 Walter Thorne had been warned when he spoke of 
 venturing through this narrow pass, that the slender 
 stream which flowed over its rocky bed, might swell 
 into a miniature torrent if a storm arose, but he had 
 not heeded the words of his host of the previous night. 
 
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 23 
 
 The gorge afforded a short cut to the point he wished 
 to reach, and with characteristic recklessness he had 
 chosen to risk his chances, though assured that sud- 
 den and violent storms were frequent at that sultry 
 season of the year. 
 
 Now, it was too late to return , he knew’ that he was 
 more than half w^ay through the pass, and his only 
 chance of safety lay in accomplishing tlie remainder of 
 the distance before the storm burst over him, and the 
 stream could rise to a height to endanger him. 
 
 He pressed forward as rapidly as the roughness of 
 the road permitted, but very soon the rain came down 
 so heavily as to resemble the fall of a cataract, more 
 than a summer shower ; the thunder crashed incessantly 
 above him, and the lightning darted down the narrow 
 defile with such vivid power as almost to blind him. 
 
 The wanderer looked around for some spot in which 
 to shelter himself, but he could descry none, for the 
 rocky strata in their upheaval, seemed to have been 
 rent asunder by some mighty convulsion of nature, 
 leaving the sides of the gorge a smooth wall of lime- 
 stone, towering a hundred feet above him. 
 
 But Walter Thorne battled with the rapidly increas- 
 ing dangers that surrounded him, with a tenacity and 
 bravery which proved that he had not lost his'self- 
 command, and did not intend to lose his life if coolness, 
 and presence of mind could save it. The water was 
 rising above the. narrow path on which he walked, each 
 moment increasing its momentum, and he knew that in 
 a little while he would be unable to resist its violent 
 sweep. He had yet more than a mile to traverse before 
 he could gain the point from which he was aware the 
 gathering waters would fall over beetling crags into a 
 
24 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 subterranean reservoir many feet below ; from this 
 tarn he had been assured, nothing ever arose that was 
 once swallowed in its remorseless depths. 
 
 His blood turned to ice as he remembered this, but 
 hope came back as he thought that one chance of safety 
 remained to him. He had in his portfolio, an accurate 
 drawing of the point of debouchement, which had been 
 given to him by one of his brother artists who had 
 visited this wild spot the previous year. He knew that 
 a large boulder arose at the extremity of the pass, di- 
 viding the water that rushed through it in two streams 
 before they fell in the tarn below, and into one of these 
 jutted a narrow tongue of land on which grew stunted 
 hemlocks and pines. Thorne trusted to his strength 
 and activity to grasp at these as he was whirled along, 
 and again make good his footing on terra firma. 
 
 He was a strong swimmer, and as the water gained 
 on him, increasing each moment in force, he unstrap- 
 ped his burden, and with a sigh, saw the fruit of his 
 labors swept past him, and whirled out of sight in a 
 moment of time. 
 
 His next movement was to catch dextrously at a 
 floating log which was dashed madly towards him, 
 threatening to crush him against the rocky sides of liis 
 prison. In another moment he was astride of it, with 
 a broken bough in his hands, which was also a waif 
 from the angry waters. With this he was to battle 
 his way to safety, and as far as possible, shield himself 
 from the dangers that encompassed him ; for heavy 
 drift wood came rushing down on the mad tide, which 
 increased in depth and velocity with every moment, 
 and it required all the dexterity and skill at his com- 
 mand, to save himself from a fatal collision with them. 
 
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 25 
 
 But his self-possession and courage did not for a mo- 
 ment desert him ; for on these he knew the preserva- 
 tion of his life depended. With coolness and precision 
 he steered the broad log oh which he sat, and luckily 
 for him a few gnarled and withered branches still jut- 
 ted from its sides, affording some protection to his limbs 
 from the drift-wood that surged upon the turbid tide. 
 
 Thorne knew that the struggle could not be long 
 continued, for the velocity with which he was hurried 
 oiiAvard must soon bring him to the outlet where the 
 greatest danger must be met and baffled, or the deep 
 waters would close over him, leaving no record behind 
 them, and his fate remain a mystery to the end of time. 
 
 He set his teeth firmly together, fixed his eyes upon 
 the seething flood, warding off every threatened dan- 
 ger, yet reserving his strength as much as possible for 
 the crowning effort that he knew must task all the 
 powers he possessed. In spite of the imminent danger 
 in which he was, to this man there was a wild sense of 
 power and enjoyment in this mad struggle for exis- 
 tence. He would yet baffle the might of the elements, 
 and conquer the seething torrent that seemed to roar 
 in his ears : 
 
 You are mine — you cannot escape me. Down — 
 down with the whelming tide shall you go, and be seen 
 no more among men.” 
 
 Reckless of its power, he could have shouted back 
 defiance, had he dared to exhaust his breath in such 
 vain mockery of nature’s might. He knew that he 
 must reserve every atom of strength for that last su- 
 preme effort to escape the doom that menaced him ; 
 so he sternly closed his lips, raised his eyes to the 
 widening gleam of light which assured him that the 
 
26 THE CLANDESTI^TE MARRIAGE. 
 
 supreme moment approached, and prepared himself 
 for the awful crisis in his destiny. 
 
 Never once did he invoke the aid of a higher power 
 amid the perils that surrounded him, for the name of 
 God was unfamiliar to his lips, as were His precepts to 
 his heart. Of ‘‘the earth, earthy,” had he gone down 
 to destruction amid that turmoil of the elements, it 
 had been better for others, perhaps as well for him- 
 self. 
 
 As the frail support on which he sat drew near the 
 verge of the fall, the velocity of the swelling flood in- 
 creased ; and, for an instant, the despairing thought 
 came to him that his fate was beyond his own control ; 
 another moment, and he would be crushed upon the 
 ruthless rocks and dashed, shapeless and senseless, into 
 the abyss below. 
 
 But the very imminence of the danger restored his 
 courage. He steadied his position upon his frail sup- 
 port, and made herculean efl^orts to guide it toward 
 the tuft of hemlocks which grew upon the scanty soil 
 which had collected on the rocky surface in the pro- 
 gress of ages. 
 
 All his efforts would have been unavailing but for a 
 sudden curve made by the torrent in the direction he 
 wished to take. The immense rock imbedded near the 
 edge of the fall divided the waters and, as they struck 
 against it, an eddy was formed which, luckily for him, 
 dashed him within reach of the scrubby trees which 
 were partially submerged. 
 
 AVith an effort of almost supernatural strength 
 Thorne sprang toward them, grasped the branches 
 with all his force and, in spite of the wild waves that 
 ^eethed around him, suceeded in retaining his hold till 
 
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 27 
 
 he had extricated himself from the log which, the next 
 instant, was dashed over the brow of the precipice. 
 
 In another moment he lay panting and breathless on 
 a small mound of earth lifted above the leaping waters 
 with boulders of rock heaped up behind it. He grew 
 faint and sick as he watched the log that had borne him 
 to safety, crash through the narrow pass and disappear 
 in the depths below ; and for once he cried, Thank 
 God ! ” for the imminent danger he had escaped. 
 
 Bruised and exhausted by his late efforts Thorne had 
 barely strength left to draw himself gradually upward 
 and sit down upon the damp grass at the foot of the 
 rocks. His right arm pained him severely and he felt 
 certain that he had seriously injured it ; but whither 
 to go for assistance or what to do next he could not yet 
 determine. He was a stranger in the country — a mere 
 sojourner — and the thought of being ill among the rude 
 people who, he supposed, inhabited the secluded valley 
 he had sought, with no intention of remaining in it 
 more than a few hours, was extremely annoying to 
 him. 
 
 He began to shiver in his wet clothes, and a few im- 
 precations escaped his lips against his own willfulness 
 in venturing through this dangerous gorge in defiance 
 of all that had been told him of the perils he might 
 encounter. 
 
 With bitter philosophy Thorne, at length, muttered : 
 
 ‘ What can’t be cured must be endured,’ as my old 
 nurse used to say to me. I am fond of adventure, but 
 this is more than I bargained for. Wet as a drowne ] 
 rat, hungry as a wolf, and' — to cap the climax — with a 
 disabled arm ! Ugh, what a twinge that was ! It 
 pains confoundedly, and where or how I am to get it 
 
28 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 attended to the d only knows. I wish the rain 
 
 would cease and allow me, at least, a glimpse of the 
 scenery I have risked so much to behold.” 
 
 Almost as he spoke the rain began to slacken, and 
 ill a few more moments, the clouds parted, letting 
 through a glimpse of sunlight that lit up the whole 
 panorama with sudden glory. The thunder rolled 
 away in the distance, the lightning flashed at longer 
 intervals, and gradually the turmoil of the elements 
 ceased. 
 
 The mist that shrouded the valley below him rolled 
 away ; and, suffering as he was, the young traveller 
 acknowledged that the scene before him was almost 
 worth what he had encountered in his pilgrimage 
 toward it. 
 
 His vision extended over miles of broken country 
 girdled in by mountains veiled in bluish mist, which 
 rose above each other till they seemed almost to reach 
 the clouds. A narrow thread of gleaming water 
 wound its way through the deepest portion of the vale, 
 and on its banks stood the ruins of what seemed once 
 to have been a stately mansion which had been 
 partially destroyed by fire. 
 
 But one wing of it still remained, and with extreme 
 satisfaction the drenched traveller saw that smoke was 
 issuing from one of the chimneys. Several miles away 
 he could distinguish the buildings of a large planta- 
 tion ; but those were the only evidences of habitation 
 discovered by him in the solitary glen that lay stretch- 
 ed out below him. 
 
 With an appreciative glance at the scene, Thorne 
 arose and muttered : 
 
 “ It is as fine as Vernon said, but it seems to me that 
 
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 29 
 
 I shall pay too heavy a price for a sight of it. I must 
 not stay here admiring the beauties of nature while a 
 chill like death is penetrating to my very marrow. It’s 
 a lucky thing for me that a shelter is near. It does 
 not look very prepossessing, but, such as it is, I must 
 try my luck with its owners.” 
 
 While speaking thus, he looked around for some 
 means of descending into the valley, and he soon dis- 
 covered a narrow pathway leading around the edge of 
 the stone wall, which ended abruptly there. A few 
 paces brought him to a flight of steps cut in the soft 
 limestone, which wound gradually downward till they 
 reached the verdant turf below. 
 
 Walter Thorne cautiously descended the rough way ; 
 for, more than once, his usually clear head became 
 giddy from fatigue and over exertion. On reaching 
 the earth below, he leaned for a few moments against 
 a tree and surveyed the peaceful spot so lately the 
 scene of the fierce tui*moil of the elements, now as se- 
 rene as if no storm had ever swept over it. 
 
 The clouds had swept aside, and the evening sun 
 poured through the rifts in a flood of golden glory ; a 
 magnificent rainbow spanned the valley, its gorgeous 
 tints harmonizing with the emerald turf which arose in 
 great billows like natural terraces, till they met the 
 mountains that girdled them in, bathed in the blue 
 mist which has given its name to a range of the Alle- 
 ghanies. 
 
 From the precipitous cliff above him poured the 
 stream in which he had so nearly lost his life, leaping 
 over a second ledge of rock and burying itself in a 
 black sullen-looking pool at its base, the depth of 
 w^hich had never been sounded. Whither the water 
 
30 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 was carried that fell into it no one knew, though it 
 was believed that, after making its way for miles under 
 ground, it debouched at a point beloAV into the narrow 
 stream that meandered through the valley which, at 
 that point, suddenly swelled into a small river. 
 
 Walter Thorne shuddered as he gazed into the dark 
 tarn, and thought how nearly it had proved his grave, 
 but he aroused himself from his reverie and moved 
 slowly forward upon a faintly defined pathway till he 
 came to a rustic bridge formed by two large logs fast- 
 ened together by withes of grape-vine, and secured by 
 a stick driven into the ground at either end. 
 
 To this primitive structure there was no railing, and 
 Thorne began to feel so much exhausted that he was 
 glad to find a stick to steady his steps over it. He 
 gained the opposite bank in safety, and with some 
 effort ascended the rugged eminence on which stood 
 the half-ruined building he had first noticed. 
 
 There were evident signs of habitation about the 
 western wing, and Walter moved at once towards a 
 gate which opened into a green yard shaded by a 
 group of forest trees. The brick walls were covered 
 with ivy which had encroached even upon the roof, 
 making a nest of verdure that was most pleasing to the 
 eye, and the pillars of the portico were draped with 
 long wreaths of the multiflora rose mingled with 
 honeysuckle. 
 
 ‘‘ Really, these people must have some ideas of civ- 
 ilization,” was the thought that came to the intruder’s 
 mind. I am glad that I have not fallen among bar- 
 ha rians, after all.” 
 
 As he drew nearer he saw that a wooden cage hung 
 oiitsixle one of the windows, in which was a mocking- 
 
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 31 
 
 i ird; and he noticed that a bouquet of flowers rather 
 artistically arranged, had lately been placed in a small 
 A^ase within it. 
 
 ‘‘A touch of feminine taste there,” he said to him- 
 self with half a smile. ‘‘ I hope the owner of the 
 bird is young and pretty. My adventure, after all, 
 may lead to something pleasant. By Jove ! there 
 should be some compensation, for I feel as if I am half 
 battered to pieces. Ugh ! how my arm tingles with 
 pain. No more sketching for me, for some time to 
 come, I am afraid.” 
 
 He ascended the flight of steps, and the approach 
 caused a sudden flutter of drapery near the open door. 
 A Avhite muslin curtain was put back from the window 
 jicarest to it, and the face of a ver}^ young girl looked 
 out, wearing an expression of doubt and alarm. 
 
 The forlorn and muddy figure that greeted her eyes 
 (lid not reassure her, for she uttered a little cry, and 
 rushed towards an inner room, calling out : 
 
 ‘‘ Father, mon pere^ come hither — come quickly — 
 tliere is a stranger here.” 
 
 The clear ringing tones of Walter Thorne’s voice 
 arose to reassure her. 
 
 I entreat that yo.u will not be alarmed, young lady, 
 
 I have met with an accident, and nearly lost my life. 
 
 I was compelled to apply at the nearest house for as- 
 sistance, for I am in a sad plight. I am wet through, 
 as you can see, and I fear that my right arm is broken.” 
 
 Arrested in her flight, struck by the refined and gen- 
 l lemanly tone of the speaker, the girl turned and look- 
 ed at the handsome face, the well-knit figure, that by 
 rds time stood in the doorway, and she impulsively 
 diew nearer to him as he spoke of the injury he had 
 received. 
 
32 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 She was very j'ouiig — at that point of life in which 
 childhood and maidenhood meet, for she could scarcely 
 have been fifteen years of age. Her figure was light 
 and symmetrical, promising in full development ex- 
 treme elegance. The complexion was of that pale 
 creamy tint which needs no embellishment from the 
 roses of youth. The hair, of the darkest shade of 
 brown, with a gleam of gold running through it, wav- 
 ed in short curls around a well-formed and haughtily 
 set head. 
 
 The face vvas of a clear oval, with beautifully mould- 
 ed features. The eyes matched the color of her hair, 
 for they were hazel, and so soft, lustrous and expres- 
 sive, that the black orbs which looked into them, were 
 at once charmed with their expression. 
 
 The manner and language of the stranger had re- 
 assured her, for young and inexperienced as she was, 
 she knew that the graceful courtesy with which he 
 had addressed her, could belong only to one who had 
 received the culture of a gentleman. 
 
 Seeing that he was pale, and scarcely able to sustain 
 himself, her tender heart prompted her to succor him 
 at once. A large leather-covered chair stood near the 
 door, and pointing to it, she simply said : 
 
 “ My father never refuses aid and shelter to those 
 who need it. Enter, and be seated till I can summon 
 him to speak with you.” 
 
 Walter Thorne sank into its depths with a weary 
 sigh, and said : 
 
 Thank you. I am very faint — will you give me 
 some water, if you please ? ” 
 
 The girl silently filled a gourd from a cedar bucket 
 that was placed on a shelf outside of one of the win- 
 
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 33 
 
 \; 
 
 doAvs, aiul offered it to him. After quaffing it he look- 
 ed gratefully into th6 bewildering eyes bent so seriously 
 upon him, and said : 
 
 “ Beautiful Hebe, I thank you for this nectar. The 
 housemaid of the gods could scarcely have been so en- 
 chanting as I find you.” 
 
 With a demure smile, in which there was much mis- 
 chief, she replied ; My name is not Hebe, sir. It is 
 Claire — Claire Rosine Lapierre. I am not used to hear- 
 ing compliments, and my father will be apt to send you 
 aw^ay if he finds that you are trying to turn my head, 
 as he Avould call it.” 
 
 ‘‘ What, would he be savage enough to turn me out 
 in my present wretched condition for so venial an of- 
 fence as that ? It would be too barbarous a proceed- 
 ing, and I must believe that you are slandering your 
 respectable paternal progenitor. When the sun shines 
 we say the day is charming, then why, when one meets 
 with that rara avis^ a perfectly beautiful girl, shall he 
 not express the rapture her presence inspires ? En- 
 chanting creature, I bless the accident that brought 
 me hither, for never have I seen aught so fair as your 
 peerless self.” 
 
 The cottage maiden drew back with an air of offend- 
 ed pride that surprised him from one in her apparent 
 condition. 
 
 Thorne glanced around the large room ; its appoint- 
 ments were extremely humble. No carpet covered the 
 floor ; the chairs, with the exception of the one he was 
 sitting on, were of unpainted wood ; a pine table stood 
 between the two windows, on which was placed a china 
 mug, filled with flowers, the only evidence of refine- 
 
34 *THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 m ent to be seen, and the windows were draped with 
 muslin curtains of a rather scanty pattern. 
 
 But the dress of the young girl was of better ma- 
 terial, and more fashionably made than might have been 
 expected from her surroundings. It was a light sum- 
 mer muslin, which floated in soft folds around her, and 
 was flnished at the throat by a narrow crimped frill, 
 fastened with a small pearl pin. The hands were small 
 and shapely, and Walter Thorne had enough penetra- 
 tion to see that she did not belong to the Cilass of 
 ignorant poor in which he had at flrst placed her. 
 
 He hastened to atone for his flippancy by saying : 
 
 “ Pardon me my fair Egeria ; I am very faint and 
 weak, and my poor brain is whirling to that degree, 
 that I scarcely know what I am saying. Attribute any 
 eccentricities on my part to that cause, I entreat.” 
 
 He sunk back looking so pale, that the kind heart of 
 Claire was moved to deeper sympathy than before, and 
 she hastily said : 
 
 ‘‘ I will summon assistance, sir, for you greatly need 
 it. My father was not within hearing when I called 
 him, but our old servant will know what to do for 
 you.” 
 
 She flitted away, though he would have made an 
 effort to detain her, if his voice had not suddenly failed 
 him and darkness swept over his vision. In a few 
 moments an old negress entered the room, and to her 
 dismay found that the strange guest had fallen back 
 in his chair, partly insensible. 
 
 The woman hastened to bathe his face, and use other 
 efforts to restore him, but while thus employed, she 
 muttered : 
 
 Hi ! what debbil’s luck have brung sich a young 
 
A STRUGGLE FOR LIFE. 
 
 gallant as dis to dis house ? My rosebud’s too pretty 
 ’ail too sweet to liab all de dew brushed from her heart 
 while she’s yet a chile. I jes’ wish he hadn’t a come 
 here to-day, anyhow, for de lightenin’ struck de horse- 
 shoe I nailed on de old oak tree down b)^ de spring, 
 for luck, and split de wood right through de heart. It 
 were Miss Rose’s tree, too — de one she planted when 
 she was a tiny creatur, an’ I thought I’d save it from 
 harm by puttin’ a spell on it. See what de ’suit is — 
 de bery ting I meant as a perfection has been de cause 
 of its ’struction, de master says. 
 
 “Hi! what’s I maunderin’ on so for, I wonder. I 
 won’t b’lieve dat anything bad can come to my pet, 
 even if de tree is all smashed to flinders. I’ll keep de 
 chile away from dis han’some young feller, an’ nuss 
 liim myself. Den he can go as soon as he pleases, but 
 de poor critter seems to be in a bad way now.” 
 
 “ Yes, I am rather under the weather at present, 
 that’s a fact,” said Thorne, unclosing his eyes and 
 smiling faintly ; “but I shall be better presently, old 
 lady. Pray tell me where I am, and to whose hos- 
 pitality I am indebted for shelter.” 
 
 The woman recovered from the confusion and aston- 
 ishment into which his sudden revival had thrown her, 
 and hastened to give him more particulars of his host 
 than he had expected to hear at so early a stage of theij 
 acquaintance. 
 
 “ Well, mister, you am in de Happy Valley, as my 
 Rosebud calls it, ’case she says it’s the most peaceful- 
 est |)lace on de face o’ de yeth. De ole gemplin, her 
 fader I mean, is a mincing, pincing, hoity-toity ole 
 creetur from furrin parts, what makes his livin’ by 
 teacliin’ de queer lingo dat’s his nat’ral speech, ’sides 
 
36 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARKIAGE. 
 
 music an’ dancin’ to my misseses childer, Mrs. Court- 
 enay, ob de Grange. Leastways dey aint but one of 
 dem lef’ at home now, an’ she aint much more’n a pic- 
 caninny, but de Mistis lets Monsher Lapeer live in dis 
 here place rent free, an’ ’lows me to stay wi’ him an’ 
 his darter to do dere work. I couldn’t be o’ much use 
 on de plantation no how, an’ I likes to stay.” 
 
 ‘‘ Mr. Lapierre is a music and dancing master, 
 then ? ” 
 
 Dancing master ! hi ! what you call him dat for ? ” 
 asked the woman, in an offended tone. De Madame 
 is a grand iady, and sAc calls him Miss Julia’s teacher ; 
 ’sides he teaches her many things ’sides dancin’, tho’ 
 he do beat all in dat — ^you’d say so, too, ef you saw 
 him spinnin’ around dis room wid Miss Claire, a singin’ 
 tra la la, an’ sometimes a playin’ on his ole fiddle till 
 you’d think he’d bring de soul out’n it. It would 
 make yer head spin to see ’em.” 
 
 I hope I shall yet have that pleasure, but just 
 now my head spins enough from weakness. If you 
 can give me a bed to lie down on, and bring me a doc- 
 tor to look after my arm, I shall be very glad. I am 
 afraid it is badly dislocated, even if some of the small 
 bones are not broken.” 
 
 ‘‘ Good Lor’ ! ef dat’s so, I don’ know what’s to be 
 did, for dere aint nobody here to go arter a doctor, an’ 
 we aint got no horse to ride if dere was. But the ole 
 gemplin will be long directly, I reckon, an’ he’ll know 
 what’s best to be done. Miss Claire went to meet 
 him, for it’s past his time to come home from Grange, 
 and dere ! I hear de soun’ o’ his fiddle now. He allers 
 plays when he comes down de holler. If you’ll try to 
 git up, sir, I’ll help you in de bed-room, as my Rose- 
 bud tole me to do afore she got back here.” 
 
A FAMILY HISTOKY. 
 
 87 
 
 She opened a door in the opposite wall which gave 
 entrance into a smaller apartment, in which was a bed 
 with a white dimity coverlet, a small table on which 
 was a basin and ewer, and a large arm-chair cushioned 
 and covered with chintz. 
 
 As the negress assisted the young stranger into this 
 neat looking chamber, the tones of a violin became 
 more distinct. The strain was wild and spirit-stirring, 
 and it was played with a power and passionate fervor 
 that surprised Walter Thorne, for he had heard much 
 good music, and with delight he recognized the touch 
 of a master on the instrument he most highly prized. 
 
 Suddenly the music ceased, only a few long drawn 
 chords reached his ear, and he correctly supposed that 
 the musician had encountered his daughter and had 
 ceased playing to listen to the news of his own advent 
 at the cottage and the great need of assistance in which 
 he stood. 
 
 By the time he heard their approaching footsteps in 
 the outer room, Walter Thorne was lying back in the 
 large chair beside the bed, pallid and suffering, scarce- 
 ly conscious of the efforts of the old woman to place 
 him in a more comfortable position than he had thrown 
 himself in. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 FAMILY HISTORY, AND PRESENTIMENTS. 
 
 A SMALL, dark man approached the doorway and 
 stood an instant contemplating the waif the storm 
 
38 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 had sent him. Apparently he was not well pleased 
 with the chance that threw this haughty looking young 
 stranger on his hospitality, but the expression of an- 
 noyance passed from his face when he saw that Thorne 
 was really suffering. 
 
 M. Lapierre was a slender, wiry looking man, with 
 eyes of vivid blackness, and a wild elvish looking 
 shock of hair thickly sprinkled with grey. He had a 
 low, broad forehead, and thin firmly-set lips which 
 showed that a resolution once arrived at was seldom 
 departed from. He wore a full suit of white linen, 
 and his nationality was betrayed by the care with 
 which the ribbon that confined his shirt collar was 
 arranged. 
 
 He had deposited his violin on the table in the outer 
 room, and he now drew near the bed and spoke, with 
 a strong foreign accent, but with perfect propriety of 
 expression : 
 
 Ah ! ah ! Monsieur — caught in the storm, I per- 
 ceive, and pretty welh drenched. It was well that my 
 house was near enough to afford you shelter, for you 
 seem to be in a bad plight. I have not much to offer, 
 but such as our humble fare is, you are welcome to 
 share it. Be quick, Betty, and get some dry garments 
 for the gentleman, and put on the kettle to make a cup 
 of tea for him. I think that I can manage his case 
 without much difficulty.” 
 
 “ I don’ think you kin,” bluntly replied Betty, for 
 he says his arm’s broke, an’ he wants a doctor sent 
 for right away ; but de good Lor’ knows I don’ know 
 who’s to go arter him.” 
 
 M. Lapierre made a step forward looking less 
 alarmed than the negro had expected. He coolly said : 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 39 
 
 “ It may not be quite so bad as that, but I shall soon 
 be able to judge. Even if there should be a trifling 
 fracture, I understand what is to be done, and it is 
 lucky that I do, for the nearest physician is ten miles 
 aw^ay. Permit me to help you off with your coat, sir, 
 that I may form my own judgment of the injury your 
 arm has sustained. Go at once, Betty, and find some 
 dry clothes.” 
 
 The negro interrupted the faint thanks of the patient 
 by saying : 
 
 I don’ ’no whar I kin git anything big enough for 
 him ’bout dis house. Your close aint agwine to be 
 o’ much use to him I reckin, an’ he can’t wear mine or 
 Miss Claire’s.” 
 
 For a moment Lapierre seemed to hesitate about 
 the order he finally gave, and a strange spasm passed 
 over his face as he said : 
 
 Open the carved chest in the closet in my chamber, 
 and you will find linen in that which this young man 
 can wear. A dressing-gown will also be found among 
 the things, which will answer our purpose. Yet no ; I 
 do not wish you to open it. Tell Claire to look for the 
 key of the chest in my writing-desk, open it herself, 
 and give you what I have named.” 
 
 Claire, who lingered in the oii' ^ heard this 
 order given with extreme surprise, i i mat chest had 
 been a mystery to her from her childhood. It had 
 always been kept carefully locked, and her father had 
 evaded her questions as to what it contained. Of 
 course she was glad to explore it for herself, and she 
 went at once on the errand assigned her. After some 
 time had elapsed, Betty came back bearing a brocaded 
 dressing robe of gay colors, and several garments of 
 fine linen, yellowed by time. 
 
40 the clandestine mabriace. 
 
 The old man sighed heavily as he glanced at them, 
 but he seemed to smother the painful feeling, and 
 briskly said : 
 
 “ Now, sir, we can make you comfortable. You 
 have already been too long in your wet clothes. I will 
 assist you to change them, and look more carefully 
 into your condition. Your arm hangs almost useless, 
 but I think I can remedy the injury it has received. A 
 surgeon is out of the question in this retired place, and 
 you will have to put up with my skill, such as it is.” 
 
 But, my dear sir,” remonstrated the patient, ‘‘ I 
 am afraid that my arm is broken, and if it is not prop- 
 erly attended to, it may be made stiff for the rest of 
 my life. I have money, the expense of a surgeon will 
 be no object to me, and if it is possible to obtain one, 
 I entreat that he may be summoned to my assistance.” 
 
 He would come too late to be of any service to 
 you,” said M. Lapierre, drily. By the time he could 
 get here, your arm would be so swollen that he would 
 find it impossible to reduce the fracture properly, if 
 fracture there be. I possess some trifling skill in sur- 
 gery, and I can soon judge if the case is beyond my 
 management. Allow me to examine your condition, 
 if you please.” 
 
 His tone and manner were so decided that the 
 younger man thought it best to submit, and with the 
 dextrous assistance of the Frenchman, he was soon 
 endued in the dry garments that had been provided. 
 M. Lapierre’s quick eyes soon ascertained the extent 
 of his injuries. He laid bare the shoulder, and said : 
 
 You have dislocated your collar-bone and sprained 
 your arm severely, but that is all. With Betty’s assist- 
 ance, I can bring the first in place again, and witli a 
 
A FAMILY HISTOKY. 
 
 41 
 
 few days care you will do well enough. I am glad it’s 
 no worse, for Dr. Blesdoe may be fifty miles away for 
 aught I knaw, even if we had any one to send after 
 him. You can stand a sharp pang, I think, and then 
 the worst will be over.” 
 
 ‘‘ I must stand it, of course,” was the rather ungra- 
 cious reply ; ‘‘ but are you sure that your skill will 
 suffice?” 
 
 Sure ? Oh yes. You shall soon see that I am 
 quite equal to the occasion. Here, Betty, I want 
 you.” 
 
 The old woman came at his call, and with prompt 
 decision M. Lapierre gave her such directions as were 
 necessary. Claire, who stood in the outer room listen- 
 ing in trembling silence, heard a faint cry as the dislo- 
 cated part was pulled in place, and she hastened to 
 bring camphor and lavender for the use of the suffer- 
 ing patient. By the time she returned with them the 
 shoulder had been carefully bandaged, the patient put 
 in bed and lightly covered, while his bare arm was laid 
 out on the coverlet to be rubbed and swathed in linen 
 in its turn. 
 
 As Claire appeared with the restoratives, M. Lapierre 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘Well, my young friend, that was neatly done, I 
 flatter myself ; and I must say that you bore it well — 
 very well. It is no trifle to have one’s bones wrenched 
 back to the right place, and you are faint and pale as 
 a natural consequence of such an operation. Here, 
 mafille^ bathe his face with the lavender, while I fo- 
 ment the bruised arm with camphor, and tie it up. No 
 bones are broken at all, sir ; all right enough here, and 
 we shall have you about in a few days.” 
 
42 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 ‘‘ I hope so,” was the faint reply, and I am sure 1 
 am extremely obliged to you, sir, for your ready as- 
 sistance.” 
 
 By no means ; you need not trouble yourself to 
 express gratitude, for I haven’t much faith in it. I 
 would help a dog that had received any bodilj^ injury 
 that could be remedied by my skill.” 
 
 After this brusque declaration young Thorne said no 
 more ; and Claire came to his side with a simple grace 
 in which there was no appearance of shyness. She 
 was still too much a child to become embarrassed by 
 the performance of the duty assigned her, even if the 
 patient was a young and singularly handsome man. 
 
 Her soft, cool hands passed soothingly over his brow, 
 occasionally resting a brief moment upon it with a 
 touch that thrilled to the heart of the eager and im- 
 pressionable youth to whom she so deftly ministered. 
 His half closed eyes dwelt upon the lineaments of her 
 lovely face, and Walter Thorne thought that never 
 before had he seen any creature half so entrancing as 
 this simple cottage maiden. 
 
 A passionate adorer of beauty^' in any form, it was 
 not wonderful that his eyes should revel in the con- 
 templation of so charming a face as the one that bent 
 above him, its owner pitifully regarding him, and 
 thinking no more of his youth. and good looks than she 
 did of her own efforts to succor him. Tlie arm was at 
 length bound up, and her father briskly said : 
 
 It’s all right now, sir. That will do, my daughter ; 
 leave him alone, and see that Betty brings him some 
 toast and tea as soon as may be. Your walk has given 
 you an appetite I dare say, sir, in spite of your acci- 
 dent ; but T cannot suffer you to take anything more 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 43 
 
 substantial than tea and toast just at present. A 11 in 
 good time, though. To-morrow perhaps you may ven- 
 ture to taste a broiled bird.” 
 
 With a faint smile Thome replied: 
 
 Thanks for all your kindness. I do not feel hungry 
 just now, and it is so soothing to have my aching head 
 bathed, that I , think I shall prefer that to food.” 
 
 Ah ! did you strike it against anything when the 
 accident happened that dislocated your shoulder ? You 
 have had a bad wrench, and really I am curious to 
 know how you dropped into our valley so suddenly. 
 There is but one entrance on this side, and that Avas 
 rendered impassable by the rain that came down almost 
 Avithout warning.” 
 
 “ You may well say that,” replied Thorne with a 
 slight laugh. 
 
 I came near being dashed over the rocks, and only 
 escaped by desperately exerting my unusual physical 
 strength, I feel as Areak as a child iioav, but an hour 
 ago I battled for my life, and Avon it at the expense of 
 nearly wrenching my good right arm from its socket.” 
 
 “ JBo7i Dien! you Avere never in the Devil’s Gorge 
 when the storm SAvept doAvn ! ” exclaimed Lapierre. 
 
 ‘‘Yes, I Avas caught by the rain Avhen half way 
 1 lu’oiigh, so I had no alternative but to hurry on as fast 
 as possible. I had a hard fight for life, but you see uie 
 here in this battered and bruised condition, that is 
 all.” 
 
 “ylZZ/ Really, my young Hercules, you have per- 
 formed as miraculous a feat as any ever attributed to 
 that fabulous heathen. Nothing swept doAAUi that pass 
 when a flood rushes through it has ever been known to 
 escape before. Do j^ou know that if the torrent had 
 
44 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 taken you over the brow of the cliflP no furthei vestige 
 of you would ever ha've been found! Nobody about 
 here can tell what becomes of the waifs that reach the 
 Lady’s Tarn, as my daughter has named it.” 
 
 ‘‘Yes, I knew all that. I was warned by the land- 
 lord of the tavern in the little town ten miles hence. 
 He painted all the dangers in the path, but I was fool- 
 hardy enough to persist in braving them. But in spite 
 of my present position I do not regret it now, for what 
 I have seen has amply repaid me. ~ I am an artist. Mon- 
 sieur, in search of the picturesque and beautiful, and 
 I have found both in perfection in your secluded val- ^ 
 ley.” ' ' 
 
 “You are a philosopher, at all events,” replied La- 
 pierre drily. “ There, that will do. Rosebud. Go, 
 and look after Betty. I will take your place here. 
 The gentleman can put up with my ministrations while 
 you have his tea made ready. He must take some- 
 thing, whether he wishes it or not.” 
 
 The young girl resigned her place, and noiselessly 
 left the room. Lapierre’s touch was very gentle, but 
 after a few moments the patient said : 
 
 “ Thank you, that will do, sir. My head feels better 
 now. I will not trouble you to bathe it any longer.” 
 
 “ Ah ! so much the better, my young friend. And 
 now, as it is rather awkward not to know by what 
 liame to address each other, I will tell you that mine 
 is Armand Lapierre, at your service, and I shall be 
 glad to hear yours in return.” 
 
 The stranger hesitated a moment, and then gave his 
 true name, whiph for an instant he had been tempted 
 to withhold ; why, or for what purpose, he could not 
 have explained 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 45 
 
 ‘‘My name is Walter Thorne, and I am an artist 
 making a pedestrian tour in search of the picturesque. 
 I lost my portfolio and camp stool in the wrestle for 
 my life, and I suppose the Lady’s Tarn has swallowed 
 them up long ago.” 
 
 “Very likely; and you may be thankful that you 
 did not go over with them. Well, Mr. Thorne, we will 
 do the best we can for you, and I hope to see you well 
 ^enough in a few days to prosecute your tour ! We are 
 plain people, and lack many things the outside world 
 considers essential to comfort ; but such as we have, 
 yoii^are heartily welcome to, while you sojourn among 
 us.” 
 
 “ I cannot find words to thank you. Monsieur. You 
 have proved yourself a good Samaritan, and I must 
 say I am most grateful for what you have done for 
 me.” 
 
 “ Pooh ! this is the second time you have spoken of 
 gratitude. It’s a thing that ought not to be talked 
 about, but felt. We are put in this world to help each 
 other, and it’s not often that I am called upon to exer- 
 cise the golden rule. Your pulse is quickening, and I 
 am afraid that your adventure this afternoon will be 
 followed by a little fever ; but I can deal with that, 
 ^ too, without a doctor’s assistance. Before you sleep, 
 I will administer some drops that will have a cooling 
 effect, and by morning I think you will be in a fair way 
 of recovery. When you have taken your tea, you must 
 be left quiet the remainder of the evening.” 
 
 With a smile Thorne said: 
 
 “ I submit myself to your authority, sir. I have 
 found you so skillful a surgeon, that I am inclined to 
 trust implicitly to you as a physician.” 
 
; ] THE CLANDESTINE .MAURI AGE. 
 
 '' That is well, for you might fare worse. I know 
 something of both medicine and surgery ; a mere smat- 
 tering, it is true ; but such as it is, it will suffice in 
 your case. Ah ! here comes the tea. Drink it, and 
 take a few morsels of the toast, they will do you 
 good.” 
 
 Thorne looked eagerly toward the door, hoping that 
 Claire Avould appear, and his expressive face showed 
 his disappointment when Betty entered bearing a wai- 
 ter, on which rested a porcelain cup and saucer sprink- 
 led over with small bouquets of roses. The plate on 
 which the bread lay matched them, and the. guest won- 
 dered how this impoverished man came in possession 
 of such articles of luxury. 
 
 He soon dispatched the light supper, declared him- 
 self better, and M. Lapierre withdre w, followed by the 
 servant. 
 
 Left alone, Thorne turned restlessly on his couch, 
 and tried to reconcile himself to the necessity of being 
 ([uiet for a season. He had never been ill since he 
 could remember, and he feared that he would prove 
 rather a refractoiy patient to these kind people. The 
 sense of helpessness and suffering was so new to him 
 {luit he writhed under it, and almost felt as if he had 
 lost half his manhood in being compelled to lie on his 
 ! ( (1, and suffer others to minister to his wants. 
 
 Wdiei! he tliomxht of the sweet face that had bent 
 above him, he confessed to himself that it Avas wmrth 
 being sick to have so fair a nurse, and he speculated as 
 to wliether the pretty Claire would be permitted to enter 
 his room again. 
 
 If she did not, he would not remain in it, that was 
 certain. Nothing save the sight of her enchanting face 
 
A FAMILY HISTOKY. 
 
 47 
 
 would reconcile him to the inactivity to which he was 
 condemned for the next few days. 
 
 All his summer labors were gone too ; he acknowl- 
 edged to himself that the loss did not signify much to 
 the world of art ; but they were not the less precious 
 ^ to him on that account. He had encountered fatigue, 
 sometimes danger, in seeking the places he had sketch- 
 ed, and each drawing had some little history attached 
 to it which gave it an interest to him. Besides, he 
 really believed that some of them possessed intrinsic 
 value, and he prided himself on the care with v/hich 
 his subjects had been elaborated. Although only an 
 amateur artist, Walter Thorne believed that the con- 
 tents of his lost portfolio would have given him a fair 
 position among those with whom he was ambitious to 
 obtain a footing. 
 
 With a weary sigh, he resigned himself to his loss as 
 well as he could, and again the fair face of the young- 
 girl arose before him, consoling him for the accident 
 from which he was suffering, and awkening romantic 
 visions of the future, for he had fallen in love at first 
 sight with the beautiful maiden of the valley, and Wal- 
 ter Thorne was not one to deny himself the gratifica- 
 tion of the most vagrant whim from consideration for 
 another. He thought : 
 
 “ T will make the first impression on her virgin heart, 
 and then — well, what then ? I won’t* think of results. 
 Let me bask in the sunshine of that heavenly smile ; let 
 me aw^aken in that gentle heart the first emotions of 
 love ; let me win a return to the passion that has al- 
 ready sprung to life in my heart, and the future may 
 take care of itself. Men of my craft rave of the Venus 
 de Medici ; but she, with her faded smile, is not to be 
 
48 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 compared to this living, breathing incarnation of love- 
 liness. Such lips ! such eyes — so fathomless, so bright ! 
 And then those dainty hands that touched my brow so 
 softly. I feel them thrilling through me now. Ah ! 
 I am fathoms gone already. Falling in love is the con- 
 ventional phrase, and, by Jove, I’ve gone and done it, 
 sure enough. I have mocked at others, and called 
 them spoony for doing the same thing, and now my 
 own fate has come upon me. It is my fate, or I should 
 have had a harder fall over the rocks into that black 
 pool ; since I was saved to come hither, and be nursed 
 back .to health by these people, something is to 
 come of it. But what ? Ah, the Lord only knows ; 
 so what is the use of speculating about it. I shall 
 only give myself a fever if I trouble myself about re- 
 sults. Let the future take care of itself. That is the 
 best plan for every one, especially for me just now ; so 
 for once I’ll follow the precept of the holy book, as my 
 nurse used to call the Bible. It says, ‘ take no thought 
 for the morrow.’ Very good ; for once I will be pious, 
 and obey the command.” 
 
 His restless and wandering thoughts were inter- 
 rupted by Lapierre, who came in carrying a cup in his 
 hand in which his drops were mixed. Thorne drank 
 them without opposition, and said he thought he could 
 sleep ; so he was again left alone to indulge his vagrant 
 and wayward fancies. 
 
 As the evening closed in, the tones of a violin which 
 seemed to come from a distance, floated through the 
 open windows, soothing and quieting him in a manner 
 that was marvellous to the invalid : the soft evening 
 breeze was wafted through his room, laden with the 
 brealli of roses ; and with a delicious feeling of repose, 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 49 
 
 Walter Tnorne at length sank to sleep, to dream of 
 the sweet face which had that evening so pityingly 
 looked down upon him. 
 
 In the meantime, the inmates of the ruined dwelling 
 took their supper in a large, dilapidated looking room 
 which was almost destitute of furniture. In summer 
 they usually enjoyed this meal beneath the shade of the 
 forest trees iii the yard ; but the rain that had so lately 
 fallen forbade that on this evening. 
 
 M. Lapierre looked thoughtful, and his daughter was 
 also more pre-occupied than usual ; so, contrary to 
 their usual custom, few words passed between them 
 while at table. As the father arose, he asked : 
 
 Did you replace the key of the chest where you 
 found it, Claire ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, sir ; you will find it in the same place in the 
 desk. - Oh, papa where did all those nice things come 
 from ? The clothing is finer than any I have ever 
 seen before. Why have you never worn any of it 
 since I can remember ? ” 
 
 He almost sternly replied : 
 
 ‘‘I have not worn those garments because they were 
 not made for me, and they would not fit me. Besides, 
 they are not suited to my present station in life.” 
 
 “Who, then, were they made for? Yes, they must 
 be too large for you, since they fit our guest, for you 
 are a small man beside him.” 
 
 M. Lapierre- frowned, bit his lips ; and after a pause, 
 replied : 
 
 “ It is of no consequence to you to whom they be- 
 longed. The person that owned them is never likely to 
 darken our doors. I am sorry you saw them ; I should 
 have gone for the change of garments myself; but if I 
 
60 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 had, you would have been curious to know where I have 
 kept brocade and fine linen hidden through all these 
 years. Those clothes were left in my care, and never 
 reclaimed ; there is no likelihood that they will be 
 sought after now, for it is many years since I heard 
 from their owner. He is either dead or has forgotten 
 all about me. The last I think, and I am glad it is so, 
 for a renewal of intercourse between us could only be 
 painful to us both. 
 
 It is well that those garments can be useful to some 
 one at last, for they have long molded away in the chest. 
 Although it is painful to me to see them flaunting in 
 the day again, I could do no better for the guest fate 
 has sent us, than suffer him to use a. few of them till 
 his own things are put in order.” 
 
 M. Lapierre spoke more as if communing with him- 
 ' self than addressing his daughter, but she replied : 
 
 ‘‘ Betty will have the stranger’s clothes ready for him 
 when he rises in the morning. She has taken them to 
 the kitchen to be renovated. Oh, papa, how cour- 
 ageous, how stout of heart he must be to escape such 
 dangers as he battled through in the Devil’s Gorge. 
 If he had been dashed on the rocks, think where he 
 might be now.” And the speaker shuddered, and cov- 
 ered her face with her hands. 
 
 Pooh ! child ! Don’t exaggerate his bravery. 
 1 he weakest of creatures will struggle for life, and 
 this youngster is as strong as a young lion. Don’t suf- 
 fer your imagination to make a hero of him, Claire/ 
 and I do not wish you to go near him again. It is my 
 desire that Betty shall exclusively attend to him. You 
 are but a child yet, it is true, but you are very well 
 grown for your years and this good looking stranger 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 51 
 
 may take it into his head to talk nonsense to you. 1 
 will not have your young life tarnished hj his flattery. 
 I will keep j^ou pure, and sweet, and passionless as you 
 now are, till you are a fully developed woman. Then, 
 perhaps', some man good enough to win my Rosebud’s 
 atfections may seek them; but there are very few 
 worthy of the love of a good woman — very few, more’s 
 the pity.” 
 
 “ Dearest father, I never intend to leave you for any 
 one,” said the young girl, blushing. I know that ^ou 
 are a good man, and I shall do as you so often tell me 
 — ‘ let well enough alone.’ We are so happy here to- 
 gether, that I would not have any change for the 
 world.” 
 
 Poor little wayside flower,” said her father fondly 
 caressing her hair. What will be its fate when it is 
 torn from its parent stem, I wonder ? Will it be tram- 
 pled in the dust of the highway, or taken up to bloom 
 in some sheltered spot. Oh, my Rosebud, you are the 
 one treasure of my life, yet I can do so little for you, 
 and in the days to come, God alone knows what is to 
 be your fate.” 
 
 . Claire nestled to his breast, and breathlessly asked : 
 
 Why do you talk so, father ? Why should you an- 
 ticipate trouble when everything is so pleasant around 
 us? We have enough: Mrs. Courtnay will not turn 
 us out of our home — I know she is far too kind for that. 
 What has come over you, mon pere 
 
 ‘‘Nothing, nothing, child; only a presentiment that 
 — that — ^but why should I darken your sunshine with 
 my croaking ? Yet, my darling, you know that I am 
 many vears older than you. I was forty-five when you 
 were born, and that makes me sixty on my next birth- 
 
52 the cl ANDES tike MAKRIAGE; 
 
 day. When a man gets that far along on the road to 
 the grave, it is time to think of the great change that 
 cannot be very far distant. Somehow I have thought 
 a great deal about it of late, and I naturally speculate 
 on what is to become of my portionless and nearly 
 friendless little girl when I am no longer with her.” 
 
 Claire paled slightly,, but rallying, she tenderly pat- 
 ted him upon the cheek, and said : 
 
 ‘‘ You dear, old, naughty papa, why should you in- 
 dulge ^uch gloomy fancies ? You don’t look a day 
 over fifty ; and besides, what are sixty years of life, 
 when so many go on to eighty, ninety, or even a hun- 
 dred years ? You shall take rank with the patriarchs 
 — I am determined on that ; so don’t talk any more in 
 this depressing strain. It takes all the sunshine of my 
 life to have you even hint at 1-eaving me all alone in 
 the world. What should I do — what could I do with- 
 out you ? ” 
 
 Not much, I am afraid ; so I trust that God will 
 spare me at least till my Rosebud is. fully blown. 
 Then, when she is developed into noble and perfect 
 womanhood, she can win her way to the respect and 
 good will of all with whom she may be thrown. 
 When I am called away, Claire, I shall have little be- 
 side my blessing to leave you, but I shall bequeath 
 you to one on whom you have the strongest claim for 
 protection and assistance.” 
 
 ‘‘Who is that, papa ? ” was the. eager question that 
 followed. 
 
 After a long pause, Lapierre reluctantly said: 
 
 “ I must send you to one allied by blood, but not 
 by nature. Armand is of the ‘ earth, earthy,’ and you 
 are my bright and sinless Peri, unfit to soil your wings 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 53 
 
 by coming in contract with such as he. Yet my hard 
 fate has left j^ou no other alternative than beggary, or 
 an appeal to him.” 
 
 ‘‘But who is this Armand, father? Till this 
 moment I did not know that I had a claim on any 
 human creature except myself.” 
 
 With a heavy sigh, M. Lapierre said : 
 
 “ I wish that I had not referred to him, Claire, I 
 once thought that I would never speak of him to you ; 
 never reveal the tie that exists between you ; and I 
 cannot tell what impelled me to do so this evening. I 
 believe I would do better to trust you to fight the bat- 
 tle of life alone, than to ask Armand’s protection for 
 you, but I am weak where you are concerned, and I 
 cannot bear to leave you to poverty and struggle, when 
 the way can be made smooth before you by the sacri- 
 fice of my pride. Oh, that I should have come to 
 speak thus of him who was in other days the pride of 
 my life — my only, and once idolized son.” 
 
 The speaker covered his face in a paroxysm of 
 strong emotion, but the girl caught the meaning of the 
 last muttered words, and with widely opened eyes she 
 asked in a whisper : 
 
 Have I then a brother ? Is it he that you refer to ? 
 Oh, papa, what can he have done to separate you for- 
 ever — to cause you to speak of him thus. TeU me 
 why vou have never before hinted his existence to 
 
 With bitter emphasis, Lapierre replied : 
 
 “ Because he is unfit to be named in your presence ; 
 and I am sorry that I have been weak enough to speak 
 of him now. It can do iiu good to open up that past ; 
 yet the‘Sight of the clothes, so long hidden away^ has 
 
54 
 
 THE CL ANDEST IISTE MARKIAGE. 
 
 Ivoiignb back those cruel memories with sucli vividness 
 that I forgot my usual prudence. Forget that I have 
 spoken of Armand, my child, for he is nothing to you. 
 can be nothing to you as long as I live.” 
 
 But, cher papa, now 1 know that such a relation is 
 somewhere in the world, I naturally wish to hear all 
 that you can tell me about him. Oh, my father, I 
 entreat that you will tell me something of your former 
 life. If you were to be taken from me, I should know 
 nothing of ray family history.” 
 
 Lapierre gazed at her a few moments in silence, as if 
 not certain whether it would be best to gratify her 
 natural curiosity to learn something more of his ante- 
 cedents than he had hitherto thought proper to reveal. 
 With a profound sigh, he finally said: 
 
 “ Perhaps you are right, my daughter. I had better 
 tell you something of myself before the time comes 
 when I can speak no more on this or any other subject. 
 You may think it strange that I augur thus gloomilj^ 
 of myself ; but something tells me that I shall not much 
 longer be permitted to remain with you. There are 
 moments in which I feel as if the earth is receding be- 
 neath my footsteps ; as if the wide realms of eternity 
 are ready to unclose their portals to me. When the 
 fiat is uttered, ‘ Mortal, come,’ I must obey, however 
 tender and clinging may be the tie that binds me 
 here.” 
 
 Claire threw her arms around his neck and clung to 
 him with passionate fervor, as she tearfully said : 
 
 “You must not; you cannot leave me-; don’t talk so, 
 papa, or my heart will break.” 
 
 “ So you think now, my child ; but the heart is 
 tough — tough in healthy organizations ; and you are 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 5 
 
 young and strong ; you can beai^ heavy burdens, and 
 rise above them ; you possess the elastic temperament 
 of the race from which you sprang, and my country- 
 men are the most buo3'ant and happily-constituted 
 nation under the sun. No adversity crushes a French- 
 man ; no calamity utterly disheartens him. See, am I 
 not a living evidence of the truth of the assertion ? 
 After all I have borne, all I have lost, I have made 
 myself contented in this obscure valley, earning my 
 bread by using the accomplishments which were 
 bestowed on me for a very different purpose.” 
 
 ‘‘ Then you were not alwaj^s a teacher, papa? You 
 have been rich, and grand as the family at the Grange ? 
 Is it not so ? ” 
 
 Lapierre sighed wearily : 
 
 “ It matters very little what I have been, Claire. I 
 am now only music, language, and dancing-master to 
 a little girl ; and through the liberality of her mother 
 I am able to make a bare support. I am thankful 
 even for that, and acknowledge that, amid all my 
 afflictions, God has been good to me to enable me to 
 gain so peaceful a haven for my old age ; so secure a 
 shelter for my little girl.” 
 
 Claire caressingly said : 
 
 But, dearest papa, you will not refuse to tell me 
 something of Avhat happened to you before you came 
 to the Happy Valley. What exiled you so far from 
 your native land, and threw so dark a shadow over 
 your life ? ” 
 
 “ That is easily told, pStite. Loss of fortune, of 
 station, of all that men hold precious in the busy, out- 
 side world save honor, expatriated me. I left ray son 
 behind me, never wishing to look upon his face again, 
 
56 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 for he — he was the cause of my ruin^ — of my exile. 1 
 trusted too much to him, and through him my downfall 
 came. 
 
 ‘‘Armand saved something from the wreck, hut I 
 could not share it, for I considered it unfairly withheld 
 from those who had trusted us. I was a banker— a 
 great financier, and I prided myself on my reputation 
 for probity and sagacity. I had wealth at my command, 
 and all went well with me till I associated my son with 
 me in my business. After that, things went wrong ; I 
 trusted to him ; he trusted to others ; he became in- 
 fatuated with a heartless woman, neglected our affairs 
 at an important crisis when I was absent, and — wo 
 were ruined. 
 
 The world always harshly judges a man who fails 
 in business, leaving those who have trusted him to suf- 
 fer through him. I did not escape the common lot — 
 and — and — I think for a season, I must have been 
 mad. I will not describe the scenes that passed be- 
 tween my son and myself. He would not give up the 
 woman who had infatuated him, though he saw how it 
 cut me to the soul to see him so enslaved. 
 
 I cannot tell how or where we parted. I can only 
 say that in a paroxysm of anguish that I cannot even 
 now recall with calmness, I shook the dust of my na- 
 tive land from my feet, and came to this far distant 
 land to bury myself in obscurity ; to seek a refuge so 
 lonely and obscure, that no one who had known me 
 should ever be able to trace me ; where the history of 
 inv misfortunes could never follow me.” 
 
 ‘‘And my mother ? What of her?” asked Claire. 
 
 ‘ Did she not accompany you from France ? ” 
 
 “ '.io ; I found lier in tliis country ; and through her 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 57 
 
 you claim a distant tie of kindred with the Courtnav 
 family. You are the half sister of Armand, for I have 
 been married twice. His mother was the daughter of 
 a nobleman ; yours was a young girl I met with shortly 
 after I came to this country. We boarded in the same 
 house in Philadelphia, where I remained several 
 months trying to obtain employment in some mercan- 
 tile house. I failed, because I had no recommenda- 
 tions, and I resorted to teaching to win the means of 
 living. Clara Courtnay was alone in the world, and 
 she managed to make a scanty living by coloring fash- 
 ion-plates for magazines. 
 
 Our mutual isolation drew us together, and we 
 married. Through her connection with the family at 
 the Grange, I obtained this humble home, and the em 
 ployment that has enabled me to live. I prepared th e 
 son for college ; and now Julia’s education affords Mrs. 
 Courtnay the pretext for paying me the same sum sb< . 
 allowed for that of Andrew. I appreciate her liber^^- 
 ity, and for her goodness to you I can never be suffi- 
 ciently grateful. She is only your godmother ; but in 
 many respects she has been a true mother to j'ou.” 
 
 Yes, she is very good to me, and I love her very 
 dearly. But my . own mother — what of her ? for I 
 have no recollection of her.” 
 
 She died a few days after your birth ; and I have 
 since cared for little beyond the narrow sphere of my 
 daily duties, and the love of my one ewe lamb. You 
 are everything to me, Claire ; the rest of the world 
 nothing.” 
 
 . Dearest father, have you no love for my brother? 
 Has your affection for him so utterly died out that he 
 3an claim no place in your heart ? ” 
 
58 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 “ How can I love him in whom I have lost all faith ? 
 Armand has injured me beyond forgiveness. If I had 
 heard from him through all these dreary years, my 
 heart might have yearned to him again, but he has ]iot 
 communicated with me. We have long been dead to 
 each other — it is best so. " Let the dead past bury its 
 dead never speak of him to me again, my child, for 
 it is bitterly painful to me to recal the last days we 
 spent near each other. Come, my pet, let us have 
 some music ; that will exorcise the demon of regret 
 that has entered my heart ; yet I was not to blame for 
 what occurred — no — I am sure I was not. We can- 
 not sit on the portico to-night, for we should be too 
 near our guest. I wish him to sleep well, that he may 
 be sufficiently recovered in the morning to go upon 
 his way. I cannot help feeling that his presence is an 
 inopportune intrusion in our quiet, and happy home.” 
 
 “ Come then to my retreat,” said Claire, ‘‘ since it 
 is on the opposite side of the house, the strains of your 
 violin will only reach him from there as a soothing 
 lullaby.” 
 
 “ So be it, then,” was the reply, and the two left the 
 desolate looking eating room. 
 
 After crossing a wide hall which had fallen partially 
 to ruin, Claire opened the door of a small apartment 
 with a wide window at the further end placed in a 
 recess several feet deep. This window was so com- 
 pletely embowered in roses and jasmine, as to need no 
 drapery within, and the summer atmosphere was filled 
 with the fragrance of the flowers. 
 
 A striped carpet of gay colors covered the floor, and 
 old-fashioned, quaintly carved furniture stood against 
 the walls. There was a writing-table, and music-stand 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 59 
 
 near the recess, a cabinet of dark wood, and on the 
 opposite side of the room, a spindle-legged piano which 
 had been in use for at least sixty years. There was 
 also a. small rocking-chair, and the heavier ones cov- 
 ered with faded green morocco. 
 
 Claire called this her retreat, and she had lavished 
 on its adornment all the resources at her command. 
 The walls were covered with engravings framed with 
 bright-colored autumn leaves, the tints of which were 
 brought out and preserved by a coat of varnish. Bas- 
 kets made of wire, and ingeniously covered with moss, 
 were suspended in each corner ; these were filled with 
 ferns, mingled with roses, and other common flowers 
 that were still in bloom, arranged with such skill as 
 proved that this secluded little girl had the eye of an 
 artiste for effect ; and the heart of a poet beating in 
 her breast. 
 
 Claire drew forward one of the large chairs, and La- 
 pierre threw himself upon it with an air of languor that 
 was unusual with him, for he was ordinarily a bright, 
 and active little man, in spite of the sixty years that 
 had passed over his head. 
 
 The young girl placed herself before the open piano, 
 and struck a few chords ; the instrument was in better 
 tune than miglit have been expected from its antique 
 appearance, but the old Frenchman had a correct ear, 
 and possessed some skill in mechanics, and his efforts 
 had nearl)'^ restored its original sweetness of tone. 
 
 liapierre mechanically took up his violin, struck into 
 a weird strain of German music, and the accompani- 
 meut played by his daughter was soon almost lost in 
 the volume of wild melody which filled the room and 
 was wafted on the air to the distant apartment of his 
 guest. 
 
60 the clandestine makkiage. 
 
 As he played he forgot his troubles — his presents 
 ments of approaching evil — for he was a genuine mu- 
 sical enthusiast, and his soul revelled in the sounds his 
 own skill evoked. 
 
 At length, exhausted by the fervor which he had 
 thrown into his performance, he suffered the violin to 
 glide from his grasp, and leaned back a few moments 
 without speaking. 
 
 His daughter also ceased to play, but she sat wait- 
 ing for him to break the silence that fell upon them. 
 
 After a long silence, he vaguely said : 
 
 I wonder if it is true that in Heaven we shall have 
 music forever floating around us. I hope it is, for that 
 alone can express to me the glory and the beatitude 
 of the hereafter.” 
 
 ‘‘ What is best for our happiness we shall doubtless 
 have there, papa,” said the soft voice of Claire. But 
 do not speak of going to Heaven now ; I need you too 
 much here on earth.” 
 
 ‘‘And I must stay with you to guard you and guide 
 you through the most critical years of your life,” he 
 replied in a tone of passionate regret and doubt which 
 made her shiver and draw nearer to his side. 
 
 He felt the soft touch of her hand upon his brow, 
 and, clasping her suddenly to his heart, he went on : 
 
 “ God is merciful, and I will pray to Him for the 
 boon I so earnestly crave. I will ask Him to spare me 
 to watch over the fate of my precious darling till she 
 is capable of going alone upon the thorny path she may 
 have to tread in this dark and weary world. Good 
 night, love ! I must go now and look after my patient; 
 he has already been left too long alone. You should 
 seek your cduch at once, for it is past our usual hour 
 tor retiring.” 
 
A FAMILY HISTORY. 
 
 61 
 
 Claire kissed him tenderly, and he left the room. 
 
 The moon had risen and was pouring a flood of light 
 through the uncurtained window : the two often sat 
 thus on summer nights without the glare of a lamp to 
 break the spell of the weird music Lapierre was so 
 fond of playing ; and, when she was left alone, the girl 
 did not light one. 
 
 She opened a door which gave into a smaller room 
 fitted up as a sleeping apartment. A priedieu was 
 placed beside the bed, above which hung a crucifix of 
 carved ivory : Claire knelt upon the cushion and, after 
 praying long and fervently, she arose and prepared 
 herself for repose. 
 
 In the meantime, Lapierre visited the apartment in 
 which Walter Thorne was tossing in restless sleep. 
 Without disturbing him, he made as careful an exam- 
 ination of his condition as was possible, and left the 
 room with a troubled expression. 
 
 He muttered : 
 
 “ This young stranger may be sick on my hands — 
 he may be long recovering ; and then, God knows 
 what may come of his unfortunate detention here. 
 Yet, he must stay — there is no help for it, though 
 something tells me that evil will come from him to me 
 and mine.’’ 
 
 Poor father ! if he could only have lifted the veil 
 from the future and seen what was to be the result of 
 that young man’s advent beneath his roof, I am afraid 
 that he would very reluctantly have used such skill as 
 he possessed to save the life of the stranger he had 
 taken in. 
 
62 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 GOOD RESOLUTIONS VS. TEMPTATION, 
 
 O N the following morning the fears of M. Lapierre 
 were amply confirmed. On visiting his guest he 
 found him tossing from side to side, flushed with fever, 
 and at moments slightly delirious. 
 
 He carefully examined the symptoms, and then had 
 recourse to a small medicine-chest filled with tiny bot- 
 tles, from which he selected two remedies, and pre- 
 pa^red them in separate cups. Homeopathy was at that 
 day little known in the United States, but Lapierre 
 had seen and been treated in sickness by Hahnemann 
 himself, and he had unbounded faith in his system. 
 
 In his exile he had brought with him some of the 
 learned German’s books, and for many years the use 
 of the subtle remedies they prescribed had given him 
 confidence in their efficacy. He now offered one of 
 them to the sick man, but after tasting it he scornfully 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘ Do you expect me to be benefitted by taking a 
 spoonful of water occasionally? I am seriously ill, 
 and I wish a regular physician sent for. I am able to 
 pay for every attention I receive, let them cost what 
 they may.” 
 
 But my dear young friend,” remonstrated the old 
 man, this will produce a better result than more 
 nauseous compounds ; I assure you it will, upon my 
 honor. If you implicitly follow my directions, I will 
 guarantee that in a short time your fever shall be 
 broken, and yourself in a fair way of recovery. I en- 
 
GOOD 11 E e, 3 L U T I O N S. 
 
 63 
 
 treat that you will not obstinately reject my ministra- 
 tions, for I have successfully dealt with worse cases 
 than this threatens to be.” 
 
 Then you must be a faith doctor, for I can taste 
 nothing but water in what you have offered me. My 
 imagination will not suffice to perform a cure, so I in- 
 sist that a physician who understands his business shall 
 be sent for.” 
 
 But some hours must elapse before Bledsoe can 
 be got here, and by that time you may be extremely 
 ill. The drenching you got last evening has given you 
 an inflammatory fever which must be dealt with at 
 once. I can cure you without much loss of strength, 
 but if he comes, he will soon reduce you to the con- 
 dition of an infant. There — do be reasonable now, 
 and take my remedies ; you may at least try them till 
 old Bledsoe can be found, and brought hither.” 
 
 The patient rolled his wild eyes around the room, 
 and with a faint smile, said : 
 
 I will consent to swallow them on one condition, 
 for I know they cannot hurt me.” 
 
 Well, what condition is that ? I am so anxious to 
 cure you, that if it is not verj^ unreasonable, I will 
 grant it.” 
 
 Let that pretty daughter of yours administer 
 them. From a hand of such an angel I believe I would 
 consent to take poison.” 
 
 Lapierre’s eyes flashed, but he controlled himself and 
 said : 
 
 What nonsense. It is not fitting that a young girl 
 should come into a sick man’s room. You understand 
 that yourself, for you are a gentleman,” 
 
 Thorne laughed wildly. 
 
64 
 
 THE CLANDESTmE MAHRIAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, I am what the world calls such, for I am the 
 son of a rich man, and I have had the advantage of a 
 good education. If that makes a gentleman, I can 
 style myself one ; but gentle or simple, if you want 
 me to take that tasteless mess, I tell you I won’t touch 
 it unless it is offered to me by the fair hands of that 
 lovely enchantress who gave me shelter when I came 
 to her, bruised and forlorn. 
 
 Ko ; by my hopes of life I swear, 
 
 And by those lips, so ripe and rare. 
 
 And by those eyes of softest sheen, 
 
 The brightest far I e’er have seen.” 
 
 I’ll burn with fever, shake with cold; nay, I’ll die, 
 and let the green turf rest upon my breast, if you re- 
 fuse me the ministrations of that lovely fairy.” 
 
 “But my dear sir, that is impossible — out of all 
 rule you know.” 
 
 “ No, I don’t know it, and I won't know it. She may 
 be able to work a miracle with your watery prescrip- 
 tions, but you can’t. Ha ! ha ! I am master of the sit- 
 uation. You pride yourself on such skill as you pos- 
 sess, I clearly see, and sooner than lose the chance to 
 experiment on me, you’ll give in, and grant the boon I 
 ask.” 
 
 Lapierre gravely said : 
 
 “ I have only to leave you to your own obstinacy for 
 a few hours, and you will be in no condition to dictate 
 terms. You will not then know what I administer to 
 you, or by whom it is given. Come, be reasonable 
 now, and consent to swallow a spoonful of these rem- 
 edies every fifteen minutes. They will cool your fever, 
 and clear your mind. You are not perfectly sane, oi 
 you would not talk as you did just now.” 
 
GOOD RESO^ JTIONS. 
 
 65 
 
 “Sane — who is perfectlj" sane, I wonder? Some 
 philosopher has asserted that eveiy man has some fav- 
 orite madness. Mine has just developed itself, and it 
 manifests itself in admiration for your charming daugh- 
 ter. Let her give me your slops, and the effect will 
 !)e magical. I adore beauty, and the contemplation of 
 her angelic face will act as a sedative upon me. Oh ! 
 I know you will yield, for a quack is always anxious 
 to have his nostrums tried.” 
 
 Lapierre shook his head and firmly said : 
 
 “ You are mistaken there, young man. My daugh- 
 ter cannot be permitted to act as your nurse, even if 
 you refuse what will save you from severe attack of 
 illness.” 
 
 “ Ah, stuff ! you are not in earnest, though I am, 
 and -” 
 
 The contest might have continued much longer, had 
 it not been ended by the entrance of Claire herself ; 
 she took the cup and spoon from her father’s hand, 
 and softly said : 
 
 “ I heard something of what he said, father, and as 
 so much depends on the prompt administration of the 
 medicine, I cannot refuse to give it to him myself. I 
 will sit in the next room, and come in at regular inter- 
 vals, while you watch beside him. A delirious man 
 must not be held accountable for his fancies.” 
 
 Lapierre frowned and bit his lips, but he made room 
 for her by the bedside, and the sick youth took the 
 potion from her with a lingering look of thanks and 
 admiration. 
 
 He sank back upon his pillow, faintly saying : 
 
 “ Thank you. I knew that you were my good angel, 
 
 4 
 
6U 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE M A K 1! I A G E. 
 
 TilOl-3 IS no need of sending for another physician no w . 
 I feel that I shall do very well.” 
 
 ‘‘ Umph ! ” muttered the vexed father. “If 1 liaa 
 a horse here, I believe 1 should go for old Bledsoe 
 without delay, and allow' him to dose you into your 
 grave as speedilj' as might be. 1 begin to fear that 
 such a denouement will be best for all concerned.” 
 
 “ Don’t mutter, Mr. Stone, for that is yoxxv name in 
 English. It is ill manners to mutter,” said Thorne, in 
 a jeering tone. “ I feel better alread}^ thanks to Mad- 
 emoiselle. I’ll shut my eyes now% and dream of that 
 bright vision till it shines on me again. Don't speak a 
 word, if you please ; I am going into the seventli 
 heaven of beatitude; the one in which all glories 
 culminate ; where lovely forms and angel faces are 
 found in greatest perfection. Those Mahometan fel- 
 lows talk of Houris, but what are they to the peerless 
 creature I have found in this old ruin ? ” 
 
 He folded his hands upon his breast and closed his 
 eyes ; the Frenchman looked at him and thought : 
 
 “ Why should I take umbrage at his vagaries ? lie 
 is so flighty that he scarcely knows what he is saying ; 
 but a few hours hence he w'ill be calmer, and then iie 
 will acknowledge the efficacy of my medicines. Yes — 
 yes — he shall confess that I have skill. I’ve managed 
 worse cases than this, and I’ll soon have him on his feet 
 again. Then he may go from my dove-cote and leave 
 my birdling safe in her nest with her fond old father.” 
 
 For the next two hours the deep silence that reigned 
 in the apartment w'as only broken by the appearance 
 of the young nurse and the murmured thanks of the 
 sick Ilian as he took from her hand the medicine or 
 which her father declared so much depended. 
 
GOOD RESOLUTION'S. 
 
 67 
 
 At the end of that time Thorne fell into a deep slum- 
 ber, and soon afterward the moisture that appeared on 
 his forehead assured Lapierre that the worst symptoms 
 had passed away and his patient probably saved from 
 the severe illness he had dreaded. 
 
 To cure him speedily and rid himself of his presence 
 beneath his roof, was now the stronges_t wish of La- 
 pierre’s heart. The young stranger’s openly express- 
 ed admiration of his daughter was extremely displea&ing 
 to him ; he regarded her still as a child, but it was evi- 
 dent that his guest looked on her in a Yerj diflPerent 
 light, and how he should save his darling from the 
 glamour this handsome and cultivated man might en- 
 deavor to throw over her young and inexperienced 
 heart, became his one thought. 
 
 For two days Thorne was unable to leave his bed, 
 and M. Lapierre rejoiced that they were the two on 
 Y/hich he could absent himself from the Grange. Sat- 
 urday and Sunday passed away in the ceaseless care of 
 the invalid, but it was found impossible to banish Claire 
 from the sick room. Young Thorne insisted that to 
 her presence he owed his rapid progress toward recov- 
 ery, and at the slightest symptom of obstinacy on the 
 part of Lapierre he became utterly unmanageable and 
 would not be coaxed or argued into accepting such 
 remedies as would complete his cure. 
 
 Neither would Claire consent to be excluded, for she 
 was amused by the vagaries of the refractory patient 
 and interested in his recovery. She flitted in and out, 
 arranging his pillows, bathing his forehead when he 
 complained of headache, and performing those services 
 so gently and naturally that her father finally came to 
 the conclusion that it would be safest to say nothing 
 mote to her on the sulqect. 
 
68 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 She was yet too young to become the object of a 
 grand passion, he thought, and far too child-like to 
 return it. Let her aid in restoring this unwelcome 
 guest to health, and then he could, go upon his way 
 and forget the good Samaritans who had nursed him 
 through his illness. 
 
 On Monday morning M. Lapierre’s duties at the 
 Grange compelled him to leave his patient to the joint 
 care of his daughter and old Betty, distasteful as it was 
 to him to do so. By this time Thorne was out of dan- 
 ger, but he was impatient and restless ; anxious to 
 leave his bed, but still too much indisposed to do so 
 with safety. 
 
 But he refused to listen to the cautions of the old 
 man, and insisted that, wrapped in the dressing gown, 
 he could lie on a wide old-fashioned sofa which stood 
 in the outer room. He Avas weary of the little den in 
 which he lay ; he must get out, or he could not answer 
 for the consequences ; his fever would return ; he 
 would suffer from a relapse, and then all would be over 
 for him. 
 
 Thinking in his heart that Walter Thorne was the 
 most refractory patient he had ever undertaken to 
 manage, M. Lapierre at last gave in. His pillows 
 Avere transferred to the sofa, and after making such a 
 toilette as was possible Avith the assistance of his host, 
 the sick man found his way to it, and Avith a sigh of 
 satisfaction placed himself in a comfortable position. 
 
 This is much better,” he said. I feel like a dif- 
 ferent person already. Noav, if I can only be amused, 
 I shall do very well. I have a volume of Shelley in 
 the pocket of my coat, hoAvever, and if you Avill only 
 permit your daughter to read aloud to me, I shall be 
 
GOOD KESOLUTIONS. 69 
 
 most grateful. She has a charming voice, and I am 
 persuaded that she reads delightfullj^” 
 
 The old man regarded him in grim silence a few 
 moments, and then said : 
 
 ‘‘Ton are certainly the coolest youngster I ever have 
 seen. I do not know that it will do any harm for 
 Claire to read to you, and on two conditions I will 
 consent.” 
 
 Pray name them, my dear sir, and if possible I will 
 accede to them.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, they are not very difficult to comply with. 
 The first one is, that you will listen to Christ’s sermon 
 on the Mount read by her young lips ; after taking 
 that to heart, I scarcely think you will find my secoinl 
 one unreasonable.” 
 
 The first is granted ; now for the other.” 
 
 It is that you will respect her extreme youth and 
 ignorance of life sufficiently to refrain from attempt- 
 ing to gain any influence over her mind or heart. You 
 are rich and high in station ; she is poor and humble ; 
 her only doAver her innocence and beauty. You can- 
 not stoop to our level, nor lift my child up to yours, so 
 I ask you to refrain from using to her such flattering 
 language as Avorldly men are prone to with every pretty 
 and attractive girl they meet.” 
 
 There was both dignity and pathos in the words, 
 cind with a deep flush mantling his handsome face, 
 Thorne slowly said : 
 
 '' After such an appeal as that, sir, I should be a 
 wretch if I attempted to tamper with the affections of 
 your daughter. I believe that I am incapable of mak- 
 ing so base a return for the kindness you have shown 
 to me. You may trust Claire with me as safely, as if 
 I were her brother.” 
 
70 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 The father’s brow cleared, and he more cordially 
 tsaid ; 
 
 “I thank you for that assurance, Mr. Thorne, and I 
 accept it in good faith. No man worthy of the name 
 would pledge his honor to a course he did not intend 
 to pursue. I will send my daughter to bear you com- 
 pany till my return. I shall be back myself in a few 
 hours, for I have but one pupil now, and she is too young 
 to be kept long at her lessons.” 
 
 Thank you for conceding so much,” was the reply, 
 but the face of the young man flushed slightly, and 
 he looked uneasily after the retiring form of his host. 
 
 He presently muttered : 
 
 I can’t do without the child, for she’s nothing 
 more. I should die of ennui if I were left to myself, 
 and she is certainly the most piquante and charming 
 creature I have ever beheld. There can be no real 
 danger to me in this association, for my fate is settled. 
 
 Ah me ! I wish it were not ! Is my own heart 
 playing the traitor to me, that I begin to rebel against 
 the iron will of my father ? No, that cannot, shall not 
 be. I must be on honor with this J^oung creature. I 
 I will be on honor with that good old man who has 
 been so kind to me. I will treat her as a lovely and 
 attractive child, and as soon as I am strong enough 
 to go upon my way, I will leave her to forget the 
 stranger to whom she has so sweetly ministered. I 
 can pay the father for his trouble, but for the daughter 
 I can do nothing better than to leave her as pure and 
 innocent as I found her. 
 
 ‘‘ Yet my heart yearns to take her to it as the bright- 
 est and sweetest possession it could claim. If I could 
 shake off the shackles that bind me, and assert uiv 
 right to choose oiy own fate, how happy I might be ! 
 
GOOD HE SOLUTIONS. 
 
 71 
 
 '' But that is impossible, so why should I think o\ 
 it ? I am the slave of another’s will, so I must curb 
 my vagrant propensities, and guard my ’heart against 
 the tender interest this lovely creature has already in- 
 spired. 1 am the betrothed of another, and an en- 
 tanglement here would ruin me. Besides, I have 
 pledged my honor to the old man, and I must not for- 
 feit it. Heigh ho ! ” 
 
 The sigh with which he concluded these reflections 
 echoed through the room, and a soft voice spoke close 
 beside him. 
 
 ‘‘ Are you suffering, Mr. Thorne ? My father sent 
 me to read to you, but perhaps I had better give you 
 a sedative. You look flushed and restless.” 
 
 He smiled brightly and said : 
 
 The best sedative for me will be the sound of your 
 voice, my fair nurse. I did not sleep well last night, 
 and I feel as nervous as a fine lady this morning. 
 Ridiculous, isn’t it, for a strong man like me to com- 
 plain of nervousness ? ” 
 
 Not if it is the result of illness,” was the reply, 
 “ and you have been very sick. Papa’s skill has brought 
 you up sooner than I dared to hope, for on the first 
 da}^ of your illness I was greatly alarmed at your con- 
 dition. You have had a terrible fever, you know, and 
 we must guard against a relapse.” 
 
 '' Yes, I intend to be very careful : but do you really 
 believe that the tinctures and pellets administered to 
 me in such infinitesimal quantities, could have pro- 
 duced aii}^ effect upon my stalwart frame? It seems 
 nonsense to think so ; my constitution is strong enough 
 to throw off disease, that is all.” 
 
 Claire regarded him with an expression of doubt, aa 
 
72 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 if she scarcely comprehended him ; but she finally 
 shook her pretty head, and with a faint smile, said : 
 
 It does not matter now whether you have faith or 
 not, as papa does not pretend to work miracles. You 
 are out of danger now, and that is enough for him and 
 me. He sent me here to read the Sermon on the Mount 
 to you. I am glad you wish to hear it, for I like it 
 best of anything in the Bible. It should be best though, 
 for it was our Saviour himself who spoke those divine 
 and beautiful words.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, I know, but there is a great deal in it that is 
 hard on such a mere worldling as myself. I will listen 
 to you. Rose, and try to profit b}^ the teachings of those 
 ruby lips. You are not offended that I have given you 
 the name of the queen of flowers that you blush so 
 charmingly ? I wish you would let me call you Rose- 
 Inid as the old woman does.” 
 
 Claire simplj^ replied ; 
 
 Did I blush ? I change color very easily, and you 
 must not mind it. I am but a child yet, papa says, so 
 if it suits you, you may call me Rosebud.” 
 
 rose with all its sweetest leaves unfolded,’” 
 quoted Thorne with his radiant smile. 
 
 ‘‘ But I must be careful not to brush the dew from 
 its petals; no, by Heaven! I will not I Sit there, 
 Rosebud, beside my couch where I can hear but can- 
 not see 3"OU, for if I look on you I shall forget all about 
 what 3"ou are reading. I am going to take my first les- 
 son in goodness to-day from the pure lips of an angel.” 
 
 She laughed at this, and as she took the seat as- 
 signed her, merrily said : 
 
 Angels have no mortal failings, and if you could 
 see me in what mammy Betty calls one of my tantrums, 
 
GOOD EESOLUTIONS. 
 
 73 
 
 you would think me very far from being even distantly 
 related to them.^ I can be as naughtj?^ sometimes as 
 any other bad child.” 
 
 He pretended to look incredulous. 
 
 ‘‘What! can those liquid eyes flash with temper I 
 That lute-like voice lose its dulcet tones I impossible ! 
 You only wish to make me think that you share the 
 faults of mortals to take from me the fear that the 
 creature who has so little of our mundane nature, may 
 take wings to herself and fly away to the sphere to 
 which she of right belongs.” 
 
 With a pretty assumption of dignity Claire repli- 
 ed : 
 
 “ You must not talk to me in this way. Papa told 
 me that I must check your presumption if you attempt- 
 ed to say flattering things to me. You have done 
 nothing else to me since I came in, and if you do not 
 put yourself on your good behavior I must go away 
 and leave you alone.” 
 
 Thorne looked embarrassed at this rebuke ; he laugh- 
 ed constrainedly, and said : 
 
 “ Pardon me. Mademoiselle. I have been rather ob- 
 livious^ of my compact with your father, but the lan- 
 guage of flattery comes so. naturally to my lips in the 
 presence of one of your sex, that I utter it uncon- 
 sciously. I promise to offend thus no more. Lull me 
 to repose, sweet child, by reading the lesson set for us 
 by your father. After that we will have something 
 more congenial to my taste.” 
 
 Claire gazed at him for a moment with widely open- 
 ed eyes, and her lips unclosed to reply to his last 
 words, but she seemed to change her mind ; with a 
 little sigh she opened the small Bible she held in her 
 
T4 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 hand., found what slie wanted, and began to read in a 
 clear, well-modulated voice. 
 
 Walter Thorne closed his eyes and listened a few 
 moments, but he did not believe in the divine mission 
 of Him whose words were so reverently repeated, and 
 very soon the melody of the voice was all that appeal' 
 cd to him. He heard it floating around him as one in 
 a vague dream ; while his thoughts went wandering off 
 to his distant home and the jarring interests centered 
 there. 
 
 He was a man of wilful temper and strong passions, 
 combined with a weakness of purpose that often ren- 
 dered him the sport of his own wayward fancies. 
 With such a being good resolutions are only made to 
 be broken, and every moment spent near the beautiful 
 child of nature who sat beside him seemed to weaken 
 those to which he had pledged himself. 
 
 His musings were interrupted by the closing of 
 Claire’s book, and the sudden silence that fell around 
 them. The dreamer started, and quickly said : 
 
 ‘‘ Now the sermon is over, we will have poetry that 
 shall thrill your soul to its inmost depths. It will add 
 a new charm to Shelley to read over his finest strains 
 with you.” 
 
 Claire’s knowledge of poetry was limited to Milton’s 
 “Paradise Lost” and Pollock’s “Course of Time,” 
 for he]* father did not permit her to read indiscrimin- 
 ately, though there was a fine library at the Grange to 
 which she had access. 
 
 Walter Thorne was a very fine reader, and when he 
 raised himself to a sitting posture, and threw his whole 
 soul into some of the finest passages in the volume he 
 was so familiar with, the young girl listened in raptu- 
 
GOOD KEbOLU TIO?^ S. 75 
 
 rous silence, her eloquent face too truly reflecting the 
 emotions of her heart. 
 
 His eyes wandered from the page to the fair face of 
 this beautiful child of impulse ; and every moment 
 spent near her only served to enfeeble the good resolu- 
 tions he had made. He felt the passion she had in- 
 spired growing more potent with eiich passing moment, 
 and his self-indulgent nature prompted him to ask of 
 himself why he should repress it ? 
 
 Why should he not brave the anger of the father 
 who had hitherto so despotically ruled him, and woo 
 and win this lovely wayside flower, making her law- 
 fully his own, and giving her the position she could so 
 fitly adorn ? He shrank from the thought of that oth- 
 er one to whom he was pledged, and persuaded him- 
 self that he would do well to place a barrier between 
 . himself and his betrothed which even his father would 
 hesitate to break. 
 
 Colonel Thorne would relent, would forgive him for 
 thwarting his wishes when he saw this lovely wild 
 flower, the fairest and sweetest that man had ever 
 plucked from its parent stem. He persuaded himself 
 that he was weary of the world and its vanities ; he 
 believed that he could be contented to make his Eden 
 ^ in this retired valley, the world forgetting, by the 
 world forgot,” if by doing so he could only secure the 
 companionship of the Eve who now made it so enchant- 
 ing to him. 
 
 Walter Thorne was ])ul twenty-three years old, bur 
 he had lived a fast life, and he was already sated 
 with the pleasures which society offers to young, rich, 
 and reckless men like himself. As Alexander wept for 
 new worlds to conquer, he sighed for a new sensation 
 
76 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 which would be powerful enough to arouse him from 
 the apathetic dullness into which all things had fallen 
 for him. 
 
 The freshness of his youth was gone : the glamour 
 departed which once had glorified the world to his 
 perceptions ; and in that state of collapse, he had sub- 
 mitted to the will of his father with regard to the mar- 
 riage he desired him to make. 
 
 He proposed to Agnes Willard, thinking she Avould 
 g]*ace his table and manage his house as well as any 
 other, and he believed himself as much in love with 
 her as he ever should be with any woman. But, after 
 the engagement was made, he felt as if he must escape 
 for a season from the bondage into which he had fall- 
 en, for his fiancee was exacting and expected from 
 him a devotion he knew himself incapable of render- 
 ing. 
 
 He left her in tears, and set out on his vagrant wan- 
 derings as an artist, with the promise to return in Oc- 
 tober and take on himself the station of a Benedict. 
 He knew that, in honor, he was bound to Miss Willard 
 — that she was passionately attached to him ; yet his 
 heart had first awakened from its long slumber at the 
 sight of the maid of the valley, and Thorne compre- 
 hended, for the first time, how ardently he was capa- 
 ble of loving. 
 
 The sweet and artless ways of Claire more strongly 
 rivetted the chain he struggled to break, and, as he 
 listened to her fresh young voice, he thought that to 
 secure it as the music of his home would be to redeem 
 him from dissipation — to bring him back to honor and 
 purity, never dreaming that, after a few brief weeks of 
 possession, he might grow weary of his toy so far as to 
 
GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 77 
 
 feel that the sacrifice of his future prospects would be 
 too heavy a price to pay to retain it. 
 
 Thorne was still weak, and the effort of thinking 
 tired him ; so he suffered himself to be lulled to forget- 
 fulness by the low, soft tones that vibrated on his ear 
 — for Claire had taken up the volume when he laid it 
 aside, and was reading to him from its pages. 
 
 He felt like one lapped in a delicious dream which 
 he cared not to have broken ; and, when the young girl 
 looked up, his closed eyes and placid expression caused 
 her to believe that he was sleeping. His hand had 
 fallen by the side of the sofa, touching the folds of her 
 dress ; and, after gazing on him a few moments, she 
 stooped and pressed her lips to it. 
 
 The touch was as light as the dropping of a rose-leaf, 
 but it thrilled through the unstable man who now 
 counterfeited sleep to see what she would next do. 
 Claire arose, and stood looking down on him with an 
 expression of tender sweetness — her eyes filled with 
 tears, her bosom heaving with the new emotions that 
 were struggling for utterance ; and, unconsciously, she 
 murmured : 
 
 Oil, if he had died ! If his noble form, his beauti- 
 lul face had gone down to the dust, wdiat would have 
 tlie feelings of those who love him — of those who 
 huve the right to do so ? Ah me ! ” 
 
 The deep sigh that ended her words put to flight the 
 Vr'civering resolutions of Thorne to sacrifice his new- 
 boiMj passion and leave his interest in her unspoken. . 
 His expressive eyes flashed wide open, he started up, 
 rind throwing his arm around her slender form, with 
 passionate utterance exclaimed : 
 
 '' M}’ darling, would it have given your tender heart 
 
78 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 a pang if I had never risen from my sick bed ? Speak, 
 my own, my best beloved, for I would learn the truth ; 
 speak it frankly, Rosebud, for it may influence our 
 whole future lives/' 
 
 She extricated herself from his embrace, blushing 
 rosy red, and naively asked : 
 
 ‘‘ How can you Jove one who was a stranger to you 
 but a few days ago ? Don’t talk so, please, Mr. Thorne, 
 for my father says that a great and rich gentleman like 
 you can be nothing to me. I — I was only pitying you 
 because you look so pale and tired. You must not 
 call me your darling, for I am only that to papa.” 
 
 He sunk back with a clouded brow, and presently 
 said : 
 
 You are right. Rosebud. I am wild this morning, 
 I believe. My head is not quite right yet ; but I do 
 love my pretty nurse right well — I wish you to believe 
 and remember that let what will happen hereafter. 
 Oh, how I hate the cold conventionalities of this life ; 
 they crush our best hopes, our noblest aspirations, leav- 
 ing nothing better than husks to sustain it.” 
 
 The bitterness oi^ his tones alarmed her, but she 
 gently said : 
 
 After what I lately read to you, I thought you 
 would feel that we have something more* to do in this 
 world than to care for ourselves. Let me read the 
 history of the prodigal son, and you will see that his 
 father gave him something better than husks to nurture 
 him ; and our Father will be as good to us, if we ask 
 Him in the right spirit.” 
 
 Why what a quaint little Puritan it is ! ” exclaim- 
 ed Thorne, with a laugh. Only read on, my child 
 and I will listen as one enclianted to the soft music of 
 
GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 79 
 
 your tones. Good Heavens ! why can’t I talk common 
 sense to you? My unbridled tongue will utter the 
 language of gallantrj^, though I promised your fatlier 
 to be careful of what I said. Think that I am still 
 delirious, my dear, and pardon the slips of the tongue 
 of which I have been guilty.” 
 
 She sat down again, and rather tremulously replied : 
 
 I think I fully understand that you mean very lit- 
 tle by what you say. It is the way of the people of 
 the world, papa says, and I think he knows, for he was 
 once a man of the world himself.” 
 
 Then M. Lapierre has not always lived in this 
 secluded spot ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Oh, no; he was once rich and grand, but he lost 
 everything and came away from France. For many 
 j^ears he has lived here, and I was born here. Of 
 course, I am but a simple child, but I wish you would 
 speak only the words of soberness and truth to me. 
 Then I shall not be tempted to misunderstand you, 
 you know.” 
 
 “ Very well — I promise to be on my guard — that 
 shall be our compact. I thought your father superior 
 to his present condition ! Is he a political exile ? ” 
 
 She looked puzzled. 
 
 “ I scarcely know what you mean ; he is not an exile 
 as you understand it, for he came to this country of 
 his own free will.” 
 
 “Oh, that answers my question. It was no dif6* 
 culty with the government then that induced M. 
 Lapierre to expatriate himself. Can you tell me what 
 position he held in his native land ? ” 
 
 “ It was a good one, I suppose, for he was a banker ; 
 but he failed through the mismanagement of one he 
 
80 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MAEKIAGE. 
 
 trusted. He gave up everything, and came to the 
 United States to win his bread by any employment lie 
 could find. Since papa has told me this, I have lox^ed 
 him better, and respected him more than ever ; but I 
 am sorry he has been so unfortunate. He deserves 
 something better than the petty employment that 
 barely enables us to live. He says that he is unable 
 to put anything by, and when he is taken from me I 
 shall have to depend upon my own exertions for a sup- 
 port. It is sad for him to know that, but I pray to 
 the good God to spare him to me, and enable me in 
 time to do something for him.” 
 
 Claire prattled on thus with the freedom of a child 
 to the friend it has learned to trust, and the blending 
 of simplicity and earnest thought fascinated her listen- 
 er more deeply than ever. He presently said : 
 
 “I may be instrumental in placing your father in a 
 position more worthy of his abilities. I will think of 
 it, and see what can be done. At all events, Rose, 
 both he and you will have a fast friend in the man 
 whose life you have saved. Remember that, pretty, 
 one, and when you are praying, ask God to make him 
 more worthy of your friendship.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ah, Mr. Thorne, do you, so good, so noble, think 
 yourself less worthy than we are ? I will indeed pray 
 for your happiness — for your prosperity. I will ask 
 that you shall be made a truly good and pious man, 
 but you are more than worthy of our regard now.” 
 
 With some emotion the young man said : 
 
 You are a sweet and sinless angel yourself. Rose- 
 bud, and you judge me by yourself, as all pure natures 
 are prone to do. But my experience has been differ- I 
 ent from yours ; I have known sin and sorrow, and 
 
GOOD KESOLIJTIONS. 
 
 81 
 
 have felt remorse for my own evil doings. There is a 
 wide gulf between us — a gulf tliat must never be 
 passed, for it would bring you into dark and turbid 
 waters, that might forever wreck yonv bark of life. I 
 will repress my own selfish 3"earnings and leave you as 
 f found you, in ‘ maiden meditation, fancy free.’ ” 
 
 The listener scarcel}" understood his meaning, but 
 she grew pale as she heard his words, and after a 
 pause, softly said : 
 
 “ We are all sinners in the sight of infinite purity ; 
 but to comfort us our Father has said : ‘ Though your 
 sins be as scarlet, they shall be made as white as 
 snow.’ Yours can never have been of that kind, you 
 have a tender conscience, or you would not feel as you. 
 do now.” 
 
 Thorne was touched by her simple faith in him, but 
 lie shocked her by laughing aloud, and she recoiled 
 from him with a dismayed expression on her fair face. 
 
 In a penitent tone he said : 
 
 Pardon mo, sweet saint. My laughter was out of 
 place, but I was but mocking myself as I listened to 
 your simple Avords. Tender conscience indeed. Ah me, 
 I am afraid that I have hitherto turned a deaf ear to 
 the whisperings of mine ; but I intend to try and be a 
 better man from this day forth, I promise it to you, to 
 myself, so- read me the prodigal son, and I will try to 
 profit hj the lesson it inculcates.” 
 
 With quiet gravity the young girl obeyed, but she 
 averted her face from him, and there was the sound of 
 stifled tears in her voice, which went to the heart of 
 tlie listener. lie was making an effort to do good, 
 but lie found it very difficult to walk in the vStraight 
 path of rectitude, where this lovely creature was con- 
 
82 
 
 THE CLAN^DESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 cerned. He felt his pulse quicken, his brain whirling 
 as he thought : 
 
 How easily I could make her love me to that de- 
 gree that she Avould sacrifice home, father, everything 
 for my sake. Yet I dare not — I dare not.” 
 
 When Claire finished the parable, she suddenly arose 
 and said : 
 
 “ You have had_reading enough for one day, for you 
 are looking tired and flushed. I must go to Mammy 
 Betty now, but I will look in on you after a while, 
 and at eleven I will send her with your luncheon.” 
 
 Going to leave me all alone. Rose ? I understood 
 your father to say that you would be my companion 
 till he returns. My own thoughts bore me ; I entreat 
 that you will come back as soon as possible and sing to 
 me. I heard you caroling to your bird this morning, 
 and I thought your voice fresher and sweeter than his, 
 though he is called the Virginia nightingale.” 
 
 With some embarrassment, she replied : 
 
 “I do not feel as if I can sing to-day, sir; but if 
 you wish it, I will bring papa’s violin and play for 
 you.” 
 
 “ Do you really play on the violin ? What a queer 
 instrument for a lady.” 
 
 “Do you think so? It is the best one we have 
 about the house, for the piano is old, and jingles some- 
 times, so I coaxed papa to teach me how to use his in- 
 strument. I cannot play as he does, but perhaps I can 
 amuse you.” 
 
 “ Bring it by all means. It will, at least, be some- 
 thing new to see the bow handled by a pretty girl.” 
 
 Claire left the room, and Thorne gazed after her 
 retreating form with love-lit eyes. She did not look 
 
GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 83 
 
 back, or, young and inexperienced as she was, she 
 must have understood the meaning of that fervent 
 glance. He turned his face to the wall and groaned : 
 
 “ Oh, for the power to rule my own destiny ! Yet 
 why should I not ? My father has land, and gold ; far 
 more than I shall ever need, and I am his only child. 
 He is a stern and resolute man ; but he would scarcely 
 east me off entirely if I were to break the fetters with 
 which he has bound me, and secure the one bright 
 spirit I have ever coveted as my very own. With this 
 sweet guardian-angel to watch over me, I should be- 
 come a noble and true man ; as the husband of Agnes 
 Willard I shall be — God knows what! I shall recoil 
 from her ; I shall treat her badly, I know I shall, for 
 there are deep wells of bitterness in my nature that 
 will overflow upon the woman I may be forced to ac- 
 cept as my wife. 
 
 ‘‘What evil fate sent me hither? Had I never met 
 this enchanting creature, I should have accepted the 
 destiny that has been settled for me, and have passed 
 my life as tamely and respectably as most men do. 
 Now^ it may not be. Having seen Claire, all that is 
 good and true within me bows down before her, and 
 offers homage to her. The very consciousness that she 
 is near me, breathes a subtle happiness through every 
 fibre of my being — the touch of her hand is intoxica- 
 tion — the tones of her voice enchantment. Oh, this 
 is the veriest madness ; and what must it end in to her, 
 to me ? God help me, for I have no strength left — no 
 power to struggle against this infatuation.” 
 
 He lay back with closed eyes and compressed lips, 
 trying to calm himself before the return of Claire, yet 
 inwardly fretting her delay, for she was absent more 
 than half an hour. 
 
84 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 At the end of that time slie came in, carrying tlie 
 violin in her hand, and with a bright smile, said : 
 
 You think this an awkward instrument for me to 
 manage, and perhaps it is ; but I am veiy partial to it 
 nevertheless. It is more like .the human voice tlian 
 any other, and therefore it must be the most perfect of 
 all. Papa has taken great pains with me, and I can 
 play quite creditably, I assure you.” 
 
 ‘‘ I do not doubt it, but the horrid scrapings that 
 puts the thing in tune always jars on my nerves.” 
 
 ‘^In your present condition I thought that might 
 annoy you, so I tuned it perfectlj^ before I came in. 
 Will you have gay or sad music ? ” 
 
 Which do you prefer ? ” 
 
 Oh, I like either, according to my mood. But j^ou 
 need something to brighten you up, so I shall play 
 ‘ Molly put the kettle on,’ with variations which mon 
 phe has composed. It will be appropriate, too, for 
 Mammy is preparing a cup of tea for you, with some- 
 thing more substantial.” 
 
 Without giving him time to reply, Claire struck into 
 the gay air she had named, moving to and fro, uncon- 
 sciously keeping time with it by the movements of her 
 small feet. Thorne thought that he had never seen 
 any creature half so attractive, as her face brightened 
 and lier motions quickened with the strain. He had 
 thought the instrument awkward and unsuited to one 
 01 her sex ; but the grace with which she wielded the 
 bow, tlie negligent ease with which she held the 
 violin, induced him now to believe that few things 
 could be more attractive than a lovely girl playing on a 
 fiddle. 
 
 Claire executed the long variations without a false 
 
GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 86 
 
 note, and, at the end of the performance, Thorne cried 
 out : 
 
 ‘‘ Bravo ! No professor could have done it better. I 
 declare, Rosebud, you are a marvel of grace and tal- 
 ent. Do you know that you are a musical genius ! ” 
 Do you really think that, Mr. Thorne ? It is good 
 news to me ; for if it is so, I can teach music some day 
 and help papa along. I so often wish that I could do 
 something to assist him ! ” 
 
 Dear child, you shall yet be the means of placing 
 him in a better position than he now occupies ; yes, I 
 promise you that it shall be so. Since M. Lapierre 
 understands business affairs, it is a shame that he 
 should bury himself in this lovely valley. He shall 
 enter the world again, find remunerative employment, 
 and win for himself as good a position as the one he 
 has lost.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, if that could ever be ! ” and she clasped her 
 hands, and sank on a seat, eagerly regarding his face, 
 as if to see if he really meant what he had said. Thorne 
 gravely replied : 
 
 It shall be, Claire, if he will only listen to me. I 
 believe that I shall be able to help him forward. My 
 father possesses wealth and influence, and I am sure 
 that I can induce him to use both in the service of the 
 man to whom I owe my life. At all events, no efforts 
 on my part shall be wanting, and I hope that I shall 
 yet see you placed in the sphere to which, by right of 
 grace and beauty, 3^011 belong.” 
 
 ‘‘ It is not myself I am thinking of, Mr. Thorne. 
 No- -no — it is of the best, and dearest of fathers. If 
 he could only see a prospect of providing for me, he 
 would be so happy, and I — I should ever be grateful 
 
86 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 to the friend who — who will do so much for him. 1 
 would regard him almost in the light of a brother.” 
 
 The last w^ord came from her lips with a little hesi- 
 tation in its utterance, and Thorne looked radiant. He 
 understood women, and the heart of this untutored 
 child lay bare before him ; he felt the exalting assur- 
 ance that her destiny would soon be at his disposal, 
 for he read in the tremulous tones of her voice, in the 
 troubled light of her soft eyes, the secret of which 
 she was not aware herself. 
 
 He knew that a few more days of such unreserved 
 companionship would bring to her young heart the 
 fever that devoured his own ; would secure to him 
 what he so passionately desired, the love of a creature 
 as pure and unselfish as she was beautiful. He arose 
 from his sofa, and gaily said : 
 
 I feel almost renovated by your exhilarating mu- 
 sic. I begin to believe that, like those bitten by the 
 tarantula, your magic strains have wrought on me a 
 complete cure. Give me the violin. Rosebud, for I 
 can play upon it passably. Will you dance for me ? 
 I long to see the poetry of motion illustrated by you.” 
 
 With perfect simplicity she at once arose, and said: 
 
 Of course I will if you wish it, for papa told me 
 to amuse you the best way I could. I know many 
 fancy dances, but my own favorite is the Cachucha. 
 Shall I bring my castanets ? ” 
 
 “ Pray do ; it will be enchanting to see you rival 
 even the divine Elssler herself.” 
 
 Claire sped gaily away, and after a few moments re- 
 turned wearing a pair of high Polish boots made of red 
 morocco, which fitted to perfection. She whirled rapidly 
 into the room bearing the castanets above her head ; 
 
GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 87 
 
 Thorne struck into the tune, watching the gracefully 
 poised figure before him, wondering if any creature 
 was ever more bewitching or more unconscious of her 
 rare power to charm. 
 
 The sparkling face of the dancer varied with every 
 change in the melody, and her movements seemed but 
 echoes to the strain, so perfect was the time she kept. 
 Toward the close of the dance the musician played so 
 rapidly that Claire threw herself on a chair breathless, 
 and laughing. After a few moments, she said : 
 
 I think that is enough for one day. A few more 
 moments would have turned it into a wild witch dance. 
 I must rest now, and here at the most opportune mo- 
 ment, comes mammy with your lunch.” 
 
 Her words were truer than she thought, for if Betty 
 had not come in at that crisis, Thorne would have 
 forgotten his promise to her father ; ignored his own 
 half-formed resolutions, to remove himself from the 
 glamour of her presence, and have given utterance to 
 the passionate words of love that thronged to his lips. 
 
 The old woman drew up the fine table, spread a 
 napkin over it, and placed upon it the tempting viands 
 she had prepared. There was but one cup and plate, 
 and Thorne said : 
 
 ‘‘ So you intend that I shall eat alone, Aunty ? Now 
 that I am well enough to sit up, I expect some one to 
 do the honors for me. You must be hungrj^ after the 
 exercise you have taken. Rosebud, so pray assist me 
 to demolish those birds, and that mound of toast.” 
 
 ’Taint a bit more'n you ought ter eat yerself,” 
 snapped the old women, “ an’ ef Miss Claire wants 
 anything herself, she knows where she can always git 
 it.” 
 
88 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ My dear Mrs. Betty, don’t insist on impossibilities. 
 I could not eat half the nice things you have set before 
 me, so you can save your other provisions, and permit 
 your young lady to partake of my lunch. I shall 
 sternly refuse to touch a morsel unless she sits at the 
 table and pours out my tea.” 
 
 ‘‘ She can do dat ef she chooses, caze I aint no power 
 to ’vent her ; but if she was my darter, she shouldn’t 
 be a settin’ of herself up to do whatever you axed her, 
 nohow. My name aint Mrs. Betty nuther ; I’m only 
 Betty, and I’m a honest ’oman what looks sharp arter 
 what she’s bound to see ter. Dis ’ere chile had better 
 come wi’ me, for I shan’t be a fillin’ of her head wi’ 
 all sorts o’ fool nonsense. I does wonder at de marster 
 — I does — a goin’ off to the Grange, and leavin’ de 
 chile like a lamb in the wolf’s clutches.” 
 
 Claire arose and stood before her with flashing eyes, 
 and dilating nostrils, and Thorne saw that her own 
 words of herself were true ; that she was not always 
 the gentle and yielding creature he had imagined her 
 In a low voice full of concentrated passion, she spoke : 
 
 “ How dare you address my father’s guest in so 
 insulting a manner ? Go at once and bring me a plate 
 and cup. I shall share Mr. Thorne’s luncheon, and 
 we can dispense with your services till you are in a 
 more respectful humor. My father knows that I am 
 quite capable of taking care of myself, and in any 
 case, he Avould hardly delegate to you the v/atch of a 
 duenna.” 
 
 Betty sullenly answered : 
 
 I don’ know what dat is. Miss Claire, but Til go 
 as you tells me. I wash my ban’s of all daCs to come 
 in dis here readin’ and dancin’. 1 knows suffin o’ de 
 
GOOD RESOLUTIONS. 
 
 89 
 
 woi-r ef you don’t — you iiinercent babe dat you is ; 
 but ef de furnace is open an’ de fires Idndled, Jcan’t 
 ’vent you from walkin’ in it, so de bref of de hot air 
 will burn up all dat’s happy an sweet Avidin’ you. 
 Mark my words chile, an’ see ef dey don’t come true.” 
 
 I do not understand you, but I comprehend very 
 well that you intend to be impertinent and intrusive. 
 Bring me what I require, and say no more, if jmu 
 please.” 
 
 She looked like a young queen, her lover thought, 
 as she turned proudly from the old woman and sat 
 down opposite to himself, with a brilliant flush upon 
 her rounded cheek. When Betty had left the room, 
 she looked up at him Avith a wavering smile, and said : 
 
 Pray excuse mammy’s rudeness. She means Avell, 
 but she is brusque, and I lost my temper at her absurd 
 interference. I hope this little scene Avill not spoil 
 your appetite* When I have Avaited on you, I must 
 go and make friends with the old woman, for she 
 has been with us ever since I can remember. She 
 means well, though she takes too much on herself 
 sometimes.” 
 
 By this time, Betty had returned with the things for 
 which she had been sent. She overheard the last 
 Avords of Claire, and darting a spiteful glance at 
 Thorne, said : 
 
 “ Don’t ’pology for mg. Miss Claire. I ain’t ’shamed 
 o' what I don said, for it’s God’s trufi*e, as you’ll find 
 out some o’ dese days. You’s a gettin’ iii de deep 
 Avaters o’ temptation, an’ you’d better say de Lord’s 
 pra’r an’ think o' de meanin’ o' de Avords — dat’s all 
 I’ve got to say.” 
 
 Before any reply could be made she Avas out of the 
 room, closing the door behind her Avith a bang. 
 
90 
 
 THE CLAKDESTIKE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ‘‘ What a quaint old creature,” said Thorne, but he 
 felt uncomfortable, and it was several moments before 
 he recovered his usual equanimity. But Claire exerted 
 herself to make him forget this little scene, and they 
 had a merry time together, laughing and talking over 
 the table. He declared the tea to be nectar, and again 
 called her Hebe. She laughed, and said : 
 
 I know nothing about heathen mythology, but I 
 looked in papa’s classical dictionary to find out who 
 Hebe was, after you called me by her name. She was 
 tlic handmaid of the gods I discovered.” 
 
 Yes — and so charming that even Juno was jealous 
 of her. I feel like Jupiter enthroned, I assure you.” 
 
 “ Yes, on a shabby old sofa, in a fiowered dressing- 
 gown. You might pass for a god, perhaps, but your 
 surroundings will not carry out the delusion.” 
 
 “ I feel as happy as a god at any rate, and I scarcely 
 think that Hebe herself was as fair as my cupbearer. 
 But I will be discreet — I will not justify old Betty’s 
 tears by talking what she would stigmatize as ‘ fool 
 nonsense.’ ” 
 
 ‘‘No, you must go to sleep now. I shall darken the 
 room and leave you to repose, for we have talked non- 
 sense enough for one morning.” 
 
 Thorne watched her as she gathered up the things 
 upon the* table, and placed them on the waiter. Betty 
 came in looldng sulkj^ and took them away ; and in 
 spite of his entreaties not to be left alone, Claire closed 
 the curtains and went away. 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 91 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 A fter thinking over the late scene, Walter Thorne 
 through sheer weariness, fell into an uneasy slum- 
 ber, which was broken by the sound of a carriage 
 driven to the door. He half arose from his recumbent 
 position and looked dreamily toward the entrance, 
 wondering who could be coming to break the tranquil 
 repose of everything around him. 
 
 M. Lapierre ushered into the apartment a ladj^, fol- 
 lowed by a little girl about nine years of age. In his 
 quick way the old Frenchman said : 
 
 ‘‘ How are you by this time, Mr. Thorne ? I have 
 brought you a visitor. Mrs. Courtnay, of the Grange, 
 was kind enough to become interested in my account 
 of you and your wonderful escape, and she proposed 
 herself to come and see you.” 
 
 Thorne made as courtly a bow as was possible under 
 the circumstances, and said : 
 
 ‘^I am sure that I am grateful for Mrs. Courtnay ’s 
 kindness. Indeed I feel quite honored by receiving 
 the first call from a lady.” ^ 
 
 In his heart he felt the deepest annoyance that an 
 observant and worldly-wise woman should come, pro- 
 bably to put an end to the sweet love idyl he was be- 
 ginning to find so entrancing, but his manner was that 
 of the most polished courtier. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay came toward him with the quiet grace 
 of perfect good-breeding, and he saw that the refined 
 sweetness of her fair face was but the reflex of the 
 
92 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MAKRIAGE. 
 
 spirit within. She was a tall, well-fornaed woman, still 
 wearing widow’s weeds, though her husband had been 
 dead many years, and they set off the delicate fairness 
 of her complexion, blonde hair and clear blue eyes 
 with much greater effect than colors could have done. 
 
 Though the mother of a son who had numbered nine- 
 teen years, Mrs. Courtnay was still a most attractive 
 and elegant looking woman. In a voice as refined as 
 her appearance was pleasing, she addressed the in- 
 valid : 
 
 Pray do not attempt to rise, Mr. Thorne. My old 
 friend, M. Lapierre, has been telling me of your mar- 
 vellous escape, and 1 became so much interested in the 
 hero of such an adventure, that I determined to come 
 and see you. It was lucky for you that our friend 
 possessed such skill in medicine, or your fever might 
 have gone hard with you.” 
 
 Thorne, in spite of his usual self-possession, was em- 
 barrasired and annoyed, and he could find nothing bet- 
 ter to say than : 
 
 I am sure I am much obliged to M. Lapierre for 
 his kindness : and, to you. Madam, for the interest you 
 are good enough to express in m3^self. As to my heroic 
 qualities, the less said about them the better, I am 
 afraid. The least courageous creature will do battle 
 for life. I confess the struggle tasked all my resources, 
 but I was fortunate enough to win. Thanks to my 
 kind host, I -shall soon be able to resume my wander- 
 ings, but they can be to little purpose now, as I was 
 unfortunate enough to lose my portfolio and its con- 
 tents, and I suppose they were swallowed up in the 
 Lady’s Tarn.” 
 
 She smiled and replied: 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 93 
 
 It was partly to inform you of their safety that I 
 came hither, Mr Thorne. Let me explain: one of my 
 negroes was sent on an errand beyond the valley on 
 Satiirdaj^ He chose the short cut through the pass, 
 and he found lying against the large boulder that stands 
 above the tarn a portfolio with an oil skin cover over it. 
 I know it is yours, for your name is written on the 
 backs of several of the sketches. The water has 
 scarcely injured them at all, and I should have brought 
 them with me if I had not made up my mind that you 
 are to return with me to the Grange, and be nursed 
 back to health there. I hope you will not decline my 
 invitation, for* my artistic taste is such that it will af- 
 ford me much pleasure to claim one of the craft as my 
 guest for a season.'’ 
 
 Thorne flushed, looked more annoyed than before, 
 and said : 
 
 '‘You are too good, Mrs. Courtnay ; but — really, I 
 feel unable to exchange my quarters just at present, 
 and I find myself so well off here at present, that I think 
 I had better remain, at least till I regain my strength. 
 M. Lapierre has not yet dismissed me as a patient, and 
 grateful as I am to you, I think I had rather stay with 
 those who have taken such good care of me.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay earnestly replied : 
 
 “ Believe me, the change I propose will be better for 
 all concerned, Mr. Thorne. M. Lapierre comes to my 
 house eveiy day, and he can watch over your conva- 
 lescence as well there as here. I insist that you have 
 no scruples on the score of our recent acquaintance ; 
 and it will be no trouble to me to receive an invalid. 
 I have an experienced nurse in my family, and your 
 room is already prepared for your reception. It will 
 
94 the clandestine makkiage. 
 
 be a pleasure to me to entertain you, and it will be far 
 more convenient to me to have a sick guest on my 
 hands, than it is to my friends here.’' 
 
 Lapierre had left the room in search of his daughter, 
 followed by the little girl, and rightly interpreting the 
 clouded face of the young man, Mrs. Courtnay chose 
 to place before him what she hoped would prove a con- 
 clusive reason for his removal. 
 
 Thorne coldly replied : 
 
 You are very kind, Madam, but I must say that I 
 should prefer remaining here a few days longer. I 
 shall give as little trouble as possible, and I can offer to 
 my host such an equivalent as he will not refuse to 
 accept. To yon I could offer nothing of the kind, and 
 I cannot consent to thrust myself on the charity of a 
 perfect stranger. Accident threw me on the kindness 
 of M. Lapierre, but with you it would be different.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay regarded him with a penetrating 
 glance ; she presently asked with extreme gravity ; 
 
 Can you not divine my motive, sir, for insisting 
 on carrying you off to the Grange in spite of such op- 
 position as you may offer ? ” 
 
 Thorne looked up, but his eyes fell before the clear 
 orbs that were fastened upon his face. 
 
 ‘‘ I — I am at a loss to understand you. Madam,” was 
 the evasive reply. 
 
 Then I shall be perfectly frank with you, sir. 
 M. Lapierre has a young and very lovely daughter, 
 Avho is just at the most susceptible age. Claire is too 
 attractive for lier own good, I am afraid, and she is far 
 too inexperienced to know her own danger before it is 
 too late. I take a deep interest in her, for she is my 
 g(Kl-daughter, and also a distant relative of my chit 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 95 
 
 dren. As soon as M. Lapierre related his story and 
 gave me a personal description of yourself, I decided 
 that you must remove to my house. It is improper for 
 a young girl like Claire to be left to nurse and amuse 
 a young man as attractive as yourself ; and M. La- 
 pierre’s engagements must take him from home many 
 hours of every day. Now^ you will consent to go back 
 with me, Mr. Thorne, for jon are too much of a gen- 
 tleman to abuse the hospitality of this good old man 
 by trifling with his daughter. Excuse my plainness of 
 speech, but it is best to be open with each other under 
 the circumstances.” 
 
 Thorne arose and, with heat, exclaimed : 
 
 ‘‘ I find you too frank, Mrs. Courtnay, and I scarcely 
 know how to receive such insinuations. Do you sup- 
 pose I could be villain enough to act dishonorably 
 toward such an angel of sweetness and beauty as 
 Claire Lapierre ? I admit that I have felt the force of 
 her attractions, and I will be as frank with you as you 
 have chosen to be with me. I have made up my mind 
 to the course I will pursue, and nothing shall turn me 
 from it. My father is a man of high position and great 
 wealth ; I am his only child, and must eventually in- 
 herit the latter. The object of my choice is well con- 
 nected, so there can be no objection on the score of 
 family ; and as to fortune, Claire is so highly endowed 
 in other respects that my father will hardly insist on 
 that. You are the friend of this old gentleman and 
 his daughter, Mrs. Courtnay, and in your hands I think 
 I may venture to place my cause. I can elevate your 
 young protegee to a brilliant position, and I pledge 
 you my honor to remove such difficulties as may be in 
 the way of our speedy union.” 
 
96 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay listened to this abrupt avowal with 
 extreme surprise. She very gravely asked : 
 
 Are you quite sure that your father would consent 
 to your marriage with a girl in so obscure a position as 
 that of Claire? I scarcely think so young a man as 
 yourself at liberty to dispose of his hand without first 
 consulting his friends. It is but a few days since you 
 were received here, and the passion you have so sud- 
 denly conceived for my young friend may die out as 
 speedily as it sprang into existence.” 
 
 That is impossible, for her very presence is joy and 
 life to me. The consent of my father must be won ; it 
 shall be, for nothing shall stand between myself and 
 the enchanting being I have already learned to love 
 with all the fervent passion of my heart.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay reflected a few moments, and then 
 said : 
 
 You seem to be deeply in earnest, Mr. Thorne, and 
 I will not question the statements you have made to 
 me ; but you must be aware that a father cannot give 
 up his child to a stranger without making such inquiry 
 into his antecedents as will assure him as far as possi- 
 ble that she will be happy and respected in her new 
 estate.” 
 
 Of course I will submit to any inquiry M. La- 
 pierre may desire to make.” 
 
 He will have ample time for that, for Claire is yet 
 too young to marry. She is not fifteen, and two years 
 at least must elapse before you would be permitted to 
 claim her as your wife.” 
 
 Two yearn! ” exclaimed the lover in an accent of 
 despair. “ Two ages of doubt, fear, and separation ! 
 My dear Madam, say two months of delay and I will 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 97 
 
 consent to wait that long for my happiness, but not 
 beyond it. I can remain in the valley till September, 
 but when I leave it Claire must be m}^ companion.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay smiled faintly, but she decisively 
 said : 
 
 That will be quite impossible. M. Lapierre will 
 never consent to give up his daughter at so tender an 
 age ; and, moreover, if she is to fill a high position, she 
 must complete her imperfect education. Claire has 
 had few advantages, but I shall do all that is in my 
 power to afford her more. I have always intended to 
 do so when she was old enough to be sent away to a 
 boarding-school. I have not hitherto spoken of it to 
 her father, because I have a prejudice against sending 
 a girl from her own home till she is mature enough to 
 have some character of heo? own and not be too much 
 influenced by her new associations. Besides, Claire is 
 so great an idol with her father that I believed it would 
 be difficult to win his consent to a separation from 
 her.” 
 
 I am sincerely glad to hear the last statement. 
 Madam ; for Claire, in her sweet and guileless simpli- 
 city, is far more attractive than the finest model young 
 lady ever turned out of a fashionable school. I entreat 
 that you will lay aside sucli a plan for her benefit and, 
 in its i)lace, win M. Lapierre’s consent to an early 
 union between his daughter and myself. Girls often 
 marry as young — nay, judging from your appearance, 
 you must have married at a very early' age yourself, 
 for 1 have been told that you are the mother of a 
 grown-up son.” 
 
 The lady blushed slightly as she replied ; 
 
 ‘‘Yes, 1 gave my hand to r/iy husband when I was 
 G 
 
98 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 little older than Claire now is ; but I was an orphan 
 and not happily situated, that was my excuse.” 
 
 “ I do not think you needed one, Mrs. Courtnay, 
 and I am suro that you never had cause to regret your 
 early marriage.” 
 
 Tears sprang to her eyes, and in a low voice she 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘No, never. For ten years of my life I was a happy 
 wife. My first great sorrow was the loss of my hus- 
 band.” 
 
 “ Then you will induce M. Lapierre to permit his 
 daughter to follow your example, for I swear to you 
 that I will be as tender and true to her as Mr. Court- 
 nay was to yourself.” 
 
 And, in making this assertion, the infatuated lover 
 believed he spoke the simple truth. 
 
 Carried away by the violence of the passion he had 
 so suddenly conceived, Walter Thorne believed it 
 would be easy to overcome impossibilities ; to make 
 the way clear before him in spite of all the obstacles 
 that lay in his path. To win Claire, he thought he 
 would brave and triumph over every difficulty. 
 
 After a pause, Mrs. Courtnay gravely said : 
 
 “ This is a strange interview between two persons 
 who have so recently met as you and I. You must give 
 me time to reflect on what you have said, Mr. Thorne, 
 and to decide as to what will be best for the happiness 
 of my god-child. Of course, I must consider her first 
 for 1 stand almost in the place of a mother to her.” 
 
 “ That is just enough, Madam. But I hope that no 
 restraint will be placed on my intercourse with the 
 object of my choice ; and that I may now be permitted 
 to remain the guest of M. Lapierre. When my 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 99 
 
 health is perfectly restored, I will, wdth pleasure, spend 
 a feAv days at the Grange ; but just now I think I shall 
 recover more rapidly if I am not removed against my 
 will/’ 
 
 I do not know as to that. The question of your 
 stay must be settled by M. Lapierre ; for, of course, I 
 am at liberty to reveal to him what you have just said 
 to me, and thus pave the way for you to speak to him 
 yourself.” 
 
 ‘‘ Use your owU' discretion, dear Madam. When I 
 place before the old gentleman all the advantages to 
 be secured by my speedy union with his daughter, I 
 dare to flatter myself that he will not be so blind to 
 her interests as to refuse to give her to me as my wife, 
 r shall write without delay to my native town, and 
 have forwarded to me such proofs of what I have 
 stated of my position and prospects, as will satisfy 
 both you and him of the truth of my assertions.” 
 
 You must settle that with M. Lapierre ; if he con- 
 sents to receive your proposal favorably, you can re- 
 main here till you are stronger ; but then I shall expect 
 you to come to me ; remember that.” 
 
 Thorne could only bow his acquiescence, for M. La- 
 [)ierre came in again, followed by Claire, to whom Julia 
 was fondly clinging. She held up a bouquet, and 
 said : 
 
 Mamma, see what beautiful flowers Claire* has 
 gathered for me. Shan’t she go home with us when 
 we take the strange gentleman away? ’* 
 
 But he is not going with us, Julia. He saj^s that 
 iic is not strong enough to be removed.’" 
 
 As Mrs. Couitnay spoke, she glanced keenly from 
 father to daughter to see the effect of this announce- 
 
100 
 
 A CLANDESTINE MAKRIAGE. 
 
 ment. A cloud came over the face of the former, but 
 the flash of joy that beamed for an instant on the face 
 of Claire assured her that already had this stranger 
 made a deep impression on her young heart. As she 
 looked again at him, she was scarcely surprised at this, 
 for he was singularly handsome, and distinguished in 
 appearance, and he had already avowed himself pas- 
 sionately in love with her.” 
 
 Lapierre approached the sofa on which his guest 
 was now sitting up, and quietly said : 
 
 I think you are quite well enough, Mr. Thorne, to 
 risk so short a drive as the one from here to the 
 Grange. You will be much more comfortable there ; 
 and, inhospitable as it may seem, I must say that it 
 v/ill be best for you to accept the courteous invitation 
 of Mrs. Courtna}^” 
 
 With a faint smile, Thorne replied : 
 
 “ I appreciate Mrs. Courtnay’s kindness very highly, 
 I assure you ; but I find myself so well off here that I 
 prefer not to change my quarters just yet. 1 promise 
 to encroach upon your hospitality as short a time as 
 possible, M. JLapierre ; and as soon as I have regained 
 sufficient strength to walk over to the Grange, I will 
 relieve you of my presence.” 
 
 Lapierre’s face brightened at this assurance, and he 
 more cordially said : 
 
 So long as you need the shelter of my roof, and 
 the exercise of my skill in your behalf, both are at 
 your service.” 
 
 He drew nearer to him, and, in a low tone, added : 
 
 ‘‘ You should understand why I seem to violate the 
 rules of hospitality in your case. It is not seemly that 
 you should be left to the care of a young girl like 
 Claire, while I am compelled to be away.” 
 
A SUDDEN TUR^iT OP AFFAIRS. 
 
 101 
 
 I comprehend that, Monsieur ; but no harm shall 
 come to your daughter through that association, I 
 pledge you my honor.” 
 
 The speaker frankly extended his hand, while he 
 looked clearly into the eyes of the old man, and victim- 
 ized as Lapierrc had already been by placing too mud) 
 confidence in others he obeyed the dictates of his own 
 honorable mind, a^ird gave implicit trust to the assurance 
 he had received. He accepted the proffered hand, and 
 then turned towards Mrs. Courtnay, who drew him 
 into the portico to speak of the strange declaration his 
 young guest had made. 
 
 Thorne called Julia to his^side, and was soon in ani- 
 mated conversation with her, in which she confiden- 
 tially informed him that Claire was her cousin, ever so 
 many times removed, but she loved her as dearly as if 
 she were her sister, and wished she could always have 
 her at the Grange to play with and pet her. But her 
 mamma had promised that some day Claire should live 
 there, for M. Lapierre often talked of going to some 
 distant country, and then her pretty cousin would come 
 to stay with her mamma and herself for all the rest of 
 her life. Would not that be nice ? 
 
 The listener smiled indulgently on her prattle, and 
 said : Very nice for you, little lady, but not so pleas- 
 ant for somebody else I could name ; ” and he glanced 
 toward Claire to see the effect of his words. He saw 
 that her cheek flushed slightly, but she would not look 
 tov/ard him, and with widely opened eyes, Julia shrewd- 
 ly asked : 
 
 Who is it that wants to take my Rosebud away 
 from me ? Is it you ? But you can’t have her, for 1 
 want her, and you have not loved as long as I have,” 
 
102 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Claire turned rapidly toward the talkative child, and 
 exclaimed : What are you saying there, enfant terri^ 
 
 hie! Come to me, Julia; you will tire Mr. Thorne, 
 and annoy him.” 
 
 “ No I shan’t, as long as I talk about you,” retorted 
 the precocious young lady. “ He as good as told me 
 he wants to take you away from us all. Didn’t you, 
 now, Mr. Thorne? ” 
 
 Who could blame me for my presumption, if such 
 were the fact,” was the laughing response ; but Claire, 
 with a displeased look, drew the little girl from his 
 side, and in spite of his pathetic entreaties not to be 
 left alone, took her from th^e room. 
 
 In the meantime Mrs. Courtnay and Lapierre had 
 walked out, and stood beneath the shade of the trees, 
 talking earnestly together. The face of the father was 
 pale and disturbed, as he said : 
 
 That was a very singular confidence to pass be- 
 tween yourself and this young man, in the first hour 
 of your meeting. Madam. I cannot understand how 
 he became so communicative to an utter stranger. Nor 
 am I at all pleased with the sudden avowal he has 
 made.” 
 
 I did not suppose you would be, and I was as much 
 surprised at his frankness as you seem to be. When 
 he saw I had determined on taking him away with me, 
 he came at once to the point. He seems very much in 
 earnest, and I reallj" think he has fallen desperately in 
 love with Claire. Of course it is for you to judge of 
 the propriety of encouraging his passion. I spoke of 
 Claire’s extreme youth, but he set that objection aside, 
 declaring that it is his most earnest desire to elevate 
 her at onee to the position of his wife. He offered to 
 
A SUDDEN TUKN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 103 
 
 satisfy you in every respect, and to prove to you that 
 he is the heir to immense wealth ; but he will speak 
 with you himself on this subject, as soon as you afford 
 him the opportunity.” 
 
 M. Lapierre leaned on the gate as if to sustain him- 
 self, and his slender form shook with the emotions that 
 arose within him. At length, in a hoarse voice, he 
 said : 
 
 But for one thing, I would send him from my 
 house, and never permit Claire to see him again : but 
 — but the time draws near when she will be left alone 
 in the world. Alone, and in deep sorrow, poor child ! ” 
 
 ‘‘What can you mean, M. Lapierre? You surely 
 do not apprehend any evil to youself. You are as 
 strong and well as usual.” 
 
 With a look of inexpressible weariness and sadness 
 on his sallow face, the old Frenchman regarded her a 
 few moments, and then slowl}^ said : 
 
 “ A little while, and the earth will know me no 
 longer. For four generations no male member of my 
 family has lived to complete his sixtieth year. I am 
 d]*awing near that anniversary, and I have already had 
 my warning.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay looked at him as if she thought his 
 mind wandering. She hurriedly asked: 
 
 “ What delusion is this, M. Lapierre ? I thought 
 you too clear-headed a man to put faith in such non- 
 sense. You are strong and well, and you should not 
 suffer your imagination to run away with your sober 
 senses.” 
 
 He dreamily shook his head. 
 
 “ I have not ; I remember remonstrating in the same 
 way with my father when he told me of his summons, 
 
104 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 but when it came the third time, he went, and so shall 
 I. I would evade my doom if I could — ^but it is im 
 possible.” 
 
 In Heaven’s name ! what are you talking of ? ” 
 exclaimed his companion, growing pale. Explain 
 the nature of this superstition, for it can be nothing 
 else.” 
 
 “ Perhaps it is, but it is fatal, for all that, to those 
 of my race. I have twice dreamed that my father ap- 
 peared at my bedside, holding in his hands a branch of 
 immortelles, which he lightly laid upon my breast, 
 saying : ‘ Come to me : when I touch you with this the 
 third time, you will have everlasting life.’ He has 
 appeared to me twice lately, with an interval of a few 
 weeks between his visits ; the third one will be fatal 
 to me.” 
 
 The tone of sad conviction in the speaker’s voice 
 made Mrs. Courtnay shiver, though she tried to con- 
 ceal from him the emotion she felt. She quietly said : 
 
 Your system must be out of order, or you would 
 not have such dreadful visions. ‘ Physician heal thy 
 self,’ for I am sure you have the skill to do it.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ah, if I had the power, how gladly would I exor- 
 cise this dreary phantom, but I cannot. I have not 
 told you that for generations this warning has been 
 sent to us. The father summons his son, and two 
 months are allowed him in which to set his house in 
 order, then the curtain falls on the scene of struggle 
 and sorrow through which mortals are doomed to pass. 
 -But for my daughter, I should be willing to go ; but 
 her helplessness, her dependence on others when I am 
 taken from her, are constantly before me. Perhaps, 
 m his infinite mercj", the Bon Dieu has opened before 
 
A SUDDEN TUKN OF AFFAIKS. 105 
 
 jae a way to provide for her, and console her for my 
 loss by sending this young stranger at this time. He 
 can give her a home, and a future worthy of her l)eauly 
 and sweetness ; but she is too young to become his 
 wife, and I fear his passion is far too sudden to prove 
 lasting. If I listen to his proposal in my anxiety to 
 secure her worldly welfare, I may but give her over to 
 lasting wretchedness.” 
 
 ‘‘If siich are your feelings, then send Mr. Thorne 
 av/ay as soon as possible, and if your presentiments 
 prove true, give Claire to me. I have the best claim 
 on her, and I promise to do the part of a mother l)y 
 her. But I hope, in spite of your dreary fancies, that 
 you ^ill yet live many years to smile o^er the painful 
 delusion from which you are now suffering.” 
 
 “ Would to God it might be so, but I know too well 
 that I must soon leave my child. But I can trust her 
 to you, dear and noble friend, to whom I already owe 
 so much, and I have no words to thank you for your 
 generous offer. If my darling cares for this young 
 man, she can remain with you till he can honorably 
 claim her with the consent of his friends. I could not 
 permit her to enter his family without that, and I am 
 not quite satisfied with Mr. Thorne’s precipitate dec- 
 laration. He has known us too brief a time to speak 
 of love and marriage: yet if my darling can be happy 
 with him I shall not suffer my objections to stand in 
 the way of her settlement in life.” 
 
 Thus wavering between his desire to know that his 
 daughter’s future was provided for before he passed 
 away himself and his fear that her lover was scarcely 
 trustworth}^, Lapierre talked on for some time longer 
 with Mrs. Courtnay. It was finally agreed l)etwe8n 
 
106 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 them that Thorne was to be permitted to speak foi 
 himself, and his future father-in-law would decide as 
 to what should be the fate of his wooing. 
 
 Had not M. Lapierre believed that his hold on life 
 was so feeble, he would never, for an instant, have lis- 
 tened to the proposal of this stranger to woo and win 
 Ill's daughter ; but impressed with the fatal idea that a 
 lew more weeks must be the limit of his earthly life, he 
 was ready to grasp at an3^thing that promised^a fairer 
 future for the object of his most tender solicitude, than 
 dependence even on so kind a friend as Mrs. Court- 
 iiay. 
 
 They at length returned to the house, M. Lapierre 
 looking paler than usual, and Mrs. Courtnay very 
 thoughtful, for his earnestness had deepl}" and sadly 
 impressed her, in spite of her incredulitj^ She could 
 detect no signs of decay in him ; he looked as alert 
 and strong as at an}^ time during the previous ten years 
 of his life, yet in some way the conviction had entered 
 her mind that he spoke the truth, and that his days 
 were numbered. 
 
 Claire, followed by Julia, returned, bearing in her 
 hand a small open basket lined with fresh green leaves, 
 on which luscious-looking peaches were placed. These 
 were offered with a grace that was all her own, and 
 while they peeled and ate them, the conversation be- 
 came general and animated. The look of care passed 
 for a season from the old man’s face, and he spoke and 
 laughed as gaily as the others. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay at length arose to go, and she smil- 
 ingly said to Thorne : 
 
 waive my invitation for a few days, Mr. ThornCv 
 but on Thursday I shall expect yon to dine at the 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 107 
 
 Grange with M. Lapierre and his daughter. By that 
 time you will be sufficiently recovered to drive over, 
 and I will send my carriage for you. In the meantime, 
 I will restore your portfolio to you if you wish it, but 
 I shall be glad if you will leave it in my possession till 
 you can reclaim it in person. I should like to copy 
 some of the sketches it contains, for one of the re- 
 sources of my solitude is a fondness for drawing.” 
 
 You will only honor me too highly, Mrs. Courtnay, 
 by using any thing my portfolio contains. If you will 
 select such views as you prefer, I will Avith pleasure 
 make a duplicate of them for you during my stay in the 
 Happy Valley. The only use I have for my produc- 
 tions is to give them to my friends, and I shall be but too 
 happy if you Avill permit me to class you among them.” 
 
 ‘‘ Many thanks ; with such a bribe as that, of course 
 I will consent,” was the smiling reply, as she extended 
 her hand in farewell. 
 
 Thorne pressed it respectfully, and after kissing 
 Claire, she went out to her carriage, attended by M. 
 Lapierre. It was a loAv-hung pony-phaeton, which she 
 usually drove herself, with the attendance of a young 
 negro boy. As she gathered the reins in her hands, 
 she spoke in a low tone to M. Lapierre. 
 
 Make every effort to rid yourself of the fantasy 
 that oppresses you; for such presentiments often bring 
 about their own fulfilment. In any event, remember 
 that Claire will be safe under my guardianship.” 
 
 I am quite certain of that ; would that I could do 
 as you advise ; but I feel that the decree has gone 
 forth and I can do nothing to change it. Let us not 
 refer to this subject again ; but remember my words : 
 the twenty-fifth of August Avill rise on Claire doubly 
 orphaned.” 
 
108 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 “ I wish you could be induced to think otherwise, 
 or to forget to number the days as they pass.” 
 
 It would make no difference ; the result would be 
 the same,” was the grave response ; and unwilling to 
 tell him what she thought of his hallucination, Mrs. 
 Courtnay gave a sharp cut to her ponies, and rapidly 
 drove away. 
 
 With slow steps, Lapierre returned to the house to 
 find his daughter standing beside the sofa, with her 
 hand clasped in that of Thorne, and her averted face 
 alternately flushed and pale with emotion. She was 
 saying : 
 
 ‘‘ You must not talk to me in this strain, Mr. Thorne. 
 My father would be seriously displeased, and here he 
 comes to speak for himself.” 
 
 To the surprise of Claire, M. Lapierre only smiled 
 faintly, and sorrowfully, as he said : 
 
 “ Leave me alone with our guest, my daughter ; I 
 have something to say to him, and afterwards I will 
 speak with you.” 
 
 Thorne relinquished the hand he held, and Claire 
 fled from the room like a frightened fawn. She sought 
 the seclusion of her own retreat, where she threw her- 
 self into one of the large chairs, and burst into a pas- 
 sion of tears. 
 
 But they were not tears of sorrow ; for when she 
 wiped them away, a smile of tender triumph wreathed 
 her rosy lips, as she murmured : 
 
 He loves me — he loves me ! This noble, handsome 
 hero would win me to be his, though I am but a sim- 
 ple, untutored child. Oh, jo}" 1 oh, happiness ! But 
 what will my father say to him, 1 wonder. Ah, he 
 cannot — he will not refuse to listen to his eloquent 
 i>leadings. 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 109 
 
 At that moment M. Lapierre was listening with ex- 
 treme gravity to the passionate avowal of undying 
 affection for her, made by her lover. Since Walter 
 Thorne had so precipitately made up his mind to make 
 Claire his own at all hazards to his future prospects, 
 lie determined to carry things with a high hand. He 
 persuaded liimself that so advantageous an offer would 
 not be lightly declined by the impoverished old French- 
 man : and if he insisted on an immediate marriage, he 
 could himself name the day that would give Clairejiito 
 his guardianship. 
 
 M. Lapierre listened in utter silence till he had fully 
 expressed his wishes and intentions, and then quietly 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘ My daughter is very dear and precious to me, Mr 
 Thorne ; yet I am surprised at the violent passion you 
 express for her, seeing that a week ago you were not 
 aware that such a being was in existence. Such sud- 
 den prepossessions are apt to resemble the torrent that 
 bore you into our valley. If you will look from the 
 door you will see that it is now exhausted, and ripples 
 in a thread of silver over the rocks ; and I greatly fear 
 that such may be the history of your sudden penchant 
 for my child. Should it prove so, think what her fate 
 would be if 1 permitted you to win her inexperienced 
 heart.” 
 
 Thorne listened to him impatiently. 
 
 Have you so completely forgotten your own youth 
 M. Lapierre, that you can make no allowance for the 
 impetuosity of inine ? I may have been precipitate 
 in my declaration, but I am deeply in earnest. I love 
 Cdaire with a fervor that cannot lessen ; slie is my 
 (irst love, for I have never felt the slightest preference 
 
no 
 
 A CLANDESTIjSTE marriage. 
 
 for any other woman. Give her to me, and I will 
 make her happy — I swear it to you. I shall inherit 
 wealth. I can at once place her in a better position 
 than the one she now occupies, and she shall share all 
 I may ever possess. I entreat you to yield to my 
 prayer, and let me claim her as my own without un- 
 necessary delay.” 
 
 The sallow face of the father flushed, as he haughtily 
 replied : 
 
 “ I cannot surrender my daughter to a stranger of 
 whom I know nothing, save that he has the bearing 
 and education of a gentleman. I must know some- 
 thing of your past life, Mr. Thorne, before I consent to 
 receive you as her suitor ; and I must have the abso- 
 lute certainty that she will be received by your friends 
 as the daughter of Armand Lapierre should be, even 
 if she brings no fortune to her husband. Are j^our 
 parents both living, and if so, will they be likely to 
 regard with approval the disinterested marriage you 
 are so ready to contract.” 
 
 ‘‘My mother has been dead many years, and I am 
 die onlj^ child of my father. He is extremely anxious 
 for me to marry ; and I am certain he will gladly re- 
 ceive Claire as his daughter. . I do not ask you to give 
 her to me without every assurance that I have spoken 
 tlie truth to you concerning myself. I will write to 
 
 L , in Pennsylvania, v/hich is my native town, and 
 
 olitain from there such vouchers of what I have stated 
 as must satisfy you. A few weeks will suffice foi 
 that, and then you will give me my bride.” 
 
 The father shook his head. 
 
 “Not quite so soon as that, my young friend, foi 
 t^aire is too young to assume the responsibilities of 
 
A SUDDEN TURN OP AFFAIRS. 
 
 Ill 
 
 marriage. If my scruples are set at rest, I will permit 
 you to visit my daughter in the character of a lover : 
 but for a j^ear, at least, your union must be deferred. 
 That probation will test the strength of your feelings, 
 and enable her to understand her own. Hasty mar- 
 riages are often bitterly repented ; and it is my wish 
 to save both you and her from such a fate as that. I 
 think this is conceding enough for the present, and 
 you must be satisfied with this arrangement.” 
 
 In vain did the young lover endeavor to shake this 
 resolution ; he found Lapierre immovable, and he was 
 at length compelled to yield for the time : but he trust- 
 ed to the influence he would establish over Claire, to 
 bring about the accomplishment of his wishes, long 
 before a tithe of the stipulated year had expired. 
 
 But he talked so fairly to the father that he had no 
 suspicion of the treachery that lay veiled beneath his 
 words. The tie between himself and Claire must be 
 irrevocable before his father could interfere, and de- 
 mand the fulfillment of the engagement he had been 
 mainly instrumental in forming for him. Once safely 
 married, Thorne believed his father’s anger would be 
 as short-lived as it was violent ; and so far as the for- 
 saken girl, whose troth he had won, was concerned, he 
 consoled himself with the thought that Agnes Willard 
 was cold and proud, and she would soon reconcile her- 
 self to the faithlessness of the man who had never been 
 an ardent wooer to her. She had fortune, and lovers 
 in abundance would flock around her, when it was 
 known that she was again free to be wooed and won ; 
 and he felt sure that any one among them would ren- 
 der her far happier than he could. 
 
 Even if she suffered from his inconstancy, Thorn 
 
112 THE CLA^^DESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ( erermincd to cast compunction to the winds, and go 
 steadily fo^^ya^d on the path he had marked out for 
 himself, cost what it would to himself or others. 
 
 At the close of their conversation, M. Lapierre 
 said : 
 
 When the letters arrive confirming your statments 
 to me, Mr. Thorne, I will permit a formal betrothal to 
 take place between yourself and Claire, if she wishes 
 it. Such is the custom of my country, and it is one 
 that has never been disregarded in my family. It 
 seems absurd for one, in my humble position, to speak 
 thus, perhaps, but until my day the name I bear was 
 a time-honored one. We were a generation of bank- 
 ers, known in Europe before the Rothschilds were ever 
 heard of. Our house has had transactions with many 
 dynasties of kings ; its head has controlled the finances 
 of France, and made war or peace according to his 
 willingness to unloose his purse-strings. But all that 
 grandeur passed away with the elder branch of the 
 Bourbons. Lapierre & Son sunk with the revolution, 
 to rise again, however, under the rule of Bonaparte, to 
 a faint semblance of their former greatness in the 
 financial world. 
 
 “ My father established a bank for the people, and 
 we prospered on a smaller scale than before. When I 
 was old enough, he took me into the firm, and for many 
 years all went well with us. But after his death, mis- 
 fortune came ; one I trusted proved negligent, another 
 treacherous, and — but it matters not how it happened 
 — the old house fell to rise no more : utter ruin to my- 
 self was the result of our disasters ; but no taint clung 
 to my name, and the creditors permitted me to go upon 
 my way. I chose an asylum in this country, and here 
 
A SUDDEN TUEN OF AFFAIRS. 
 
 113 
 
 1 found tlie mother of Claire. The Courtiiays were 
 distantly lelated to her, and that is how I came to set- 
 tle in this obscure valley, contented to win my bread 
 by imparting to others the accomplishments which 
 were bestowed on me as a passport to good society.” 
 
 “ Thank you, Monsieur, for telling me this,” replied 
 Thorne. The knowledge of it will smooth my way 
 with my father, for he will be pleased to know that 1 
 have chosen a wife from a good family. He has some 
 prejudices on that score, 1 confess. I shall be free 
 to tell him what you have just imparted to me ? ” 
 
 Yes ; make such use of it as you may think fit. I 
 could not permit my child to enter your family with- 
 out the assurance that, save in fortune, she is quite 
 equal to any one in this democratic country. I have 
 fallen from a high estate through no fault of my own, 
 Mr. Thorne, and I will say that if my daughter can, 
 through you, be restored to the sphere to which of 
 right she belongs, I shall die with fewer regrets than I 
 lately believed possible. You seem noble and gener- 
 ous, and I believe you will endeavor to render her 
 happy.” 
 
 The lover rapturously exclaimed : 
 
 It shall be the business of my life to do so, I will 
 write home at once, M. Lapierre, and in a few weeks 
 at farthest, the replies to my letters will be here. They 
 will give you the fullest assurance of the truth of what 
 I have told you.” 
 
 1 believe you,” replied the Frenchman simply, as 
 he offered Thorne his hand. I will leave you now, 
 and seek an interview with my daughter.” 
 
114 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 A BASE DECEPTION. 
 
 '^HORNE sunk back on the sofa in an embarrassed 
 
 JL reverie, for he was not quite satisfied with the po- 
 sition in which he had so recklessly placed himself. 
 He yet had honor enough to shrink from decemng the 
 honest trusting nature he had to deal with ; but he be- 
 lieved so much was at stake for himself that he crushed 
 down his scruples ; and when old Betty came in bring- 
 ing writing materials, he suffered her to place them be- 
 fore him, and prepared to fulfil his promise to Lapierre 
 in his own way. 
 
 The woman paused at the door as she retired and 
 said : 
 
 Look aheah, Mr. Thorne, ef you’re gwine to marry 
 my Rosebud, an’ make her a good husbin’, I dont ’ject 
 to dis ere gallivantin’ an’ courtin’. You’s been at it, 
 you knows you has, so ’taint no use to try to look in- 
 nercent like. But ef you aint in airnest, I jiss wish 
 you’d git out a dis as quick as you kin, for I don’ want 
 de chile to be pinin’ arter you when you’se gone 
 away.” 
 
 I hardly flatter myself that such a result would 
 ensue, Mrs. Betty, but I pledge you my word that the 
 well-being of your young lady shall be my first consid- 
 eration. You will go back to Pluto’s dominions witli 
 a lighter heart after that assurance, I hope.” 
 
 ‘‘Who tole you my old man’s name was Pluto? 
 But he haint no ’minion ober me?, I can tell you. 
 ’longs to my missus. Set up Pluto wi’ sich ’tliority us 
 dat, indeed ! I can mind white folks’ orders, but no 
 
A BASE DECEPTION. 
 
 115 
 
 nigger/ ef he is my husbin, is agwine to make me do 
 what he wants.” 
 
 So you set the marital authority of Pluto at defi- 
 ance — alas, how fallen are the mighty in these degen- 
 erate days ! I hope you have not lectured your young 
 lady on the duty of wives, eh ! Because if you have, 
 I begin to think I had better ‘ get out o’ this,’ as you 
 so elegantly express it.” 
 
 His jeering tone rendered Betty more irate than be- 
 fore, and she angrily retorted : 
 
 I ’gins to t’ink ’twould be better for us all ef you 
 did, young man. I knows berry well dat you’re pokin’ 
 fun at me, tho’ you’s young enough to be my gran’- 
 chile ; but you’d better ’member de judgment de 
 blessed Marster sent on them chillum dat mocked his 
 prophet. I aint nuffin but a poor ig’rant darkie, but 
 for all dat, I knows some things afore dey happens ; 
 and suffin tells me dat ’twas a dark day dat brung you 
 to dis here house to be nussed and tended as ef you 
 was de salt o’ de yeth.” 
 
 The pale face of the listener flushed slightly, but he 
 laughingly said : 
 
 There — that will do, Mrs. Betty. You have let 
 off steam enough for one time. I advise you to get 
 back to your own territory without any further explo- 
 .sion. Time will show whether my advent here was 
 for good or evil.” 
 
 '•‘Yes, time tvill show. I aint no fool, ef de white 
 folks is, an’ I can see dat dere’s nuffin in you to ’pend 
 on. You’re like the shiftin’ san’s o’ de desert what I 
 heard my Rosebud read about, an’ ef things goes on 
 as dey has bin goin’ to-day, you^ll bring her to grief 
 yit ; I feels it in my bones.” 
 
IIG the clandestine mahkiage. 
 
 # 
 
 Having thus relieved her mind, Betty closed the 
 door suddenly, and Thorne was left to think over her 
 words. Rude and unexpected as the old woman’s at- 
 tack was, he forgave it, for he felt conscience-stricken 
 as he lay back with half-closed eyes and compressed 
 lips, half wavering in the underhand course he knew 
 he must take if he pretended to satisfy Lapierre on 
 the points most vital to him and his daughter. 
 
 But he had gone too far to recede now, and he final- 
 ly silenced such scruples as the words of Betty had 
 aroused, by such specious arguments as he well knew 
 how to apply to his own conscience, and he sat up, 
 seized the pen, and wrote the following lines to one of 
 his own particular chums, who, he knew, would not 
 dare to refuse him the service he asked at his hands : 
 
 Happy Valley, July 15, 18—. 
 
 Dear Wingate: — You perceive from the date of 
 this that I have found the locality of which the grand- 
 iloquent Dr. Johnson so magnificently discoursed in 
 Rasselas. It might be located in Abyssinia too, for 
 I have just had a vision of a black gorgon who is one 
 of its inhabitants, so you perceive that there are some 
 disagreeables to be found even in this divine retreat.” 
 
 It is so long since you heard from n>e that I must 
 take up the thread of my adventures where I left off a 
 iijonth ago. I was then engaged in sketching mountain 
 sceneiy in Virgina ; and in pursuit of m}' hobb3^ I 
 set out on foot to find the wild valley which Vernon 
 so enthusiastically described to us after his return from 
 liis pedestrian tour last year. 
 
 Perhaps it had been better for me if I had beeu 
 Liiisfied with his imperfect outline of the locality, but 
 
A BASE DECEPTION. 
 
 117 
 
 there is a fate in these things, I suppose, and mine led 
 me, or rather swept me, nolens volens^ into the Happy 
 Valley. 
 
 ^‘You shall hear how it happened, and what has 
 since occurred. I was caught by a violent storm in 
 the rocky gorge Tom described so graphically ; the 
 rain came down like Niagara, flooded the narrow pass, 
 and but for my great strength, I must have been borne 
 to destruction. How I escaped going over the fall at 
 the outlet seems a miracle to me, but a boulder hap- 
 pened to stand in the way which gave me a chance to 
 save myself. 
 
 ‘‘I managed to throw my bruised and exhausted 
 body on a narrow tongue of land on which some 
 bushes grew, and to these I clung with desperation till 
 I succeeded in extricating myself from the most im- 
 minent danger. ' ^ 
 
 “ When I recovered from the first shock, I gathered 
 myself up and looked around. A rushing torrent was 
 beside me which falls into a dark and sullen looking 
 pool that I shudder when I think of, for it has no 
 known outlet and never jdelds up what it has once 
 devoured. 
 
 Beyond that lay the valley, a gem of beauty which 
 no Avords of mine can portray. I was glad to find that 
 it was not Avithout inhabitants, for lying below me, a 
 fcAA hundred yards distant from the fall, I saw a half 
 ruined mansion Avhich was evidently the abode of 
 human beings, for smoke Avas issuing from one of its 
 chimneys. 
 
 Night Avas approaching, so I looked for some means 
 i>L descent from my uncomfortable perch, and found a 
 ;U)all pathway cut in the face of the rock. I made 
 
118 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 my way down as well as I could in my battered coiidi 
 tion, and went towards the house. 
 
 “ Now, old boy, comes the gist of my story. I found 
 in that old ruin the loveliest Egeria that ever shone on 
 mortal vision. Ah ! she of the Homan story was com- 
 monplace beside this enchanting maid of the valley ; 
 and for the first time in my life I surrendered to the 
 power of Don Cupid. Do not laugh in your mocking 
 fashion, for I swear to you it was deep, true, ardent love 
 that sprung into existence with the first glance from 
 her glorious eyes ; such love as I shall never again feel 
 for any of Eve’s daughters ; and I depend on 3'OU, old 
 fellowG to help me to win her for my very own. 
 
 Don’t write back a homily reminding me of my ob- 
 ligations to return to L at a given time, and thrust 
 
 my unlucky head into the matrimonial noose my fatlier 
 has prepared for me. I cannot, and 1 will not do it — 
 understand that from the first, for my resolution is 
 irrevocable. 
 
 “ You are a great admirer oi Agnes Willard, and 
 you have my permission to console her for my escapade, 
 and I really think she will soon learn to like 3^11 as 
 well as she does me. The elders have arranged the 
 match, 3"ou know, and the heart of the fair Agnes is, 1 
 l;elieve, as little concerned in the affair as 1113^ own. 
 Thus far, all is as it should be, and I call on 3'Ou for 
 assistance because I have the right to claim it. 
 
 I have helped 3"ou over some rough places in our 
 (Ia3" ; and 3^011, in your turn, must aid me in my pres- 
 ent strait. 
 
 My Peri is the 01113^ child of a broken-down French 
 banker who, from his own account, was once a power 
 m his native land ; but that is all past and gone, and 
 
A BASE DECEPTION. 
 
 119 
 
 he now vegetates in this valley on a small saiar^ paid 
 him for teaching the young idea liow to shoot. He 
 does not keep a school, though, but is tutor to the 
 daughter of a wealthy widow living near him. Mrs. 
 Courtnay affords him this employment, being connected 
 with him by his marriage to a poor cousin belonging to 
 lier husband’s family. 
 
 So you see my lady love has good blood in her 
 \ (ins, and her father is entitled to inquire into my an- 
 t-cedents. That is why I write to you, Bob, and 3^ou 
 prove yourself staunch to our old compact to 
 he p each other out of every difficulty. 
 
 Lapierre requires me to produce vouchers of 
 fie truth of what T have told him of myself, and he is 
 .iso unreasonable enough to insist that I shall furnish 
 j'Ositive proof that my father will gladly welcome his 
 ( iiughter as my wife. 
 
 ‘ Phancy m^^ phelinks’ when he demanded such an 
 impossibility as that. Just think of my obstinate old 
 governor, with his furious temper and unbridled license 
 of tongue, when he is in one of his tantrums, being 
 asked to receive as his daughter-indaw an obscure 
 young girl without a sous to her fortune. 
 
 ‘‘ But I took the thing coolly. I assured the credu- 
 IcTis old fellow that all should be made right, for I am 
 determined that nothing shall stand in the way of my 
 success with my goddess. I will not describe her to 
 you ; I will leave you to judge her when you see her, if 
 ever man had a fairer excuse for acting as I mean to 
 do to secure her. 
 
 I shall marry her as soon as I can gain the old 
 Frenchman’s consent, and that I think, will not be long 
 vvitliheld after the arrival of the letters which you 
 
120 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 must forward to me. Now, Wingate, attend to every 
 particular of what I am about to write, and do not 
 fail to obey my directions, for everything depends on 
 you. I have been a fast friend to you in some ugly 
 scrapes, and in return you must stand by me now. 
 
 You are an accomplished penman, 1 know, and you 
 can write most moving epistles on any given subject. 
 I ask you to exercise both talents in this service, and 
 you shall lose nothing by it. Write to me in the char- 
 acter of my father^ giving his consent to my marriage 
 with my rustic goddess on the ground of his anxiety 
 to see me settled in life. You know how to do the thing 
 up brown, to use your own slang phrase, and be sure 
 to do it in your most creditable manner. 
 
 Also send me other letters from men of straw, 
 vouching for my former steady courses, and the high 
 position held by my family ; refer to my own assured 
 prospect of eventually inheriting great wealth — I say 
 assured^ for the governor will come round, I am cer- 
 tain, after his first wrath is expended, and forgive my 
 disobedience. 
 
 ‘‘You should feel little hesitation in writing these 
 letters, for there will be sufficient leaven of truth in 
 them to quiet your conscience, and I really intend to 
 make the girl my wife. I have been guilty of some 
 wild pranks, but no young lady of our set would be 
 likely to refuse me on the grounds of dissipation, 
 though I have sometimes kicked over the traces. I 
 have a devil of a temper, I know, but my angel will 
 never arouse that against Tierself, though I could not 
 answer for myself if I were forced under the yoke 
 matrimonial with the fair Agnes. 
 
 When my father insisted, I consented to marrv 
 
A BASE DECEPTION. 
 
 121 
 
 lier, because I wished to please him, and I had no de- 
 cided preference for any other. But now all that is 
 changed. I love this adorable little charmer with all 
 the strength of my nature, and I must claim her as my 
 own, or give up what I hold dearest in life. 
 
 ‘‘ Write to me as soon as this reaches you, and send 
 me what I have asked for, for I wish to be safely mar- 
 ried to my true love before the time arrives for me to 
 surrender myself to the bondage the Governor has 
 prepared for me. He cannnot ask me to commit big- 
 amy ; and after his first fury is past, he will come to 
 terms. 
 
 I forgot to tell you that I have been laid up from 
 tlie ducking I got the day of the storm, and these good 
 people have nursed me back to health. The father is 
 ; omething of a doctor, and the daughter the most sym- 
 pathetic, tender little nurse that a man was ever bless- 
 ed with. 
 
 Good bye, old fellow ; I depend on you, and I am 
 yours, according to the fidelity with which you serve 
 me. 
 
 Walter Thorne.” 
 
 This letter came to the hand for which it was in- 
 tended, on a warm summer evening, when Mr. Robnrt 
 Wingate had kicked off his shoes, laid aside his coat, 
 and Avas lounging at his ease in a dingy little room, fill- 
 ed with dusty book-cases and tables, which he called 
 liis office. 
 
122 the clandestine makriage. 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 THE FORGED LETTERS. 
 
 TTTINGATE was a clientless lawyer, living on a 
 T T small allowance from his father, and hoping for 
 better times when business should come. The pros- 
 pect of that was not very brilliant, for he was too fond 
 of pleasure to find others willing to trust him with the 
 management of their affairs. 
 
 He was a good-looking, indolent Sybarite, who pre- 
 ferred the enjoyment of the moment to any prospective 
 advancement, and he had often thought what a good 
 thing for himself it would be if he could only step into 
 fortune through a wealthy marriage. He had played 
 the agreeable to Agnes Willard, and was quite taken 
 aback by the announcement of her engagement to his 
 bosom friend, Walter Thorne. 
 
 But he did not betray his chagrin ; he consoled him- 
 self with the proverb that as good fish are in the sea 
 as have been drawn from it,” offered his congratula- 
 tions and turned his attentions elsewhere. He proved 
 himself a philosopher, but then he was not actually in 
 love with the reputed heiress — he was only making up 
 his mind to take the final plunge, if the golden idol 
 gave him sufficient encouragement 4;o risk a declara- 
 tion. 
 
 Miss Willard had not done so ; so that was the end 
 of it ; but the perusal of Thorne’s letter caused him 
 to doubt that now. Slighted and forsaken by her be- 
 trothed, the fair Agnes might turn to him for consola 
 tion, and he was quite ready to afford it. 
 
THE FORGED LETTERS. 
 
 123 
 
 Wingate re-read the letter attentively and, remov- 
 ing bis meerschaum from his lips, gave utterance to a 
 loud whistle. 
 
 “ A pretty kettle of fish, I declare,” he muttered. 
 
 I wonder what old Square-toes will say to his pre- 
 cious son when he finds out all, and all about his doings. 
 I would not be in Wat.’s shoes then for all the old fel- 
 low’s fortune. He’ll never forgive him — that’s fiat. 
 I know him better than Thorne does, and I believe 
 that man of fire and marble will cut him off with a 
 shilling. He never gives up what he has once set his 
 heart on, yet Walter is mad enough to think of 
 thwarting his mil. Yes, he’s stark, staring mad ; but 
 what is the use of trying to show him that ? He is as 
 obstinate as the old man and almost as fiery, too ; so 
 what can I do but help him to his own ruiu ? It will 
 be ruin, I know it, if he persists in this folly.” 
 
 Wingate disconsolately took up the letter, and read 
 it over again. 
 
 Bad, bad ! he’ll ruin his head in this noose as sure 
 as fate, and I dare not refuse to help him, after all he 
 has done for me. I have always known that if poor 
 Wat. fell desperately in love, he’d risk everything to 
 gain the object of his passion. He’s a blessed fool to 
 give up such a girl as Aggy Willard for the obscure 
 creature he has taken such a shine to ; but it’s an ^ill 
 wind that blows nobody good ; ’ and, by helping him, 
 maybe I can help myself. The heiress smiled sweetly 
 enough on me till her marriage with Wat. was settled. 
 Now he’s out of my way, I may have a chance to step 
 in and win. I think I shall try it at any rate ; but, 
 good Lord, he asks me to forge a letter from his re- 
 spected parent, telling all sorts of fibs ! And he’s as 
 
124 the claj^destine marriage. 
 
 cool about it as an iceberg. That fellow’s cheek is 
 wonderful, but then I owe him a great deal — he’s 
 stood by me when I needed help, and he’s as liberal as 
 a prince with his money. 
 
 Well, the fact is, Walter knows I can’t help my- 
 self ; I owe him a large sum, and I am bound to do 
 whatever he asks ; but if the old colonel found out that 
 I had assumed his venerable character and given his 
 blessing on a union he would move heaven and earth 
 to prevent, I wonder what he would do ? Blow me 
 sky-high — shoot me — or drive me out of these dig- 
 gings — but who’s afraid ? Not this child by any man- 
 ner of means ! I’ll stick to the man that stuck to me 
 when I wanted somebody to back me, and help him 
 through the mud, right or wrong. 
 
 ‘‘ Old Fuss-and-Fury shall never find out that I’ve 
 gone, and done, and used his name in a way that 
 would be peculiarly unpleasant to him. Won’t he go 
 into Jerusalem tantrums when he finds that Walter 
 has thrown up the good cards he has no cleverly ar- 
 ranged in his game of life ? Oh, Lord ! I’ll have my 
 own fun out of him^ if I don’t win anything else out 
 of this flare-up. 
 
 “But that poor little maid of the valley is getting 
 into a confounded mess, if she only knew it. As to 
 her ever being received as mistress of Thornhill, it is 
 out of the question, and Walter is insane to think of 
 it. He’ll be sent adrift, and what will he do then ? 
 Tm'u artist and paint pictures for a living, I suppose — 
 for that’s all he can do. But the poor fellow will find 
 out when people have to pay for his daubs, they won’t 
 think them so sweetly beautiful as his lady friends ('.all 
 them now.” 
 
THE FOKGED LETTERS. 
 
 125 
 
 ‘‘ I swear, it’s the most suicidal thing I ever heard 
 of — throwing away two fortunes for the sake of a 
 pretty face ! I’ll tell the old fellow what I think of 
 it ; and then, if he chooses to play the fool, why, I 
 suppose he must.” 
 
 ’ Thus communing with himself, Wingate spread out 
 his paper and set himself to work to compose such an 
 epistle as he supposed a sensible and affectionate 
 father would address to a son whose settlement in life 
 was his most ardent desire. The following lines were 
 the result of his efforts : 
 
 i( L ^ July 21, 18 — . 
 
 ‘‘ My Dear Son: — Your last letter has reached me; 
 and with some surprise, but more gratification, I read 
 its contents. 
 
 I have long desired to see you happily married, as 
 you well know ; for I think the ties of home and do- 
 mestic pleasures are the best safeguards for a young 
 and gay man like yourself. I should have been better 
 pleased, perhaps, if you had selected for your wife one 
 of the many loveiy young girls in our own circle ; but 
 to the fairest among them I have observed that you 
 were uniformly indifferent. 
 
 I began to fear that you cared little for matrimo- 
 nial felicity, and I am the more pleased to find that I 
 am mistaken. The young lady you have chosen is of 
 good family, and that is the main thing to be consid- 
 ered, for you will have money enough of your own to 
 enable you to dispense with fortune with the wife you 
 may bring to reign over the old place. 
 
 I am so much pleased with the prospect of claim- 
 ing a daughter-in-law, that I insist on the completion 
 of your marriage as soon as possible. My health ia 
 
126 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 bad, the gout being worse than ever, threatening to 
 put an end to me before very long ; so bring your wife 
 to me without delay, that I may bless your union be- 
 fore I go hence forever. 
 
 You must excuse mj presence at your wedding, 
 for I am not in a condition to travel ; but I advise you 
 to have it over as speedily and quietly as possible, 
 and bring hither the pretty creature you describe, to 
 brighten my last days. 
 
 If M. Lapierre is a good linguist, I think I could 
 find him a situation in a banking-house here as foreign 
 correspondent, with a fair salary. His name is well 
 known to me as a leading one in the financial annals of 
 his native land, and I shall be most happy to serve 
 him in any way that lies in my power. Present me to 
 him, and say that we two old fogies can renew our 
 youth in contemplating the happiness of our children. 
 
 “ With much love to the charming creature who has 
 inspired you with the desire to become a benedict, I 
 am your affectionate father, 
 
 “Walter Thorne.” 
 
 Wingate read over this effusion, laughed madly, 
 snapped his fingers, and was guilty of many other ec- 
 centric evidences of satisfaction over his performance. 
 He exclaimed : 
 
 “ Just fancy old Touch-and-go reading this with his 
 own name at the end of it. Oh my I wouldn’t it be 
 rich. He’d never survive it — never ; and I should be 
 sent to the valley of humiliation for manslaughter. 
 He’ll never see it though, that’s one comfort, and now 
 for the others.” 
 
 Mr. Wingate settled himself again, and dashed off 
 
THE FOKGED LETTERS. 
 
 127 
 
 three other letters, all written in a different hand, cer- 
 tifying the high position held by Walter Thorne’s 
 family, and the fair name he had gained in the commu- 
 nity in which he had been reared. To these he ap- 
 pended such names as occurred to him, secure that the 
 old Frenchman would have no opportunity of knowing 
 whether they were true or false, till it was too late to 
 act on that knowledge. 
 
 Having completed this task, he then addressed his 
 friend : 
 
 “ L , .July 21st, 18—. 
 
 ‘‘Dear Walter : — You will see from the accompa- 
 nying letters that I have done your bidding, though to 
 tell you the honest truth, I think yon are the most 
 verdant specimen of young America extant to risk so 
 much for a pretty face. You have done the worst 
 thing for yourself that could have happened in losing 
 your head for this young girl. 
 
 “ I hope that you will yet think better of it and 
 burn these things as a sacrifice upon the altar of duty. 
 I do, indeed, old friend, for I am afraid you are get- 
 ting into an awful mess, and bringing that trusting 
 little chosen one into a worse one. You can never 
 stagger through life with such a millstone around your 
 neck as the girl must prove who will cost you a cool 
 hundred thousand. It’s a higji price to pay for a 
 caprice, Thorne, but you’ll have to foot the bill as 
 surely as the sun will rise to-morrow if you persist in 
 this folly. 
 
 “ Just look at your actual position. You are en- 
 tirely dependent upon as cantankerous an old iron- 
 sides as ever set foot upon this earth of ours ; bound 
 to marry the girl he has selected for your wife, and 
 
128 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 here you are fljung off at a tangent, and getting over 
 head and ears in love with one your respected papa 
 would consider utterly ineligible in every respect. 
 
 Take warning in time, Wat., and get out of your 
 Happy Valley on the best terms you can. You will 
 be the gainer by it, and so will the charmer you have 
 taken such a fancy to, for between your father’s fury, 
 and your ruined prospects she will have a thorny path 
 to tread. You see I speak freely, as is my custom 
 with you, and I know you will take it as it is meant. 
 If you persist in marrying the poor child you will be 
 disinherited, I know, unless the old man should go off 
 in a spasm of anger when he first hears of yoiir re- 
 bellion. I scarcely think that will happen for he is 
 tough in body as he is willful in mind ; so you may as 
 well make up your mind to make your own living, and 
 that of the wife for whom you are ready to sacrifice 
 so much. 
 
 View the case in all its aspects, my dear boy, and 
 come to your sober senses. I have seen the fair 
 Agnes several times since you left, and I found her as 
 quiet as usual. ^ Still water runs deep,’ says the 
 proverb, and my conscience ! what a soundless reser- 
 voir must that attractive young lady be. She is still, 
 and fair, and cold in nianner, but there is such a thing 
 as a volcano with snow on top. That is what she is, 
 and I do not deny that I once thought I should like 
 to try and thaw that prettj^ icicle. But I soon found it 
 was no go, the ground was pre-occupied, and I had no 
 chance. Thank you for your offer to give me another, 
 but 1 am afraid I should fare no better than I did be- 
 fore. Old Willard wouldn’t look at such a scapegrace 
 as I am in the light of a possible soa-in-law ; but if I 
 
THE FOKGED LETTEKS. 
 
 129 
 
 thought the pretty Agnes would fancy me, and be as 
 brave as you are read}^ to be, I might try my luck, for 
 she has a snug little fortune of her own left her by her 
 grandmother. 
 
 “ Just think of the luck of some people. I don’t 
 believe I ever had a grandmother, or if I had, she 
 spent all her money on herself. It is a disgusting fact 
 that I am as poor as a church mouse, and that even a 
 few thousands would be a godsend to me ; but I had 
 rather not have a chance to win them with their fair 
 incumbrance, if you are to be so heavy a loser by the 
 transaction. 
 
 “ Dear Walter, I entreat you to cut the Happy Val- 
 ley and all its attractions ; if you don’t, mind my 
 words, bread and butter will be scarce with you on the 
 long run. 
 
 Yours, pathetically, Robert Wingate.” 
 
 Wingate arose from the table after sealing and ad- 
 dressing the package, and then prepared for a select 
 party at the house of the wealthy banker, Lawrence 
 Willard. He had not made up his mind to go till he 
 received Walter Thorne’s letter, but that put a new 
 aspect on affairs, and he thought if his friend gave up 
 the' heiress, he had as gC)od a chance with her as an- 
 other. She had been friendly with him, and that was 
 something in his favor, for Miss Willard was rarely 
 more than civil to those who offered incense at her 
 shrine. 
 
 Wingate sometimes suspected that he owed her 
 courtesy to the intimacy which existed between him- 
 self and her affianced husband, and that he intended 
 to find out this evening, if he could ; but, with a sigli, 
 8 
 
130 
 
 THE C L A X D E S T I N E A R R I A G E. 
 
 he acknowledged that it was more difficult to fathom 
 Agnes Willard than most girls of her age. 
 
 Wingate, with, some difficulty, arranged his neck-tie 
 to his satisfaction, and wi h much complacency sur- 
 veyed his handsome featuies reflected in the mirror. 
 He was a gay, good-hearted, rollicking creature, with 
 few scruples of conscience, as the letters he had so 
 lately Avritten proved ; but he meant no harm, and be- 
 lieved the whole thing a good joke, to be laughed over 
 hereafter with Walter Thorne, when he had abjured 
 his present foll3^ After reading his letter, he thought 
 his friend Avould pause in his mad career, gWe himself 
 time to recover from his infatuation, and extricate 
 himself from his equivocal position. But if he should 
 not, Wingate thought it as well to be in a position to 
 be the first to offer consolation to the deserted fiancee, 
 so he made a most elaborate toilette, and set out for 
 Willow Glen, as the place of the banker was called. 
 
 It was situated in a romantic hollow, a short distance 
 
 from the town of L ; and the Avhite walls of the 
 
 aristocratic looking mansion arose amid a group of fine 
 old Avillow trees. Hedges, grass and flowers Avere 
 found there in profusion, though nothing Avas crowded, 
 a]id all Avas arranged with perfect taste. 
 
 On an eminence, a few hundred Auirds distant stood 
 a many-gabled house, with twisted chimneys and lofty 
 lowers, knoAvn to the outside Avorld as Thorne’s Fol- 
 \y^ but called by its proprietor Thornhill. It Avas an 
 incongruous pile of architecture, whicli had cost a 
 great deal of money, and Avas valued accordingly by 
 its owner. Colonel Thorne had designed it himself, 
 and if a man’s house is the outgrowth of his mind, as 
 somebody said, his must haA'e been a very anomalous 
 one. 
 
THE FORGED LETTERS. 
 
 131 
 
 The towers were gothic ; the central portion built 
 in the quaint Tudor style, finished with Tonic porticos 
 in front and rear. Such as it was, however. Colonel 
 Thorne considered it the most striking and remarkable 
 building on the continent. Perhaps it was, from its 
 very incongruities. 
 
 Next to his son, his dwelling was, to him, the most 
 important of his possessions, and both he considered 
 absolutely his own, to do with as he pleased. 
 
 Wingate had to pass the gate, opening into the really 
 beautiful grounds which inclosed this singular looking 
 mansion, and leaning over it, was a tall, slender man, 
 with a high, bold forehead, scantily shaded by gray hair 
 at the temples. He had taken his hat off, and was 
 slowly fanning himself with it, and the stern, haughty 
 face was a fair exponent of the unbending nature of 
 its possessor. He had the erect carriage of a military 
 man, for he had served in the last war with England, 
 and won his present title at the battle of New Or« 
 leans. 
 
 As Wingate approached him, he nodded curtly, and 
 said : Good evening, Robert. Going to my neigh- 
 
 bor’s, I suppose ? Agnes is to have a party, I hear. 
 They sent over for me, in fact, but I am too old to care 
 for such nonsense. I shan’t go, and you may tell her 
 from me that I think she would do as well to put off 
 her entertainments till my son comes back to take 
 part in them. She’ll be thinking of some of you chaps, 
 when she ought to be dreaming only of him.” 
 
 To this address, Wingate blandly replied : 
 
 Excuse me. Colonel. I should prefer having you 
 deliver your message in person. I cannot take so great 
 a liberty with Miss Willard, and she is not a porson to 
 forgive li^lffly^ I fanhy.” 
 
132 the cl AlSTDESTIJ^E MARRIAGE. 
 
 The old man knit his gray eyebrows, beneath which 
 a fiery pair of black eyes scintillated, but he laughed 
 mockingly ; 
 
 ‘‘ Ha ! ha ! That is all you know about her ! What, 
 Agnes unforgiving ! No, indeed, she is the meekest, 
 sweetest little white dove in existence, and that’s why 
 I want her for Wat.’s wife. I am a fire spirit, and he’s 
 got enough of me in him to play the deuce when things 
 don’t go to suit him. Agnes Willard is the very girl to 
 bear his temper quietly, and keep things smooth in the 
 old house. She won’t mind my outbreaks, for she is 
 used to me and my ways. She would onlj smile if you 
 repeated what I told you just now, and to-morrow 
 she’d come over here and excuse herself, in her pretty, 
 coaxing w^ay. You don’t know what an insinuating 
 puss she can be, in spite of her cool, quiet manner to 
 mere acquaintances.” 
 
 I know that Miss Willard is very charming. Col- 
 onel, and Wat. is a fortunate fellow. By the way, 
 have you heard from him lately ? ” 
 
 I had a letter, two weeks ago, dated from some 
 little town in Virginia. He was vagabondizing among 
 the mountains in search of the picturesque. Devil 
 take his nonsense and tomfoolery about art ! I’ve no 
 patience with it. I wish I had never permitted him 
 to take lessons in drawing — he had no talent that way. 
 No gentleman should go wandering away through Ih,' 
 country as he does, and just at this time too, when ]j<; 
 ought to be here to look after the treasure he has won. 
 I don’t think though that Agnes would ever play hiii] 
 false.” 
 
 Wingate could not resist saying : 
 
 But suppose the tables were turned, and Walter 
 
THE FORGED LETTERS. 
 
 133 
 
 sliould find some one he thinks more attractive than 
 Miss Willard?” 
 
 By the Eternal, sir I what do you mean to insin- 
 uate? ” cried the old man, in a sudden fury. How 
 dare you speak of such a thing as possible ? Have 
 you heard from Walter ? I know that he and you are 
 on confidential terms ; has he been writing to you any 
 such treason as you hint at ? ” 
 
 “ Something very like it,” responded Wingate, dryly. 
 ‘‘ He has met with an accident ; came very near losing 
 his life, and he has been ill among the mountains. He 
 has been nursed back to health by a charming young 
 creature, who seems to have made a deep impression 
 upon him. I have just written to him, and warned him 
 not to get too deep in the mire, but a letter from you 
 might have more weight, perhaps.” 
 
 Col. Thorne grew livid with rage as he listened to 
 this cold statement, and he clutched wildly at his cra- 
 vat as if suffocating. He presently gasped : 
 
 Is this true ? How did he come to write to you 
 of his mishap, and not to me ? Ill — was he ? He had 
 better have died than dream of what you hint at. 
 
 Come, now, you young dog, if you have anything 
 
 serious to tell me, speak it out like a man.” 
 
 “I am not used to be sworn at, or to be called 
 names. Colonel Thorne,” was the cool reply. ‘^And 
 if you were a younger man, I should know how to re- 
 sent it. Good evening, sir. Walter’s address is the 
 same town from which his last letter to you came. 
 Perhaps you had better write to him at once ; you may 
 bring him back to his senses, for I think he has lost 
 them.” 
 
 \yith this parting assurance, Wingate walked on, 
 
134 A CL AXDESTIIS^E MARRIAGE. 
 
 heedless of the calls to return, mingled with curses^ 
 that only caused him to laugh, as he muttered : 
 
 ‘‘ I hare done him a good turn anyhow, and Walter, 
 too, I hope ; for old Furioso will write him such a 
 scorcher as must put an end to his dallying in that 
 garden of Armida. He will see the folly of his doings, 
 burn those lying letters, and come back wiser than he 
 went. I wish I had not sent them, but it is too late 
 to repent now.” 
 
 When Colonel Thorne saw that Wingate would not 
 even turn his head, but continued to move steadily for- 
 ward, he poured forth a more bitter volley of male- 
 dictions, and moved like a maniac toward his house. 
 He entered a lower room in one of the towers, which 
 was fitted up as a library. A dog lay basking near the 
 open window, happily unconscious of the evil humor 
 of his lUj^ster, but Ponto was soon aroused from his 
 dreams by a furious kick, which sent him into the yard 
 below ; a meerschaum was thrown after him, and then 
 a chair followed. 
 
 After these performances, the irate old man threw 
 himself on a seat, and cursed in German, French, and 
 English, till the first edge of his wrath was taken off. 
 A servant girl peeped in at the open door, but she was 
 very careful not to allow her employer to become aware 
 of her vicinity. When he subsided into comparative 
 tranquillit}’', she returned to the houskeeper’s room, to 
 report that the master was in one of his worst tan- 
 trums, and they would “ catch it” before the evening 
 was over. 
 
 Colonel Thorne finally jerked out the drawer of his 
 writing-table, took out paper and pen, and wrote the 
 following characteristic letter ; 
 
THE I J R G E D LETTERS. 
 
 135 
 
 L , July 21, 18—. 
 
 ‘‘ You disobedient good-for-nothing dog ! What do 
 you mean by getting yourself laid up among a parcel of 
 country bumpkins, to be nursed — one of them of the 
 feihinine gender, too ! I dare say she has made eyes 
 at you, and has done her best to make you play the 
 |)art of the ingrate and the fool ; but it will not be well 
 for her to tempt you to disobey my will. 
 
 Your precious chum, Robert Wingate, has just 
 hinted to me that such is the state of the case, but the 
 wretch refused to give me any satisfaction as to the 
 facts in his possession. I have only this to say : If you 
 don’t come as soon as you are able, I will disown j^ou. 
 If you are not here in time for your marriage with the 
 bride I choose you to claim, I will make my will, cut- 
 ting you off from all interest in my property. I will, 
 by the Eternal, as my old commander used to say. 
 
 You know me, you conceited puppy, and you also 
 know that you will have nothing unless I give it to 
 you. Your mother had no fortune ; what I have be- 
 longs to myself; and you shall never enjoy the first 
 cent of it if you are not here in time to give your hand 
 to Agnes Willard. 
 
 “ The wedding finery has been ordered, and some of 
 it has arrived ; and if you dare to think of flying the 
 track, after things have gone so far, you need never 
 appear in my presence again. 
 
 ‘‘ I shall not betray you to Agnes; the girl loves 
 you, and she will never give you up to another ; nor 
 will I let you go the devil your own way. 
 
 “ I have said my say, and I mean every word of it^ 
 so nov' take your choice between beggary and obedi- 
 
 W. Thorne.” 
 
 ence. 
 
1:^6 the clandestine mahkiage. 
 
 This fiery missive was dispatched by the same mail 
 that took Wingate’s letters, and Walter Thorne had 
 the opportunity of comparing the words of the real 
 man with those written for him by his ingenious and 
 unscrupulous friend — a comparison by no means ad- 
 vantageous to the choleric old man. 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 REVELATION OF A GIRL S HEART, 
 
 INGATE moved leisurely up the winding ave- 
 
 T T nue which led to the entrance of Mr. Willard’s 
 residence. The house was gleaming with lights, and 
 the parlors redolent of flowers. Vases were filled with 
 them ; rustic baskets, which overflowed with them, 
 were suspended from every available spot, and the 
 summer air was heavy with their fragrance. 
 
 AVingate was the first guest to arrive, for which he 
 was not sorry, as he wished to gain a few moments 
 alone with the daughter of the house before she was 
 absorbed with her duties as hostess. 
 
 Mr. AVillard, a slender, gray-haired man, with a cold, 
 proud face, pallid from recent illness, was sitting on the 
 portico, enjoying the still, summer night. He courte- 
 ously received the young man, and after the usual dis- 
 cussion of the state of the weather was over, he said : 
 
 My daughter is in the conservatory, I believe, 
 Robert. She told me if you came early to send you in 
 there ; she wishes to ask you when you last lieard 
 from But never mind — she will explain herself; ” 
 
REVELATION OF A GIRL’S HEART. 137 
 
 and the frown that gathered on the brow of the speak- 
 er showed that he was annoyed at the proposed subject 
 of conversation. 
 
 Thank you, sir ; I am glad to have the opportunity 
 to speak in private with Miss Agnes a few moments,” 
 replied the young man, as he arose and entered the 
 house. 
 
 He walked quietly through the long parlors, illumi- 
 nated by a cut-glass chandelier, the light through the 
 ground-glass lamp-shades as soft as that of the sum- 
 mer moon. Beyond lay the conservatory, filled with 
 gorgeous tropical plants, arranged with an artistic eye 
 for effect. 
 
 A grape-vine, in full foliage, was trained over the 
 glass roof, from which rich clusters of fruit hung ; the 
 flower stands descended in regular gradation, filled 
 with blooming plants of rare beauty, and in perfect or- 
 der ; not a dead leaf nor a drooping blossom was to be 
 seen. 
 
 At the farthest end of this avenue of fragrance and 
 beauty, was a marble basin wreathed with water-lilies ; 
 and from the white cup of each one flowed a tiny 
 stream of clear water, which kept the reservoir always 
 filled to the brim. Gold and silver fish darted to and 
 fro, their bright scales glittering in the softened liglit 
 of innumerable Chinese lanterns suspended among the 
 foliage of the plants. 
 
 Near this fountain stood the young girl of whom 
 Wingate was in search ; and as he looked upon her 
 pale, fair beauty, he thought she was a good represen- 
 tative of Undine in the floating clonds of white tarle- 
 tan that fell, like spray, around her graceful figure. 
 
 Agnes Willard was colorless as a snow-drift, witli 
 
138 the clandestine makriage. 
 
 hair of a light golden shade, bound closely around her 
 small head, and wreathed in a shining coil at the back. 
 A comb, set with pearls, held it in place, from which 
 drooped a spray of delicate white flowers. 
 
 Her features were perfectly regular, and to most 
 persons her face was expressionless, for she was usually 
 as impassive as a marble woman. But those who had 
 once seen her eyes light up, knew that beneath that 
 calm exterior lay ar world of passion and pride ; the 
 first carefully held in subjection — the last patent enough 
 to all ; for Miss Willard was considered the haughtiest 
 of women. She had few friends, no intimates, and 
 moved on her way as if supremely indifferent to the 
 possession of either. 
 
 Her eyes were large and well set, of a clear, amber 
 gray, veiled by long lashes, a shade darker than her 
 hair. Ordinarily they were only observant ; but they 
 could flash with animation when their owner was 
 aroused from her apathetic calm, or scintillate with 
 anger if the repressed passion of her nature was 
 brought into action. 
 
 This girl was a riddle to most of those who knew 
 her, for she was always on her guard ; never impul- 
 sive — ^rarely confiding. The polished grace of her 
 manner was perfect ; her self-control never deserted 
 her in public, though in the seclusion of her own 
 apartment, she sometimes gave way to paroxysms of 
 wild passion that would have alarmed a looker-on had 
 one been permitted to witness them. 
 
 This day had witnessed such an outburst ; but now 
 she was calm enough, and at the sound of aj)proaching 
 footsteps she raised her head, and with a faint smile 
 of welcome, lield on( lier slender hand to Wingate. 
 
REVELATION OF A GIRL’S HEART. 139 
 
 He took it an instant in his own, and was thrilled 
 by its icy touch on that warm evening. After a few 
 commonplace Avords had been exchanged between 
 them, she said : 
 
 “ I am glad you came early, Mr. Wingate, for I 
 Jiave an enquiry to make of you. Can you tell me 
 an3^thing of }mur friend, Walter Thorne? It may 
 seem strange that I should apply to you for ,mforma- 
 tion concerning my betrothed, but — but I have not 
 heard from him lately myself, and I am becoming un- 
 eas}^ about him. His letters must have miscarried, for 
 it is now three wrecks since I have received one. Do 
 you know where he is at present ? ” 
 
 With perfect freedom from embarrassment Wingate 
 replied : 
 
 I am glad that I have secured an opportunity to 
 speak with you before the arrival of your other guests. 
 I had a letter from Thorne this afternoon, filled with 
 nonsense ; but he has been ill. He came near being 
 drowned in a mountain torrent, took a violent cold, 
 and has been detained in a farm-house among the 
 Avild scenes he is so fond of sketching. He has had a 
 fever, and really I think he was slightly delirous Avhen 
 he wrote ; of course he could not venture to address 
 ^ you Avhile his mind was in that unsound state, and 
 that is the reason Avhy you have not heard from him 
 for so long.” 
 
 '^'* 111 ! delirious, and probably throAvn among a set of 
 ignorant barbarians, who will not know how to attend 
 to him properly,” she rapidly said, in a voice that for 
 once forgot its equable calm in the presence of another. 
 “ Oh, what can I do to help him ? What can be done 
 to bring him back safe to us ? Have you told his fa- 
 ther this, Mr. Wingate ? ” 
 
140 the CLAUDES tine MARRIAGE. 
 
 TliP speaker seemed transfigured. Her eyes burned 
 with fiery light; a pale flush came to her snowy 
 cheeks, and her lips trembled with emotion. The 
 woman came out of the frosty atmosphere of conven- 
 tionalism that held her spell-bound, and in that mo- 
 ment Wingate knew the truth. She had not been in- 
 duced by her father to accept Walter Thorne, as re- 
 [)ort said ; but she herself had willed the contract to 
 he made which bound her to that most unstable of 
 men. She loved him — that was plain enough.' Loved 
 him as the tigress loves her young. 
 
 From that moment he gave up all hope in that quar- 
 ter for himself, and began to think how he could best 
 serve his inconstant friend. After a pause he said : 
 
 Thorne is not so badly off as you imagine. For- 
 tunately for him, the people he w^as thrown among are 
 of the better sort. The father had some medical skill, 
 wliich was used for his benefit, and the daughter nursed 
 Inm back to health. He is out of danger now, he tells 
 me ; but you will doubtless hear from him in a short 
 time yourself.” 
 
 Wingate felt that those amber-colored eyes were fixed 
 full upon Ills face, and he began to grow nervous be- 
 neath their scrutiny. Miss Willard repeated : 
 
 Daughter — there is a woman there, then ? Is she 
 young? Did Walter say much of her? She nursed 
 him, too ; and — and — Mr. Wingate, you are his friend, 
 and therefore mine — let me see that letter. I entreat 
 it as a favor — nay, I can almost demand it as a right. 
 Have you it about you ? ” 
 
 No — on my honor; and, indeed, if I had it I 
 could not venture to show^ you such a rigmarole. 1 
 told Colonel Thorne of Walter’s illness, and no doubt 
 
REVELATION OF A GIRL’S HEART. 141 
 
 he will take measures to get him back home as soon as 
 possible. We shall soon see him among us, and the 
 piettj little nurse must give up her patient.” 
 
 Pretty I Did he tell j^ou that ? ” And her voice 
 vibrated with sudden passion. “ Could Mr. Thorne 
 really find charms in an ignorant, unformed country 
 girl ? But I forget myself. She was kind to him, and. 
 of course, he was grateful.’' 
 
 Warned by the repressed excitement of her voice 
 and mannef, Wingate cautiously replied : 
 
 Of course that was all. When his father’s letter 
 reaches him, Walter will doubtless come home as soon 
 as possible. By that time his mind will have cleared 
 itself from the fantasies of illness, and he will return 
 to the happy fate that awaits him. He is the most for- 
 tunate of men, if he only knew it.” 
 
 Her light eyes flashed a sudden look of angry in- 
 (piiry upon him, and she defiantly said : 
 
 “ What do you mean by that ? — if he only knew it. 
 Does he not know — does he not understand that ’’ 
 
 She paused, shivered before the revelation of her 
 inner self she was on the eve of making, and relapsed 
 into her usual impassiveness. After a brief silence, 
 Agnes again spoke, in a light tone, in which there was 
 an inflexion of hardness : 
 
 Let us return to the reception rooms, Mr. Wingate. 
 I hear voices, and other guests have arrived. I will 
 write to Walter again, now that I know he has not 
 been to blame for his long silence. We must have 
 him at home, where he can be properly cared for till he 
 is perfectly recovered.'* 
 
 She passed serenely on to welcome her guests, fol- 
 lowed slowly by Wingate, who was muttering to him- 
 self ; 
 
142 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 “ By Jove ! Wat.’s getting himself into a mess sure 
 enough ! That girl is not going to be jilted without 
 making an awful row about it, proud as she is. Be- 
 tween them, she and Don Furioso will crush him down 
 to the depths if he dares to carry out his present plans. 
 The boy is mad to think of flying the track after 
 things have gone so far.” 
 
 Other guests were in the lighted rooms ; and, with 
 her usual moonlight smile and chilling grace. Miss 
 Willard welcomed them. She was accustomed to play 
 the part of hostess, for her mother had been dead 
 many years, and she was undisputed mistress of the 
 house, and also of its master, for Mr. Willard had long 
 since discovered that it was useless to place himself in 
 opposition to the slightest caprice of his quiet but te- 
 nacious daughter. 
 
 What she willed she accomplished ; and he, who 
 was an autocrat in his bank, was at home a mere pup 
 pet in the hands of this fair, haughty-looking girl. 
 
 The banker was very fond of her, for 'she was his 
 only child ; but he would have been glad if nature had 
 made her less imperious and more demonstrative in 
 her affection for himself. 
 
 Both father and daughter exerted themselves to 
 make the evening pass off agreeably to their guests ; 
 and Wingate could but marvel at the serene grace of 
 Agnes, after the glimpse he had that night obtained 
 into her heart. He came to the wise conclusion, that 
 Walter Thorne was welcome to such happiness as he 
 was likely to find in a union with her, and he felt few 
 regrets that all chance for himself was over. He 
 again thought over the judgment of her he had ex- 
 pressed in his letter to her betrothed. 
 
RETELATION OF A GIRL’S HEART. 148 
 
 “ Quiet, but deep,” he muttered, under his breath- 
 ‘‘Yes — I know that now, better than I did before- 
 She’ll lead that poor fellow a devil of a dance, for 
 she’ll marry him whether he will or no. His father 
 will bring him back to his allegiance, by threatening 
 to disinherit him ; and this snow woman with a vol- 
 cano in her breast, will bind him to her in chains that 
 will hold him fast enough. Goodness ! What a fool 
 I am! Here am I pitying Wat. for gaining what I 
 so lately thought I should like to possess myself. Af- 
 ter all she is an exquisite creature.” 
 
 The party broke up at a late hour. There was 
 some good music, charades were played, and alto- 
 gether it was a success. Wingate took home a pretty, 
 rosy little girl who had just made her debut in society, 
 and as he listened to her prattle he thought in his 
 heart that Anna Ross would make a far more comfort- 
 able companion for every-day life than the high-bred, 
 elegant woman he had been so critically analyzing 
 throughout the evening. 
 
 When the last guest had departed, and Miss Willard 
 and her father were left standing on the piazza alone, 
 she turned to him and spoke in a low, even tone : 
 
 “Walter has been ill — so very ill that his life must 
 have been in danger, for Mr. Wingate thinks that he 
 was delirious when he last wrote to him. That is why 
 I have not heard from him of late. 
 
 “ Ah-h I ” was the slow reply. “ But is it not 
 strange that Thorne should write as soon as he is able 
 to a friend, and not to his betrothed wife ? I should 
 not like it if I were you, Agnes.” 
 
 “Perhaps I do not, but I cannot help myself. You 
 and his father must find means to bring him back with- 
 
144 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 out delay, for I think he is in great danger where he 
 now is.” 
 
 The danger must be pretty well passed, if he is 
 able to write at all. What do you apprehend ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Everything that is most repulsive to me. Walter 
 is weak and willful, but I love him, and I do not 
 choose to leave him among people who may take ad- 
 vantage of his impressible nature to carry out their 
 Dwn plans. Robert Wingate spoke of a girl who has 
 played the part of a nurse to him : from what he said, 
 I think it necessary to rescue my betrothed from her 
 arts before serious mischief arises from them.” 
 
 The father regarded her with surprise. 
 
 “ Are you so doubtful of your own power as to fear 
 a rival ? ” 
 
 The fire came to her eyes, and a faint streak of 
 crimson flashed across her white cheeks as she re- 
 plied : 
 
 “ My power is not yet firmly established, but it 
 shall be. I comprehend well enough that Walter sub- 
 mitted to the wishes of his father in forming an en- 
 gagement with me. Though I understood that clearly, 
 I was not dismayed, for I feel sure that I can win him 
 to myself forever, if no other woman comes between 
 us.” 
 
 “And you^ with all your pride, are willing to be 
 accepted on such humiliating terms ? ” exclaimed Mr. 
 Willard, in an excited manner. “ I could not have be- 
 lieved this of you, Agnes.” 
 
 “Nor could I once of myself: but it is so — Hove 
 him — does not that tell you all ? I shall die, or go 
 mad, if Walter Thorne proves false to me. Bring him 
 back to his home and the ties that bind him here, for 
 
revelation of a GIRL'S HEART. 145 
 
 everything for me is at stake. I will not give him up 
 — I swear it ! If an angel with a flaming sword stood 
 between myself and my betrothed, I would put him 
 aside and grasp the hand that belongs of right to me. 
 Is he not my plighted bridegroom ? Have I not given 
 him my troth, and with it my heart, my soul, my life ? 
 Bring him back, I say, before something happens that 
 will turn my nature into a volcano of raging fire. The 
 very thought that another is near him, ministering to 
 liis wants as I alone should, is riving my brain. How 
 I have lived through this evening I do not know, yet I 
 have played my part as quietly as usual. I will go to 
 my room now, but you must act for me to-morrow. 
 Concert measures with Col. Thorne for bringing 
 Walter back, for he must return as speedily as possi- 
 ble. There is danger to him where he now is.” 
 
 Mr. Willard shrugged his shoulders. He did not 
 always understand his daughter, but he Avas rather 
 anxious than otherwise that the marriage which had 
 been arranged for her should not be broken off after 
 things had gone so far. He calmly replied : 
 
 “ I will see what can be done ; but if you intend to 
 be jealous of every woman that comes near Walter, 
 you are making a bad preparation for happiness.” 
 
 ‘‘ When Ave are once married I shall not be jealous. 
 He Avill then be mine, and I shall know how to Avin his 
 heart, and hold it, too. Good night.” 
 
 She abruptly turned, entered the house, and ran 
 quickly up the winding stairs that led to her own 
 apartment. A young girl, aa’Iio acted as her maid, Avas 
 sleeping beside one of the open windows. Agnes 
 sharply called to her to assist her in unrobing, and she 
 started up Avith a bewildered scared expression, and 
 Q 
 
146 the clandestine mahriage. 
 
 hastened to obey. After a few moments, Miss Wib 
 lard drew on her dressing robe and peremptorily said : 
 
 ‘‘ Wake up Nettie, before you begin to undo my 
 hair ; if you pull it, I shall be angry. Arrange it for 
 the night, and then go. I shall have no further use 
 for you.” 
 
 Nettie opened her eyes as widely as possible, but 
 she was too much overcome Avith sleep to be as careful 
 as usual, and more than once a sharp reprimand was 
 given her by her mistress. Finally the fair Agnes 
 took her long, abundant tresses in her own hands and 
 said: 
 
 ‘‘Go to bed you stupid ! If you tear my hair in 
 this way again, I shall send you back to your mother, 
 and you may starve with the rest of her useless brood.” 
 
 To this angry threat, the somnolent maid replied : 
 
 “ You won’t do that. Miss Agnes, because you prom- 
 ised my mother to keep me ; and you can’t find any 
 one else who will bear your humors as I do. I don’t 
 get huffed at nothing, you say, though you know you 
 is aggravatin’ sometimes.” 
 
 The amber-colored eyes fiashed out a glance of 
 lightning, and then their owner laughed softly. 
 
 “ I believe you are right, Nettie ; for of late I have 
 not had much patience with any one. There — ^you 
 may go now — I am tired ; but I cannot sleep — I wish 
 to think.” 
 
 The maid was only too happy to be released, and 
 she left the room, carefully closing the door behind 
 her. 
 
 When the echo of her steps was no longer audible, 
 Agnes threw herself upon the couch, and abandoned 
 herself to such a tempest of passion, jealousy, and des- 
 
REVELATION OF A GIRL’S HEART. 147 
 
 pair^ as would have temfied those who knew her best. 
 Tears rained from her e3^es, her placid features became 
 convulsed and paler than ever, while her small hands 
 clenched till the nails almost buried themselves in the 
 pink palms. 
 
 *At intervals, words broke from her white lips, and 
 the sound. of her voice was so broken and unnatural 
 that it startled even herself. 
 
 ‘‘ How dare he treat me thus. It was bad enough to 
 leave me in the first days of our engagement ; but to 
 find interest in another — in a pretty nurse ! Faugh ! 
 what wretches men are ; I cared for none of them till I 
 knew him, and he is all in all to me. He shall never 
 escape me. If his heart has wandered, I will not know 
 it. He shall fulfil his troth to me if I walk through fire 
 to the end. If I cannot make him happy, I can at least 
 repa)" him for his inconstancy. The world shall never 
 say that I have been left to wear the Avillow-'- oh, 
 worse than that — worse than that, for my heart would 
 consume itself in jealous rage, and in my madness I 
 should do something terrible — terrible.^'" 
 
 At length, exhausted by the violence of the par- 
 oxysm through which she had passed, Agnes arose, 
 tottered to her dressing-table and took from one of the 
 drawers a small vial, containing a strong sedative, 
 which she was in the habit of using in such a crisis as 
 this. With unsteady hand, she poured out a larger " 
 portion than usual, and, after drinking it, threw her- 
 self upon her bed, where she soon fell into a disturbed 
 slumber. 
 
148 the clandestine maeriage. 
 
 CHAPTER VIIL 
 
 THE lady’s tarn. 
 
 I N the meantime, all was sunshine in the Happj 
 Valley. Thorne continued to recover rapidly, and 
 on the appointed day the carriage came to convey liiin 
 to the ‘Grange, accompanied by Lapierre and his 
 daughter. 
 
 Believing the assurances of his guest, that all would 
 be right, the old Frenchman placed no restraint on tlie 
 association of the young people. He half sighed 
 when he thought how differently things were man- 
 aged in his own country ; but as freedom of inter- 
 course was the custom in the land of his adoption, he 
 gave in to it, and consoled himself with thinking that 
 all was for the best. 
 
 The future of his lovely child seemed brightening, 
 and his fears for her welfare would soon be set at rest 
 by bestowing her in honorable marriage on one who 
 seemed hourly more infatuated by her charm.s. 
 
 The day was bright, with a soft breeze rustling the* 
 foliage of the trees which formed a canopy over the 
 narrow country road that led to the Grange. An iron 
 gate admitted them into the grounds, which were left 
 almost in a state of nature. Lofty trees cast their 
 umbrage over the greenest turf, and deer lifted their 
 braiichiiig antlers as the sound of the wheels was 
 heard grating on the graveled road that led through 
 this sylvan solitude. 
 
 At length the house,' a square, gray structure, with 
 a long piazza in front, came in sight. It was a fine old 
 
THE LADY^S TAKN. 
 
 149 
 
 place, and the ont-houses and servants’ quarters were 
 all built in the most substantial manner. A green ter- 
 race swept down from the piazza, ornamented with 
 stone urns, in which flowering plants were growing. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay was standing on the steps, with her 
 little girl beside her, looking so calm and sensible that 
 Thorne half doubted if she would permit his love- 
 making to her god-daughter to go on without a full 
 and clear understanding of all that was in store for 
 Claire in the new sphere in which he proposed to 
 place her. The doubt only spurred him on to the 
 completion of his own plans. The sweet madness 
 that filled his heart had gained such strength, that, by 
 this time, he thought no sacrifice would be too great to 
 enable him to secure the enchanting being who had 
 only too plainly shown him that he was the arbiter of 
 her earthly fate. 
 
 Walter Thorne closed his eyes to all that might 
 happen afterwards, never dreaming that a time might 
 come, and at no distant day either, in which he Avould 
 shrink from the consequences of his own folly, and 
 leave this tender, unprotected girl to bear the heavy 
 burden he was so recklessly preparing for her. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay welcomed her guests with the cordial 
 ease characteristic of a welirbred woman. She led the 
 way into a spacious drawing-room, fitted up with 
 dainty taste, and decorated with pictures painted by 
 herself. These had not great merit as works of art, 
 but they were correct both in drawing and coloring ; 
 and the artistic eye of Thorne was soon attracted by 
 them. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay laughed, and said to him : 
 
 1 warned you that I am a dabbler in your art. I 
 
150 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 have had few opportunities to see fine pictures ; hut I 
 do not intend to vegetate here forever. Andrew will 
 leave college this fall, and, when spring opens, I think 
 I shall set out with him on a tour to Europe. When I 
 can study the great masters, I shall doubtless think of 
 my poor efforts with contempt ; but such as they are, 
 they have afforded me occupation and amusement in 
 my lonely life. They have helped me to live through 
 many dreary years.” 
 
 A shadow flitted over her expressive face, and 
 Thorne politely replied : 
 
 ‘‘I do not think you will ever find cause to regard 
 these things with disgust, for they possess a merit of 
 their own, I assure you, Mrs. Courtnay. Some of the 
 landscapes have a delicacy and beauty of handling and 
 coloring, that would entitle them to a place on the 
 walls of an academy.” 
 
 ‘‘I am happy to hear you say that ; but I am afraid 
 that you are only seeking to flatter me. Here is youi 
 portfolio, and I have made a copy of this female head 
 I found in it. The face is a very remarkable one, I 
 think. It is fair and delicate, but has a latent fire and 
 will that are wonderful. I fancy the orginal might be 
 capable of playing the part of a Medea. Is it a por- 
 trait, Mr. Thorne ? ” 
 
 With a sudden flush of vexation, he recognized the 
 picture to which she pointed as that of Agnes Willard. 
 The original was a water-color sketch, elaborately fin- 
 ished, which Thorne had completed just before lie set 
 out on his rambling tour. With assumed indifference 
 he took it up, and, criticall}^ surveying it, said : 
 
 ‘‘You must be a close student of the ‘human face 
 divine,’ Mrs. Courtnay. I have known the original of 
 
THE LADY’S TARN. 
 
 151 
 
 this several years ; but the traits you describe never 
 struck me before. The face has a great deal of char- 
 acter in it, in spite of its fair, soft beauty. I merely 
 painted it as a type, for that style is not very attractive 
 to me. I like a dark, bright face, flashing with intelli- 
 gence, and brightening with smiles,” and almost un- 
 consciously he glanced towards Claire, who stood on 
 the opposite side of the room, holding Julia by the 
 hand, and speaking earnestly with her father. 
 
 Mrs. Courtna}^ understood the look, and quietly 
 said : 
 
 0 
 
 ‘‘ Yes, I understand that such is your present fancy, 
 but you have had others, and you will have many more 
 yet before the end comes. As an admirer of beauty 
 in all its forms, you doubtless consider yourself entitled 
 to some immunity ; but you must reflect on conse- 
 quences. Hearts may be broken, and homes made 
 desolate without any absolute intention of wrong- 
 doing on your part. I hope you understand me, Mr. 
 Thorne ? ” 
 
 I am sorry to say that I do not. Madam. Your 
 words are an enigma to me.” 
 
 It is one easily solved, then. You gave me leave 
 to examine your portfolio, and I found there something 
 which leads me to think that you are not so free to fol- 
 low your own fancies as you induced me to believe the 
 other day.” 
 
 AYhat is that, pray ? ” was the eager inquiry of the 
 young man. Mrs. Courtnay opened the portfolio, and 
 significantly pointed to a crayon sketch representing a 
 girl and her lover standing, with clasped hands, beside 
 an altar, on which a flame was rising, clear and high. 
 The face of the girl was dimly outlined, but the man 
 was evidently designed for Thorne himself. 
 
162 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Beneath the picture was written, in a delicate, fem- 
 inine hand, Sije te pei'ds^ je suis perdue. 
 
 He set his teeth an instant, and then laughingly said: 
 
 ‘‘It is but a fancy sketch, but I can fill in the face 
 now, for I have found my ideal. Do you observe that 
 this outline has no meaning ? A few touches will give 
 it life and expression.” 
 
 He took up a crayon, and with rapid and accurate 
 hand, completed the head into a striking likeness of 
 Claire. 
 
 “ But the motto written by a lady’s hand,” objected 
 Mrs. Courtnay, as she watched his progress. “ It says 
 a great deal, and I am afraid it was not put there with- 
 out meaning.” 
 
 “ No, for now it has all the significance I could wish,” 
 was the gay response. “ The fair friend who wrote 
 those words only anticipated what the future would 
 bring. She expressed my feelings exactly, for if I 
 lose the angel of my life, I shall be lost.” 
 
 “ It evidently referred to the writer herself,” and 
 she pointed to the last words. 
 
 Thorne calmly bore the scrutiny of her clear eyes, 
 and carelessly replied : 
 
 “ That could not be, for I never loved the person 
 who wi’ote those words. I aver it on the word of an 
 honorable man.” 
 
 “ After such an assurance, I cannot doubt your word, 
 Mr. Thorne,” was the grave response. “ You doubt- 
 less think this inquisition uncalled for on my part ; but 
 since theTuture of Claire is concerned, I feel justified 
 in making it. You have triumphed over M. Lapierre s 
 objections, I find, and I am afraid made yourself only 
 too acceptable to his daughter. But I also am entitled 
 
THE LADY^S TARN. 
 
 153 
 
 to take a deep interest in her fate ; and I entreat, if 
 there is a doubt as to her reception in your family, that 
 you will relinquish your pursuit of her before her 
 affections are irrevocably fixed on you. Save yourself 
 from the reproaches of your friends ; save her from 
 the humiliation and anguish of becoming the cause of 
 dissension between yourself and those who have the 
 best claim on you.” 
 
 With an impatient movement, the lover replied : 
 
 ‘‘There is but one person in existence who has, a 
 claim on my obedience. My father is the only relative 
 I possess, and in a few more days I hope to prove to 
 you, under his own hand, that your fears are ground- 
 less. As to myself, you require too much when you 
 ask me to give up the only girl who has ever touched 
 my heart. I adore Claire, and I will dedicate my life 
 to her happiness.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay sighed : 
 
 “ So all lovers think and speak, but I have known 
 few^ husbands who cared for a wife’s tears after the 
 first glamour of passion subsided. You are a very im- 
 pulsive man, Mr. Thorne, and under the influence of 
 your feelings you may commit an imprudence that you 
 will regret throughout all your future life. Claire is a 
 very attractive and charming child, but she is little 
 more at present. She has no fortune, and her father is 
 a decayed gentleman honestly laboring for his own 
 subsistence. If your father is rich, he will probably 
 take a different view of this affair, and refuse his con- 
 sent to your marriage. If he does, all must end be- 
 tween you at once.” 
 
 “ I have duly weighed all these considerations,” 
 was the prompt reply, “ and I feel assured in my own 
 
154 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 mind that I should risk little in making Claire my wife 
 at once, if that were possible. I shall ha.ve enough for 
 both, and you need give yourself no uneasiness as to 
 her future. I shall protect her from harm and place 
 her in the position she was born to fill.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay smiled faintly. 
 
 ‘‘ Claire is scarcely fitted, to fill any position yet. 
 She is not yet fifteen, though she looks more mature 
 than that. Her education is incomplete, and if M. 
 Lapierre will consent I shall take her to France with 
 me, and place her in a school for the next two years.” 
 
 Thorne looked aghast. 
 
 Two j^ears to be spent away from my darling ! 
 Oh, Mrs. Courtnay, that is asking too much of me. 
 Persuade M. Lapierre rather to give her to me at once, 
 and she can have masters afterward. But she is suffi- 
 ciently educated for me. I love her with all my heart 
 just as she is.” 
 
 “ But your father might not be satisfied with your 
 child-bride, even if you would be. When I bring her 
 back to you an elegant and accomplished woman, you 
 will acknowledge that I am right.” 
 
 Perhaps I might ; but in the interim I might lose 
 her altogether. No one can tell what may happen in 
 so long a space of time, and I ” 
 
 What he might have said further was prevented by 
 the approach of M. Lapierre and his daughter ; and, a 
 few moments afterwards, Mrs. Courtnay left the room. 
 
 Claire, in her light summer muslin, looked as fresh 
 and fair as the flower whose name was so often given 
 her, and she flushed with surprise and pleasure when 
 her eyes fell on the picture of herself and her lover 
 standing with clasped hands above that expressive 
 
THE LADY^S TARN. 
 
 155 
 
 motto. With her soft melodious voice she murmured 
 the words to herself, and cast a glance at Thorne that 
 expressed all he could have asked. 
 
 He leaned toward her, and in a tone so low that she 
 alone understood his words, said : 
 
 Our destiny is foreshadowed there, my Rose ; I 
 drew that form as my ideal wife, but I left the head 
 unfinished until to-day. Now it is complete, and so 
 will our lives be when we stand thus before the altar 
 on which we shall offer the incense of a pure and 
 heartfelt affection.” 
 
 He had not before spoken so plainly, and the unso- 
 phisticated young creature felt as if she was suddenly 
 lifted to the pinnacle of supremest happiness. She sat 
 down, and shaded her face with her hand that he might 
 not see how deeply she was moved ; but she said noth- 
 ing in reply. 
 
 M. Lapierre busied himself in examining the con- 
 tents of the portfolio, and he did not observe the pic- 
 ture Claire still held in her hand. After a careless 
 inspection of the drawings, he curtly said : 
 
 ‘‘ These are well enough in their way, Mr. Thorne, 
 but I scarcely think you could make a living out of 
 your talent, if you had nothing else to depend on.” 
 
 Thorne smiled faintly, for no artist, however humble 
 his pretensions, likes to be so summarily set down 
 among the nobodies of the craft to which he aspires to 
 belong. He said : 
 
 Thej^ are not worth much, I suppose, but thej' 
 possess some value in my eyes. At all events, I shall 
 ever bless the hour that sent me wandering in search 
 of the picturesque.” 
 
 And an expressive glance at Claire gave point to his 
 
 words. 
 
156 the CLAlSTDESTIlSrE MAREIAGE. 
 
 “ Umph ! that’s as may be,” said M. Lapierre, 
 shrugging his shoulders. ‘‘ You are a very romantic 
 young fellow, but the day may come in which you will 
 toss all this rubbish away and v/ish you had never used 
 pencil or brush. The illusions of life are around you 
 now, but the}^ cannot last — more’s the pity.” 
 
 “ Oh, papa, how can you^all these beautiful things 
 rubbish ? ” exclaimed Claire, in an aggrieved tone. 
 They are only studies, you know, but when they 
 come to be finished off as pictures are they will look 
 very different. I am sure they are very lovely in their 
 unfinished state.” 
 
 ‘‘ Perhaps they are to your eyes petite^ but I have 
 seen the old masters and also the best galleries of 
 modern art to be found in Europe. Mr. Thorne has a 
 very pretty talent with which to amuse his leisure 
 hours, but the divine gift of genius is not his. It is 
 of no consequence either, for a young man of fortune 
 would scarcely give up his time to the severe study 
 and labor necessary to make him a great artist. I 
 trust our young friend here will never be reduced to the 
 necessity of earning a precarious support by means of 
 his pencil.” 
 
 ‘‘ Do you really think, sir, that, in such an event, I 
 could not do it ? ” asked Thorne, in a tone of pique, 
 for he was deeply annoyed at the old man’s frank de- 
 preciation of his efforts. 
 
 “ I am quite sure you could not,” was the ready re- 
 sponse. “Friends may flatter you, as they doubtless 
 have, and eagerly possess themselves of your pictures 
 as souvenirs, but if they were asked for an equivalent 
 for them in hard cash, I scarcely think you would find 
 it pay, as you Americans say.’^ 
 
THE LADY^S TARN. 157 
 
 With a constrained laugh, the mortified artist closed 
 the portfolio, and said : 
 
 Thank you for you criticisms, M. Lapierre ; they 
 may be useful to me in the future, and at all events, 
 they have taken the conceit out of me for the present. 
 But here is one sketch that I hope you will appreciate, 
 as it foreshadows what I so earnestly wish to come to 
 pass as soon as possible.” 
 
 The face of M. Lapierre flushed as he looked at the 
 drawing. He slowly said : 
 
 The girl has the face of my daughter, but the form 
 is not hers. This was drawn from a living model, and 
 it was not Claire.” 
 
 ‘‘ It is an ideal figure, modelled unconsciously, per- 
 haps, from a very graceful friend of mine, but until to- 
 day it was incomplete. I shall round the figure more 
 symmetrically, and it will be that of your daughter,” 
 replied Thorne as indifferently as he could. I 
 thought this, at least, would elicit your approbation, 
 but you seem determined to throw cold water on my 
 artistic aspirations.” 
 
 By no means. I approve them as an agreeable 
 means of passing time ; I only wish to impress on you 
 that painting can be no resource to you in the future, 
 if you should be so unfortunate as to forfeit the favor 
 of your father. If you have imagined that you can 
 depend on your talents for fame and fortune, the 
 sooner you rid yourself of the delusion the better for 
 yourself and othersJ^' 
 
 “ Dear papa, what a pitiless judge you are ! ” cried 
 Claire, casting a deprecating look towards her lover. 
 
 But Thorne only laughed, and said : 
 
 ‘‘ Your father is quite right. Rose, but he is the first 
 
158 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 who has ever had the courage to speak so plainly to 
 me. A tour in Europe may open my eyes still further 
 to the defects in my style, and I think I shall make 
 one for that purpose. The study of the old masters 
 may enable me to do something worthy of commenda- 
 tion yet.” 
 
 Yes ; that is all you need, I am sure,” was her 
 eager reply. 
 
 But the old connoisseur cynically said : 
 
 ‘‘ I have seen mere copyists who aspired to nothing 
 higher in the walks of art, who can do more than you 
 will ever accomplish, Mr. Thorne. I have no wish to 
 be rude or to discourage you, but I earnestly desire 
 you to see for yourself that a struggle for the means of 
 living would end in defeat if you had to depend on 
 your artistic gifts as a means of winning them. You 
 are too much a man of the world, however, to risk 
 poverty, should a choice be offered you between that 
 and the indulgence of your own vagrant fancies. My 
 daughter should not have seen this to-day, sir, for it is 
 an infringement of the compact between you and my- 
 self.” 
 
 He drew from the hand of Claire the sketch which 
 she had taken up again when her father laid it aside, 
 and the smile of tender bashfulness, mingled with rap- 
 ture with which she gazed upon it, was exquisitely 
 charming, to the lover, at least ; he forgave even her 
 father’s severe criticisms for the sake of that blush 
 and smile. 
 
 She surrendered it with, a little sigh, and moved 
 away to a distant window, through which she gazed 
 without seeing much of the beautiful scene it com- 
 manded. 
 
 Thorne hurriedly sidd • 
 
THE LADY^S TARN. 
 
 169 
 
 ‘‘ It signifies very little, M. Lapierre, whether your 
 daughter understands our true position to-day or at 
 the end of another week. My letters must soon be 
 here now, and you will see from their tenor that 1 have 
 not imperilled my future by losing my heart to tne 
 angel of the valley.” 
 
 Lapierre frowned, bit his lip, and impatiently re- 
 joined : 
 
 A promise should be held sacred by a man of hon- 
 or, Mr. Thorne ; I had your word that until all doubts 
 were set at rest as to the light in which your father 
 will view the disinterested choice you have made, that 
 3^011 would refrain from betraying your sentiments to 
 m}" child. Since you have failed in this, how can I 
 trust you Avith what is so vital to me, the future wel- 
 fare of my darling ? ” 
 
 Thorne felt the justice of the reproof, but he coolly 
 replied : 
 
 You can and will trust me, M. Lapierre, because 
 you know that loving Claire as I do, I shall cherish 
 her as the apple of my eye. If you will recall your 
 own 5^outh, you will understand how impossible it is 
 for me to control every expression of the passion that 
 fills my heart, when near the object that has inspired 
 it. I have not yet asked Rosine to become my wife, 
 because I promised that I would not do so before the 
 replies to m}^ letters arrive ; but she is aware that 1 
 love her with all my soul, with all my heart, and no 
 one shall come between us to separate us now.” 
 
 The old man sighed, and faintly smiled, for after all, 
 he was pleased with the fire of the 3"oung lover, and 
 oeiieved him to be perfectly honest in his intentions ; 
 perfectl}" fearless as to the result of his application to 
 
160 
 
 THE CLAH^DESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 his father for his consent to the unworldly marriage he 
 was so eager to make. 
 
 No thought of treachery wm in his own honest 
 heart, so he presently said : 
 
 “ Since you are so confident of your father’s appro- 
 bation, there is little chance that any one will come 
 between you. Mrs. Courtnay will scar.cely object to 
 , so advantageous a settlement for her god-child, and 
 she is the only one to be consulted beside mj^self. I 
 shall not live to witness the happiness I trust you will 
 both find in your union ; and after I am gone she will 
 control the actions of Claire.” 
 
 ‘‘ Thank you, sir — but why do you say that you will 
 not live? You look strong and well — ^good for many 
 years of life yet.” 
 
 Yet they will not be granted to me — ^let that suf- 
 fice. I cannot explain myself more fully, for you 
 would be skeptical as to the reality of the presenti- 
 ment that foreshadows my fate. But if I am denied 
 the privilege of watching over my child here, I will do 
 it from that higher sphere, to which I must soon go, 
 and if you are untrue to her, if you use your power 
 over her unkindly, I will torment you myself, or if 
 that is not permitted, I will inspire some earthly influ- 
 ence to avenge her wrongs. Remember this, for I am 
 deeply in earnest.” 
 
 Thorne stared at him f >r a moment, and then laugh- 
 ing lightly, replied : 
 
 “ I scarcely suspected you of such fantastic notions, 
 sir. As to treating Claire badly, that is an impossibil- 
 ity, you know.” 
 
 But the speaker was, at heart, not ill-pleased with 
 the suggestion that the troublesome father might be 
 
THE LADY’S TARN. 
 
 161 
 
 removed by some sudden stroke of fate, and Claire 
 left without a protector who had the right to interfere 
 in Iier affairs. 
 
 Cost what it would to himself or to her, Walter 
 Thorne had determined to marry her at the earliest 
 possible moment, and if Lapierre were only out of the 
 way he felt assured that he could mould the fate of 
 the loving, trusting child to suit himself. He specu- 
 lated vaguely of the future ; wondering what it would 
 bring to them ; but he was resolved to improve the 
 present, without permitting any inconvenient scruples 
 to lie in his way. All must come right, and if it did 
 not — well, then it would be time enough to reflect on 
 the best means of extricating himself from the difficul- 
 ties that might beset his path. 
 
 Selfish and reckless, he ignored the ties that bound 
 him to his betrothed, and was ready to rush into new 
 ones, which he might find himself as anxious to abjure 
 in tliL" time to come. Thorne really persuaded himself 
 that his father would not long refuse his forgiveness 
 when once the marriage was irrevocably made, but if 
 he should prove obstinate, the young man never asked 
 himself what his own course would be. 
 
 His meditations were interrupted by the return of 
 the hostess, who invited them into the library to look 
 over some splendidly-illustrated books which Thorne 
 was anxious to see. The library was a pleasant room, 
 with large windows looking out over the broken coun- 
 try that lay between the Grange and the dilapidated 
 house inhabited by M. Lapierre, with the abrupt cliffs 
 vising in the back-ground, over which a tiny thread of 
 water now flowed. 
 
 The windows had deep recesses in front of them, and 
 10 
 
162 
 
 THE CLA.NDESTINE MARKIAGE. 
 
 Claire sat down in one of these, and looked with a 
 thrill of terror and thankfulness toward the distant 
 spot on which her lover had encountered such perils, 
 and, as she thought, so heroically battled through 
 them. 
 
 The books had little interest for her, for she had 
 been familiar with them from her childhood, and in her 
 present mood, she preferred drea^jiing her own sweet 
 dream, to all the talk on art going on so near her. 
 
 She seemed to have suddenly stepped from child- 
 hood to womanhood ; and young as she was, she began 
 to realize that her destiny for life was settled, so far as 
 her own feelings were concerned. This man, who two 
 weeks before was unknown to her, had appeared in his 
 youth, beauty and power, and made himself master of 
 her fate, almost without a struggle on her part to es- 
 cape the net he was spreading around her. 
 
 She felt that she was his utterly and entirely ; that 
 she would bow to his behests, as the veriest slave, and 
 have no will but that of the autocrat she had so blind- 
 ly chosen. Her love for her father, which had hither- 
 to filled her life, was henceforth a secondary feeling, 
 tliough she reproached herself that it should be so. 
 But some powerful magnetic attraction seemed to draw 
 her to her fate, and in her blind madness, she was 
 ready to say, 
 
 “ I know not, I ask not if guilt’s in that heart, 
 
 I hut know that I love thee, whatever thou art.” 
 
 Claire was too young and trusting to dream of 
 treachery — to imagine that her life might be wrecked 
 at the outset, by the idol she had set up in her heart 
 of hearts as something superior* al] oth<ai 
 
THE LADY’S TARN. 
 
 163 
 
 creatures of mortal mould. All the fantasy of an- im- 
 aginative mind was brought into play to gift her lover 
 with" every noble attribute of humanity, and even a 
 good and true man could scarcely have filled the' ideal 
 of her overwrought fancy. 
 
 How far below it this one must fall when he stood 
 before her in his true colors ; treacherous, false — seek- 
 ing self-preservation at any cost to her ; leaving her 
 to be swept down by the tide of life, to be bruised, 
 perhaps crushed, by the obstacles he had recklessly 
 placed in her path. Ah ! if the curtain could have 
 been lifted, and that sad picture portrayed, how shud 
 deringly would she have recoiled from the precipice 
 over which she was hovering. 
 
 Thorne soon came to her and sat down beside her 
 in the wide window seat, leaving Mrs. Courtnay and 
 her father together. Julia was playing with a favorite 
 old dog, who was permitted to come into the house, 
 and the opportunity of a Ute-a-tete was afforded them. 
 The Frenchman looked after the young man, and 
 gravely shaking his head, said : 
 
 It is impossible to keep them apart, and he is ap- 
 parently so frank and true, that I scarcely know if it 
 would be well for me to attempt doing so.” 
 
 We have both done the best we could,” replied 
 Mrs. Courtnay, and he really seems so much in earn- 
 est that I scarcely know what to say. If all Mr. 
 ITiorne says of himself is true, the future of Claire 
 seems a fair one ; but they must not marry immediate- 
 ly. Should your sad presentiment be realized, I wil] 
 t ake Claire under my own charge, and remove her with 
 me to Europe in the spring, for it is my fixed intention 
 ii) go thither as soon as my son graduates and can ac- 
 conyjaiiy me,” 
 
164 
 
 A CLANDESTINE MAKRIAGE. 
 
 The face of M. Lapierre brightened, and he eagerly 
 replied : 
 
 That will be best. Yes — when I am gone, take 
 her to France. Keep her from this imperious lover till 
 she is old enough to understand herself, and to know 
 if he is the one best suited to her of all the world. 
 At times I have a chilling doubt of it. Something 
 seems to warn me that it will not be well with my dar- 
 ling if she is given over to him entirely. But I may 
 wrong him, for he seems good and noble, and — and he 
 is very much in love with her.” 
 
 Of the last there cannot be a doubt : sudden pas- 
 sions, however, often die out as rapidly as they are 
 kindled, and I wish to test the strength of this. Two 
 years’ probation will suffice for that, and if Mr. Thorne 
 should prove fickle, Claire is too young to be perma- 
 nently affected by it. I promised you that your little 
 girl shall be as carefully looked after as if she were 
 my own daughter, and in one sense she is, for I have 
 promised before God to be a guide and protector to 
 her.” 
 
 Thanks, dear and true friend, for your thoughtful 
 kindness. It lifts from my heart a heavy weight. 
 Claire may need all that you ean do for her — oh ! never 
 desert her ! Be her faults what they may, say that you 
 will stand by her, should all others fail her. Tell me 
 that you will, for something whispers me that she will 
 need you, and the time may come when she will have 
 no other one to look to in her desolation. God help 
 me ! but I seem to see a cloud settling around my dar- 
 ling’s fate that I am powerless to avert. I shall not 
 live to see it close upon her earthly prospects, but you 
 will and you must promise me to stretch forth a saving 
 hand and be a good providence to her.” 
 
THE LADT^S TARN. 
 
 165 
 
 He was so deeply agitated that Mrs. Courtnay re- 
 garded him with compassionate surprise. She gently 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘If you can really foresee events, as you so often 
 declare, you must be a sad prophet of evil, M. Lapi- 
 erre. I pledge you my word that I will do all that is 
 possible to render the life of my god-child prosperous 
 and happy. If misfortunes overtake her, I will not 
 turn my back upon her, even if she should be herself 
 to blame. I assure you that in me she possesses a 
 friend who will never forsake her, so cast your fears to 
 the wind, my dear old friend.” 
 
 “ I will do so from this moment ; my heart is most 
 grateful for this assurance, for I can rely on you. Ah ! 
 if I could only live to watch over her myself, but that 
 I know is impossible. All now left me is, to make my 
 peace with Heaven and prepare to sever myself from 
 the only creature for whom I would wish to live.” 
 
 His head sunk on his breast, and he seemed absorb 
 ed in painful emotion. Mrs. Courtnay said no more, 
 for she hoped this strange hallucination would pass 
 away, for M. Lapierre seemed to be in the enjoyment 
 of perfect health. 
 
 She took up a book and made an effort to interest 
 herself in its pages, but her thoughts wandered far 
 away to her young son, a youth of brilliant promise, 
 who she was aware, had loved Claire from his child- 
 hood. The mother knew that it would be a severe 
 trial to Andrew to give up his early playmate to this 
 stranger, yet if the truth must be told, she was not 
 sorry that the two would now be separated without 
 any interference on her own part. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay was not a very worldly woman, and 
 
1G6 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 she possessed a tender and generous heart ; but she 
 was ambitious for her boy, and she knew that with his 
 advantages of person and fortune he could select a 
 wife far better suited to his. position in life than the 
 lovely daughter of M. Lapierre. She wished Andrew 
 to become a power in the world, and she believed that 
 he possessed the capacity and energy to become a lead- 
 ing spirit in his native land, if he were left free to 
 walk on the path she had marked out for him. She 
 wished him to spend two years at a foreign university, 
 after graduating at William and Mary College, where 
 he now was — travel through the most interesting por- 
 tions of Europe, and then return to Virginia to enter 
 political life. 
 
 Such was the future Mrs. Courtnay had sketched 
 for her fiery and rather unmanageable son, and she be- 
 lieved an early marriage would interfere with it ; 
 therefore it was better for all comcerned that Walter 
 Thorne should have come to the valley to bear Claire 
 away from her boy lover. She had offered to take the 
 young girl to Europe with her, but she intended to 
 place her in a boarding-school where she would be se- 
 cluded from society, and Andrew would go to Germa- 
 ny, so they would not be thrown together after the 
 voyage was over. 
 
 While Mrs. Courtnaj^ thus settled her plans in her 
 own mind, the two who sat in the window enjoyed an 
 uninterrupted tete-d-tete. A sudden shyness seemed 
 to have fallen on Claire, and her soft eyes fell before 
 the ardent glance that rested on her. Thorne kept to 
 the letter of his promise to her father ; he did not ut- 
 ter words of love, but every expression of his mobile 
 face, every intonation of his flexible voice, spoke it 
 
THE LADY’S TARN. 
 
 167 
 
 more eloquently than oral language, and the fair 
 ereature, who understood and responded to these 
 demonstrations, seemed floating on a sea of bliss, over 
 which the sun of her destiny seemed to be rising in 
 unclouded splendor. 
 
 For some moments both had been silent, when 
 Thorne pointed to the distant cliffs and said : 
 
 ‘‘What a magnificent view this window commands ! 
 I must really make a sketch of it before I leave the 
 valley. At this distance, Glenrose — (the fanciful 
 name he had himself bestowed on the ruined home of 
 Lapierre) — ^looks like a pile of ivy-crowned ruins. 
 The river, spanned by the rustic bridge, and the dark 
 back-ground made by the cedar-crowned cliffs, with 
 the Lady’s Tarn below, are fine accessories to the pic- 
 ture. By the way, can you tell me why that name has 
 been given to the dark pool that came so near swal- 
 lowing me up ? ” 
 
 “ It is a sad stoiy,” replied Claire, “and one that I 
 am not sure Mrs. Courtnay would like me to tell.” 
 
 “ Why not ? — she need not know that you have 
 spoken of it. Pray, be good, and satisfy my curiosity, 
 for I wish more than ever to learn the romance con- 
 nected with the spot.” 
 
 Of course Claire obeyed, for she could refuse noth- 
 ing to the man who had made himself master of her 
 heart and life. In a guarded voice she began : 
 
 Mr. Courtnay had an only sister, who, for years, 
 was the belle of the county. She was a very haugh- 
 ty and beautiful woman, but by some strange fatal- 
 ity she became deeply attached to a young man her 
 father had taken into his family as secretary to him- 
 self and steward of his large estate. Young Ran- 
 
168 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 dall was of humble parentage, and of course far be- 
 neath the daughter of the house, but he availed, liim^ 
 self of the encouragement she gave him, and the two 
 were secretly betrothed. 
 
 I dare say he did love her in his way, but what he 
 gave was no fair return for what was lavished on him, 
 as the end proved. Old Mr. Courtnay discovered a 
 plan for an elopement just as it was matured, and 
 there was a dreadful scene, as you may imagine. 
 
 He locked up his daughter in her own room, and 
 then, in place of reviling and driving off her lover, as 
 most fathers would have done, he took what seemed 
 to him a wiser course. He understood the person he 
 had to deal with, and he offered Randall a handsome 
 sum if he would leave the valley forever and hold no 
 further communication with his daughter.” 
 
 Did the craven accept such terms?” asked 
 Thorne, indignantly. 
 
 “ Yes — when finally convinced that he would get no 
 fortune with Miss Courtnay, if he married her, he ac- 
 cepted the father’s terms. He was too poor to burden 
 himself with a fine lady for a wife, with nothing to 
 support her on ; that was his excuse for deserting her ; 
 so he took the money offered him, went away, and was 
 never heard from again, though old Mr. Courtnay 
 Avould gladly have recalled him if he had known 
 where he was to be found.” 
 
 Why was that ? • Did the young lady pine away 
 in ‘ green and yellow melancholy ? ’ ” 
 
 ‘‘Worse than that — she lost her reason, and finally 
 became so dangerous that she Avas kept in close con- 
 finement in the east wing of the house. The family 
 was a very gay one, and the house in those days was 
 
THE LADY’S TARH. 
 
 ir/J 
 
 always filled with company. Of course the presence 
 of a lunatic, who was often violent, was a great source 
 of trouble and inconvenience. The father began to 
 think it would be necessary to send her to an asylum, 
 but just at that time my parents were married, and 
 when old Mr. Courtnay heard X)f it, he wrote and of- 
 fered them the house we now live in, and a sufficient 
 sum to live on comfortably, if they would take charge 
 of his mad daughter. 
 
 ‘^They accepted the offer and came to Glenrose, as 
 you call it; but it was not then a ruin. It was a nice, 
 old-fashioned house, built in the early settlement of 
 the country, and was large enough to afford a suite of 
 rooms for Miss Courtnay at some distance from those 
 occupied by my parents. Old Betty, who now lives 
 with us, was her attendant, and she has told me of 
 these things, for they happened before I was born. 
 
 “ For a few months after her removal the poor 
 young lady was quieter than usual, and papa used- all 
 his skill in her service. He began to hope that she 
 would gradually recover; and she was at length per- 
 mitted to walk about the place without a constant 
 watch being kept upon her. She seemed to have re- 
 turned to her first state of quiet melancholy, and little 
 apprehension was felt of another outbreak of frenzy. 
 
 ‘‘ But a paroxysm came on her one evening when 
 my father was absent from home. She set fire to her 
 bedclothes, locked the door of her room, and went out 
 in the gathering twilight. 
 
 “ My mother was not well, and she was lying down 
 asleep when Betty rushed into her room, with the ap- 
 palling intelligence that the house was on fire, and her 
 young mistress had fled, she could not tell whither^ 
 
170 the ChAJlDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 A storm was rising and a deluge of rain began to pour 
 down, but the fire gained great headway before it fell, 
 and although help came from the Grange as soon as 
 the light from the burning building attracted notice 
 there, that portion of the house which had been occu- 
 pied by the maniac was destroyed, leaving only the 
 thick walls standing. With great effort the part we 
 live in was saved.” 
 
 And Miss Courtnay — what became of her ? ” 
 
 Ah ! that was the saddest part of all. When the 
 fire was at its height, and the whole valley lit up by its 
 glare, wild shrieks from the cliffs on the other side of 
 the stream were heard ; and standing on the large boul- 
 der of rock that saved you from going over the preci- 
 pice, was seen Annie Courtnay, with her hair loosened 
 and streaming around her. She was clapping her hands 
 and shouting with mad glee over the ruin she had 
 wrought ; by that time the rain had swollen the 
 stremm to a mad torrent, and she must have gained the 
 rock before it began to swell. 
 
 How to reach her and save her from destruction 
 was discussed, and several active men set out to scale 
 the cliff, and if possible bring her back safe. She saw 
 them coming — waited till they had gained the tongue 
 of land on which the pine trees grow, and then, with a 
 mocking cry of defiance, threw herself over the preci- 
 pice. In another instant she was swallowed up by the 
 dark waters below ; and never from that day has any 
 vestige of poor Annie Courtnay been found. That is 
 why I gave the pool the name of Lady’s Tarn.” 
 
 Thorne listened with deep interest to this tragic 
 story. He said : 
 
 It was a sad fate, but better even that, than to live 
 
THE LADY’S TARN. 
 
 171 
 
 on in the condition to which Miss Courtnay was re- 
 duced. Oh, yes ; death by any means is preferable to 
 a broken life like that.” 
 
 ‘‘ Perhaps it is,” replied Claire, ‘‘ but it seems to 
 me very weak to sacrifice both life and reason to a 
 false and worthless man. I do not think that I should 
 have done so in her place.” 
 
 Thorne regarded her with an amused smile. 
 
 What, then, would you have done in her place, 
 pHite ? ” 
 
 I can scarcely tell ; but I am sure I should not 
 have broken my heart as she did. If I could gain the 
 power, I believe I Avould try to break the heart of 
 him who deceived me with false promises, as her lover 
 did ; for it was base and treacherous in him to be 
 bought off as he was by the old gentleman. 
 
 So it was : but then you see the poor girl could 
 not reach him ; he was out of her power. If she had 
 been permitted to marry him she would doubtless have 
 tormented him enough — for when a woman makes a 
 misalliance, she is veiy apt to repent of it, and make 
 her home anything but a pleasant place to him who 
 shares it with her.” 
 
 And how is it with men ? ” asked Claire, with a 
 faint smile. 
 
 Oh I that is very different ; a woman takes her 
 position from that of her husband, and he, if the su- 
 perior, lifts his Avife to his own level ; in the other 
 ease, she sinks to that of the man she has chosen to 
 inarvy. I regret having asked you for this sad story, 
 for it has cast a shadow over your bright face.” 
 
 I have cause to feel sad when I recall it, for my 
 mother never recovered from the shock she received 
 
172 the clandestine markiage. 
 
 that night. She faded away and died a few months 
 afterAvard. My father remained in the valley, as the 
 tutor of Mrs. Courtnay’s son, and since Andreev Avent 
 aAvay, he has instructed Julia. That is how you came 
 to find us still occupying the wing of the old house 
 that was not burned.” 
 
 This explanation Avas scarcely finished AAdien dinner 
 Avas announced, and they went into the dining-room, 
 Avhere an abundant and elegant repast was spread. 
 Mrs. Courtnay did the honors of her table Avith hospit- 
 able grace, and her new guest Avas glad to find himself 
 in a house in which all the comforts and luxuries to 
 Avliich he had been accustomed Avere to be found. 
 
 Thorne Avas very grateful to the old Frenchman, and 
 exceedingly in love Avith his daughter, but his fastidious 
 tastes led him to recoil from the extreme simplicity in 
 which they lived, yet Avith Avhich they seemed perfectly 
 contented. If Mrs. Courtnay rencAved her invitation to 
 remain a few days, he determined to accept it, as it 
 would be pleasant to rest in this luxurious nest, and 
 visit Glenrose while Availing the arrival of his letters. 
 
 Left alone Avith Claire for many hours of the day, 
 he Avould find it difficult to refrain from uttering Avhat 
 Avas in his heart, and the sharp reprimand of Lapierre 
 had proved to him that such self-control Avould be ex- 
 pected of him. Here he could talk of art with his 
 hostess, find books to interest him, and find it easier 
 to be on his good behavior than if throAvn hourly Avith 
 the object of his passion. 
 
 So, after a very pleasant afternoon, Avhen Mrs. 
 Courtnay said : 
 
 ‘‘ I shall be glad if I can induce you to prolong your 
 stay at the Grange a fcAV days, Mr. Thorne,” to rhe 
 infinite surprise of Claire, he replied : 
 
THE LADY’S TARN. 
 
 173 
 
 “ Thank you, dear Madam, T think I will accept 
 your kind invitation, and thus remove all doubts of 
 my perfect good faith from the mind of M. Lapierre. 
 I will remain your guest till my letters arrive.” 
 
 The old man’s face brightened, and he held out Ids 
 hand, as he heartily said : 
 
 That is well, sir, and I thank you with all my heart. 
 It will be better for many reasons that you should re- 
 main here. I know that you will not think me inhos- 
 pitable for speaking thus, Mr. Thorne?'” 
 
 By no means ; we fully understand each other, I 
 think. In a few more days I shall be able to claim the 
 right to come as often and stay as long as I please, and 
 I warn you I shall avail myself of it.” 
 
 He glanced at Claire, but she had drawn a thick vail 
 over her face, to conceal the disappointment she keenly 
 felt, for she had not believed that her lover would con- 
 sent to be left behind. He drew near her, and whis- 
 pered : 
 
 It is best so, Rosebud. Ever near you I could 
 not restrain the feelings that are ready to burst into 
 words at every glance of your lovely eyes. Youi 
 father has some fantastic notions that I am bound to 
 respect — and I must keep in his good graces. Think 
 of me, dream of me, sweet one, for I shall come to 
 you in triumph before long, bearing 'in my hand the 
 talisman that will give me the right to speak of all that 
 is in my heart.” • • 
 
 She gave him her hand in silence, and stepping into 
 the carriage, was whirled away by the side of her 
 father. 
 
174 the clandestine MARKIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 THE DIE IS CAST. 
 
 ALTER THORNE could not deny himself the 
 
 T T gratification of seeing his new idol every day, and 
 he rode out on horseback, ostensibly for the benefit 
 of his health, but really to give an opportunity to call 
 at Glenrose and deepen the impression he had made 
 on the little maiden who dwelt theie. 
 
 Claire, after the first call, spent the most of her 
 time in wondering when he would come again, and in 
 watching for him with her heart upon her lips. Her 
 life, so lately as tranquil as the clear stream that rip- 
 pled past her door, had become a wild, impetuous tor- 
 rent of doubt, hope, dread, and passion, that took from 
 her budding youth all its gentle trust in the future. 
 
 Slie felt as if she had grown older by years since this 
 disturbing element came into her quiet life, yet she 
 would not have gone back to what she was before she 
 knew Walter Thorne. She accepted the lot he had 
 brought her, be it for good or for evil, and shrank from 
 nothing if endured with him, for him. When togeth- 
 (*r, though no word of love was spoken, each under- 
 stood the other as well as if the most impassioned pro- 
 testations had been exchanged, and both were supreme- 
 ly happy in the consciousness of loving and being- 
 loved with all the depth and intensity of two fiery 
 natures, that responded to each other as the opposing 
 poles of an electric battery. 
 
 On the fourth day after Thorne’s removal to the 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 
 
 176 
 
 Grange, the mail brought him four letters. Three of 
 them we have already seen ; and the fourth one he 
 tossed aside till the others had been perused. He 
 shouted with mad laughter over Wingate’s foi’gery, 
 wondering how he could express himself so properly 
 in the paternal character ; but he sobered down con- 
 siderably when he saw what his friend had to say for 
 liimself. 
 
 Still graver grew his face as he read the angry pro- 
 test of his father and his irate commands to return im- 
 mediately to his allegiance to his betrothed. He sat 
 grasping this letter in his hand a long time, marvelling 
 if the writer would really carry out his threat of disin- 
 heritance, if he pursued the bent of his own inclina- 
 tions. His lip finally curled contemptuously, as he 
 muttered : 
 
 The old fellow is a terrible blusterer, but, like 
 Falstaff, there is more sound than fury in his threat- 
 enings. I won’t give up to him. I must secure this 
 fascinating little gipsy as my own, or my destiny will 
 be marred. What is the use of all his money if I, his 
 only son, cannot purchase with it the happiness of my 
 life ? He declares that he won’t give it to me if I dis- 
 obey him ; but that is all bosh. I will bring him round 
 yet, and make him think my Rosebud the most en- 
 chanting being in existence.” 
 
 In his wild dream of the impossibilities he was try- 
 ing, in imagination, to bring about, he forgot the fourth 
 letter ; and, when his eye suddenly fell upon it, he 
 slirank as if a serpent had stung him. 
 
 He lifted the dainty envelope, addressed in a lady’s 
 hand; and, tearing it open, drew forth the enclosure, 
 and read the following lines : 
 
176 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 “ Willow Glen, July 22d, 18— ^ 
 
 Dear Walter : — Mr. Wingate tells me that yon 
 tave been ill, and I was not near you to nurse you 
 back to health ; to prove to 3^011 how tender and true 
 T can be in the shadows, as in the sunshine, of life. 
 
 I can write to you thus freel}^, because our posi- 
 tion gives me the right to show you how much 3^011 
 are to me, how fondly my heart clings to the betrothed 
 
 of my soul. 
 
 */ 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, Walter, how deepl3^ I felt 3mur strange depart- 
 ure, so soon after our betrothal, I cannot tell 3^11 ; but 
 I would not believe that lack of love for the girl 3mu 
 had asked to become 3mur Avife Avas the cause of 3mur 
 sudden escapade. Art has so long been your mistress 
 that you were loth to give her a rival who Avould pos- 
 sibly be so exacting as to draw jon from your first 
 love if you remained beside her. I tried to under- 
 stand that, and excuse your desertion. I did pardon 
 it, for deep and earnest affection is fertile in excuses 
 for the object on which it is lavished. 
 
 But now my heart begins to fear that it was not 
 well for you to leave me ; that you Avruld have been 
 safer beside me than in wandering so ! ir aAvay. You 
 are ill in body and, I begin to fear, indifferent in feel- 
 ing, to her Avhose happiness is centered in you alone. 
 
 “ Come back to me, Walter ; something Avhispers to 
 me that your heart has wandered from its allegiance, 
 but the inconstancy can onl3^ be temporar}^'; 3^11 are 
 bound in honor to me, and you dare not break tlie 
 bond you 3murself formed. My pride and m3^ affec- 
 tions are equally outraged at the thought of such Avant 
 of faith on your part, and I will not think such treach- 
 ery from you is possible. 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 
 
 17 V 
 
 ‘‘ I have read over what I have written, and I am 
 strongly tempted to destroy it ; yet, why should I dc 
 so? After the vows that have been exchanged be- 
 tween us, I have the right to express my feelings with- 
 out reserve. 
 
 Mr. Wingate came to me last evening to say that 
 you had written to him, though not to me ; some 
 things he said gave birth to such pangs of jealous 
 doubt as you will never have cause to feel on my ac- 
 count. He spoke of the people you are with, and 
 casually betrayed that you had been nursed by a 
 pretty and interesting girl. 
 
 ‘‘ Ah, Walter, when weakened by illness, and grate- 
 ful for attention to your comfort, you may come to 
 think too tenderly of this young creature. I only 
 speak to warn you, for I can never submit to have a 
 corner in your heart given up to another woman. 
 Come away from these people, I entreat ; pay them as 
 liberally as possible in gold for the kindness they have 
 extended to you, but not in the heart’s coin, for that 
 belongs exclusively to ive. 
 
 By this time you aie able to travel, I hope, and I 
 shall look for you from day to day till you make your 
 appearance among those who love and appreciate you 
 far more highly than mere passing acquaintances can. 
 
 Your devoted Aones. 
 
 Thorne read over this effusion with clouds d brow 
 and compressed lips, and he began dimly to . ee that 
 he was in a dilemma from which it would be difficult 
 to extricate himself. He saw that his betrothed 
 would not lightly surrender her rights, and he feared 
 that she would use her efforts to keep alive the anger 
 11 
 
178 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 of his father against him, if he persisted in his present 
 course ; for he knew that Agnes Willard possessed 
 greater influence over the passionate and haughty old 
 man than any one living. To bring about a union be- 
 tween himself and Agnes had been, for several years, 
 the most earnest desire of Colonel Thorne’s heart ; 
 and Walter knew if she wished to hold him to the 
 pledges he had made, his father would never forgive 
 him for deserting her. 
 
 He began to think himself a madman to dream of 
 such a course himself, for ruin stared him in the face 
 if he were eventually cast off. He was unfitted for 
 any pursuit in life ; he had been an idler, and a man 
 of leisure, with a handsome allowance, which he often 
 exceeded ; what could he possibly do towards winning 
 his bread if he found himself thrown on his own re- 
 sources, was the question he vainly asked himself. 
 
 The criticism of M. Lapierre had opened his eyes to 
 the inferiority of his pictures ; and even if his talent 
 was above mediocrity, years must elapse before he 
 could hope to win such a reputation as would enable 
 hini to live by his art. 
 
 So much said common sense. Then arose before 
 him the enchanting face that had so completely be- 
 witched him, and all the passionate impulses of his na- 
 ture surged up, demanding wh)^ he should sacrifice 
 himself and his happiness at the bidding of an unrefi- 
 Bonable old man, who possessed the power to disin- 
 herit him. 
 
 Colonel Thorne would not eventually do it, he per- 
 suaded himself; he could not, for Ke was an only 
 child, and when his father knew the deed to be irre- 
 vocable, he must relent. To whom should he give 
 
THE DIE IS CAST. 
 
 179 
 
 his wealth but to his natural heir ? And as to Agnes 
 Willard, she had many lovers, and among them she 
 could find one to console her for his desertion. 
 
 Thorne glanced over her letter again, and thought 
 she asserted her rights too strongly. It was not maid- 
 enly to write as she had written. She would be jeal- 
 ous as a Turk, too, that was evident enough, and he 
 must pass a happier life with Claire than she would 
 give him, even if his heart was not so deeply en- 
 thralled by her rival. Both loved him, but how could 
 he place the affection bestowed by the impulsive child 
 of nature, in comparison with that cherished for him 
 by a cold, self-reliant woman like Agnes Willard ? 
 Besides, she was quite as old as himself, and her rival 
 was a budding Euphrosyne with all the exquisite 
 charms of early youth, combined with a depth of feel- 
 ing and sensibility, as rare at her age as it was fascin- 
 ating. 
 
 As might have been expected from the character of 
 the man, the scale turned in favor of Claire, and 
 Thorne forthwith destroyed the two letters written by 
 his father and Agnes ; the remonstrance of Wingate 
 also shared the same fate ; then armed with the spuri- 
 ous consent of Colonel Thorne, to his speedy union 
 with the object of his pursuit, he sought Mrs. Court- 
 nay, and displayed it to her in triumph. 
 
 After carefully perusing it she gravely said : 
 
 ‘‘ I am glad that your father throws no obstacle in 
 the way of your marriage with Claire ; but I am sorry 
 that he seems to desire an immediate union, Mr. 
 Thorne. I still adhere to my opinion that she is too 
 young to marry, and I shall oppose anytliing beyond a 
 betrothal for the present.” 
 
180 the clat^destine marriage. 
 
 He laughingly replied : 
 
 ‘‘We will settle about that, Mrs. Courtnay, and due 
 weight shall be given to your objections. I must 
 hasten now to Glenrose to display my credentials. I 
 am impatient to see the bright eyes of my beauty flash 
 with joy and pride, when she reads what I have to 
 show her.” 
 
 He sprang down the steps, waved a farewell, 
 as he mounted the horse which had been brought 
 around for his evening ride, and galloped off in the di- 
 rection of the Glen. 
 
 Reckless and determined, Thorne was by this time 
 in a mood to sacrifice everything to the attainment of 
 the object he so ardently desired to possess. He 
 would trust to Providence to bring all right in the 
 end, and in the meantime he would have his own way, 
 cost what it might to himself or to Claire. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 THE BETROTHAL 
 
 r|i;iORNE found M. Lapierre sitting on ilie portico 
 Xal()i:e, and the young lover sprang from his steed, 
 flourishing the open letter above his head. 
 
 “ Eureka ! victory ! ” he exultingiy exclaimed. 
 “ Did I not tell 3^ou, sir, what the result of my appli- 
 cation to my father would be ? Read that, and see 
 how fully and freely he consents to my marriage ; how 
 anxious he is to serve you. He knows something of 
 your former high estate, it seems, and he has sympathy 
 for a fallen star of the financial world.” 
 
THE BETBOTHAL. 
 
 181 
 
 Thorne was very much excited, and in the triumph 
 of the moment, he completely ignored the fraud he 
 was about to impose on this honest old man. M. La- 
 pierre, with some trepidation, took the offered letter, 
 glanced over it, and, with a gratified smile, said: 
 
 This is as explicit as I could wish, and very, very 
 kind, I am sure. So your father has really heard of 
 me ; and in the exuberance of his goodness, he offers 
 me a position among men again. I thank him deeply, 
 sincerely, but it is too late — too late. I shall write to 
 him myself, and express my feelings both with refer- 
 ence to myself and my daughter. If he will be kiud 
 to her, it is all I ask of him. For myself, it is too late 
 to do anything.” 
 
 ‘‘ I am sorry to hear you say that, sir; but we must 
 see about it in the future. Just now I have but one 
 thought, and that is for Rose. I may seek her now, I 
 suppose, and win from her a promise to become my 
 wife!” 
 
 Yes, but at some distant day ; that is understood, 
 and I have already given my word to Mrs. Courtiiay 
 that Claire shall go to Europe with her.” 
 
 ^’'Diahle!'' arose to the lips of Thorne, but he re- 
 pressed the exclamation in time, thinking that he would 
 gain his own point yet in spite of them. He had not 
 plunged himself in a web of deceit and falsehood to be 
 baffled now. He calmed his impatience, and quietly 
 said : 
 
 I have heard of that plan, and perhaps it will be as 
 well to defer our union till Claire is older ; but I must; 
 tell her all that is in my lieart, M. Lapierre, and witli 
 your permission, 1 will seek lier. By the way, when 
 your letter to my father is written, transfer it to me, 
 
182 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 and I will address, and forward it with own. I 
 shall hardly know how to thank him for the happiness 
 he has conferred on me.’’ 
 
 Lapierre smiled and nodded acquiescence, and 
 Thorne disappeared through the door. He heard the 
 tones of the violin, and followed them to the sanctum 
 of Claire. He had often been there before, but only 
 as a guest ; now he felt as if he entered it as master 
 of the retreat, and its lovely owner. 
 
 Claire, in a white dress, with a few roses in her 
 shining hair, sat near the window practising an air her 
 lover had taught her ; but at the sound of the firm 
 step that rang upon the floor, she started up flushing 
 with joyful welcome. She saw the letter he held up, 
 dropped the instrument at her feet, and sprang a few 
 steps towards him, eagerly crying : 
 
 “ It has come — all is right, for your face tells me so.” 
 
 Thorne caught her to his heart, and, for the first 
 time, showered kisses on her brow and lips. 
 
 ‘‘ It is right, my darling, my own — my heart’s love. 
 I am free to win you as fast as I can ; at last I can ex- 
 press what has been struggling for utterance for days 
 past, and you can listen without reproach. But you 
 are not to listen alone, my angel ; confirm in words 
 V hat I liave guessed, that you love me as ardently as I 
 do you ; is it not so, rose of my life ? ” 
 
 She hid her face upon his breast, and the faint 
 ‘‘ yes ” that issued from her lips was scarcely audible, 
 1)11 L Thorne understood it, and he embraced and kissed 
 her again, till she shrank from him, abashed and trem- 
 bling. 
 
 Claire sat down in one of the large chairs, and her 
 lover placed himself on a cushion at her feet, that he 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 183 
 
 might look up into her face, and read the exquisite 
 changes that flitted over it, each one, he thought, more 
 entrancing than the one that preceded it. 
 
 With the abandon of a boy just freed from restraint, 
 he poured forth the love that was in his heart, though 
 he carefully guarded the treachery of which he was 
 conscious through all his happiness. But he soothed 
 his sense of wrong-doing by the proverb that all is 
 fair in love and war,” and, in spite of the misgivings 
 that would intrude, he was, for the moment, as fool- 
 ishly enraptured as if his prospects rested on the most 
 stable foundations. 
 
 He had cast care to the winds, never dreaming that 
 tliey were likely to nurse it till it burst in a tornado 
 over himself, and the innocent object of his reckless 
 pursuit. He believed himself ready to brave every- 
 thing for her sake ; yet he did not once ask himself if 
 he would stand by her in the hour of need, and defend 
 her cause in defiance of all the world. 
 
 Unconscious that she would have a cause to sustain 
 ill the enchanting future that opened before her, Claire 
 listened to the raptures of her adorer, and responded 
 to them in her own sweet way, till he thought the 
 world well lost for the possession of such a treasure. 
 
 When twilight began to gather, M. Lapierre came 
 in to join them, and the two descended from the radiant 
 heaven to which they had been transported, to the 
 prosaic realities of common life. 
 
 The supper of fruit, cream, and tea cakes, had been 
 hud in the front yard under the shade of the trees, for 
 I Jett}" had discovered that the bare and comfortless 
 (lining-room was not to the taste of the young auto- 
 crat, who, she had shrewdness enough to see, was rap- 
 
184 the CLAISTDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 idly establishing a strong foothold in the house that 
 had sheltered him. 
 
 Thorne had further propitiated her by laying aside 
 his tone of levity when he addressed her, and by the 
 present of a few gold pieces, which the old woman was 
 not suflSciently disinterested to refuse. 
 
 The white folks thought all would be right,” she 
 argued with herself ; ‘‘ so why shouldn’t she believe 
 in so liberal a gentleman as Mr. Thorne ? ” 
 
 The little party found the table decorated with fresh 
 flowers, and the alfresco repast was enjoyed as much 
 as was possible under the circumstances. Thorne was 
 the only one who had much appetite for the dainty 
 fruit and rich cream ; but he was recovering from ill- 
 ness, and therefore the. excitement of his feelings did 
 not prevent him from doing justice to the good things 
 set before him. 
 
 When Betty brought a cup of hot tea to each one, 
 Thorne took it from her waiter, and said, with eyes 
 sparkling with mischief : 
 
 You need not attempt to stand guard over your 
 young lady and myself any longer, Mrs. Betty. Every- 
 thing is settled ; and I have permission to make love 
 to her as m.uch as I please. Ask papa there, if it is 
 not true ? ” 
 
 Claire blushed and laughed, and Lapierre gravely 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘Yes, Betty ; this young gentleman is to be my son 
 at some future da}^ It is right that so faithful a ser- 
 vant as you have been, should be told of it.” 
 
 “ Bless de Lor’ for all his mercies,” cried the old 
 woman, devoutly ; “ I’s allers thought dat my Rose- 
 bud would come to be a gran’ lady. I only hopes as 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 185 
 
 she’ll be as happy as she’s sweet and innercent. De 
 good man looks after his own, an’ he’ll keep her in his 
 han,’ I hopes and believes. I’ll pray for her every day 
 of my life, as I allers has ever since she was born.” 
 
 And I hope yon will give me the benefit of some 
 of your prayers, too, old lady, for I am afraid I sadly 
 need them,” said Thorne, half mockingly, half in 
 earnest. 
 
 “ You speaks de trufe, now, young man; but we’s 
 tole dat de believin’ wife shall save de unbelievin’ hus- 
 ban’ : an’ when you has an angel to walk through de 
 work wid you, in course you’ll git worf lookin’ arter 
 by de blessed Marster. But I’ll ax him all de same to 
 have a sharp eye on you, an’ keep you in the way you 
 should go.” 
 
 The young lover laughed gleefully at this, and said : 
 
 “ Of course, with Claire to look after me, you to 
 pray for me, and the Good Master to guide me, I shall 
 not be apt to falter in well doing. But I intend to 
 try and make your Rosebud happy, I assure you, Mrs. 
 Betty.” 
 
 In course you thinks so now, sir ; but I wonder 
 what you’ll do when trouble comes on you, as it must 
 to all ye til’s creatures. You’s a quick speakin’ young- 
 .ster, an’ our Rosebud ain’t bein’ used to nuffin but 
 pettin’ an’ sweet words. You must ’member dat, Mr 
 Thorne,” 
 
 ‘‘ As if I should be likely to forget it,” and he 
 hushed slightly under the old woman’s fondness for 
 lecturing. 
 
 ‘‘ That will do for the present, Betty,” said Lapierre. 
 " Remove the things now ; and you, Claire, had better 
 retire to your retreat, and leave me a little while with 
 Mr. T^eorne. I wish to speak with him in private.” 
 
186 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 His orders were obeyed, and he and Thorne paced 
 to and fro beneath the trees, talking earnestly. The 
 tones of the younger man’s voice were several times 
 raised in vehement remonstrance, but in spite of his 
 arguments in favor of an immediate marriage, all he 
 could gain from Lapierre was the promise that a for- 
 mal betrothal should take place that evening before 
 they separated. Thorne was forced to concede that 
 Claire should complete her imperfect education before 
 their union took place. Deeply chagrined as he was at 
 this, he consoled himself wdth the certainty that his 
 own influence over the object of his choice would place 
 her fate absolutely in his power, and he fully intended 
 to use it to circumvent her father’s wishes. 
 
 He smoothed his brow, as he heard the sound of 
 approaching wheels, and in a few more moments Mrs. 
 Courtnay drove to the gate, and alighted from her 
 carriage. 
 
 “ It is late to come over,” she said, “ but I felt anx- 
 ious about what is to be settled to-night, and I could 
 not remain at home.” 
 
 Thorne lightly said : 
 
 ‘‘ I am glad that you have joined us, Mrs. Courtnay, 
 for things have been settled to your satisfaction. You 
 have won and I have lost, for M. Lapierre will not 
 consent that I shall have my bride at once. My friends 
 will be disappointed at the result of my wooing, but I 
 find my old friend here immovable.” 
 
 There was a tone of deep chagrin in his voice, and 
 Mrs. Courtnay gently replied : 
 
 ‘‘ The time will come, Mr. Thorne, in which you will 
 acknowledge that we are right to retain Claire among 
 us till she is better fitted for the position in which you 
 
THE BETROTHAL 
 
 187 
 
 wish to place her. I have sufficiently discussed this 
 subject with you and you fully understand my wishes 
 with regard to my god-child. To carry them out will 
 be for your mutual benefit.” 
 
 ‘‘So you may think, madam; but I cannot agree 
 with you. Pure and perfect happiness is rarely found 
 on this earth, yet you deny it fruition to Claire and 
 myself. You wish to separate her from me, that she 
 may be taught to be conventional and worldly, while I 
 prize her for the sweet simplicity that is her most at- 
 tractive charm. I wish for no change in her ; I adore 
 her as she is.” 
 
 “ I comprehend that ; but it does not alter my con- 
 victions as to our duty to our child, Mr. Thorne. I 
 expect you to chafe a little under your disappointment. 
 You would not be a true lover if you did not ; but you 
 are too reasonable not to yield gracefully to the wishes 
 of M. Lapierre.” 
 
 He rather sullenly replied : 
 
 “ Of course I must yield. There is nothing else left 
 me ; but I cannot do it with a good grace. Since 
 nothing more is to be gained, I consent to the betroth- 
 al, as that will, in some sort, bind Claire to me.” 
 
 The three went into the house together, and in a few 
 moments entered Claire’s retreat. The room was bril- 
 liantly illuminated, and, as usual, decorated with fresh 
 flowers. The young girl, herself the fairest flower of 
 them all, stood beside a music-stand, looking over its 
 contents. Her cheeks were flushed, and her eyes bril- 
 liant with the new light of love that flooded her whole 
 being ; and in her heart she wished that she was mis- 
 tress of her destiny, for she would have left both father 
 and friend to follow him she had learned to love so 
 trustingly. 
 
188 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay went forward, and tenderly kissing 
 her, said : 
 
 I have come to witness your betrothal, Claire, for 
 I felt sure Mr. Thorne would not defer it beyond this 
 evening. Dear child, do not tremble. It is a simple 
 ceremony, and will soon be over.” 
 
 ‘‘ I do not tremble with fear, but with happiness,” 
 whispered the young girl, as she buried her face in the 
 maternal bosom that had been her refuge in all her 
 childish troubles. ‘‘ Oh, mamma^ that Walter should 
 have chosen me from all others — that he should be 
 willing to lift me to an equality with himself, seems 
 too great happiness for an obscure creature like my- 
 .self.” 
 
 “ My dear Claire, you must not underrate yourself. 
 In everything, save fortune, you are quite Mr. 
 Thorne’s equal. A wife must claim the respect as 
 well as the affection of her husband. Remember that, 
 my love, and maintain your own' dignity. 
 
 Claire faintly laughed at the last suggestion, for she 
 was too much of a child to dream of dignity in connec- 
 tion with herself. She lifted her beautiful eyes, and 
 glanced slyly towards her father and lover. Lapierre 
 gravely said : 
 
 “ Mj^ daughter, I have formally consented to a be- 
 trothal between yourself and Mr. Thorne, and as he is 
 anxious to have the ceremony over, we have come 
 hither for that purpose. Give him your hand, and re- 
 peat such a form of words as you may think necessary 
 to keep you true to each other, through the two years 
 of probation that have been settled on.” 
 
 Thorne sprang to her side, drew Claire to the centre 
 of the floor, and clasping her hand in a fervent press- 
 ure, said, in a loud vibrant voice : 
 
THE BETKOTHAL. 
 
 189 
 
 “ I pledge my love, my life, my honor to you^ 
 Claire Lapierre, and vow before Heaven that you 
 shall become my beloved and cherished wife, as soon 
 as I am permitted to make you such, and in token of 
 my faith, I place upon your finger this ring which was 
 once my mother’s.” 
 
 . As he slipped on the ring — a plain hoop of gold, 
 which he had worn on his little finger — Claire, with 
 perfect self-possession, spoke in her turn : 
 
 “ And I accept your troth, Walter Thorne, and give 
 you in return my promise to cling only unto you. To 
 love you, to be true to you through all the chances 
 and changes of life, and to hold myself ready to ratify 
 these vows at the altar whenever the consent of my 
 father permits me to do so.” 
 
 A voice from the door cried out ‘‘Amen,” and all 
 turned to see who had intruded on this scene. 
 
 A small, fair man, wearing a long, flowing black 
 robe, with an ebony cross hanging from the girdle that 
 bound his waist, stood in the doorway. Lapierre ap- 
 proached him with words of eager welcome. 
 
 “ Dear Father Jerome, what has brought you to our 
 valley again ? I have been most anxious to see you, 
 and you never could have arrived at a more opportune 
 moment.” 
 
 “Thanks, my son. I have come back to make the 
 Happy Valley my abiding place so long as I tarry on 
 earth. I have been compelled to relinquish my wan- 
 dering life, and my missionary duties are at an end. I 
 find that I must have a settled home on account of my 
 rapidly failing health.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay and Claire came forward with ex- 
 tended hands and smiles of welcome, and Father 
 Jerome said : 
 
190 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 My daughters, I give you my blessing ; and this 
 young gentleman is entitled to it, too, I presume, from 
 the scene I have just witnessed.” 
 
 He gave one hand to Mrs. Courtnay, and laid the 
 other on the head of Claire , as he thus spoke, looking 
 earnestly at Thorne, as if expecting an avowal of his 
 religious faith. 
 
 Lapierre seemed embarrassed, and hastened to say : 
 
 I dare say I have been very much to blame, but 
 until this moment it had never occurred to me to in- 
 quire of Mr. Thorne to what church Tie belongs. In 
 fact, as Claire’s mother was a Protestant, I have been 
 more careless than I otherwise should.” 
 
 The priest gravely said : 
 
 You were the stronger party in that contract, and 
 you allowed your wife the exercise of her own faith. 
 Will this young man be equally lenient with Claire, if 
 he is not one of ourselves ? ” 
 
 To this query Thorne hastened to reply, in such a 
 manner as to make a friend of the speaker, who, ho 
 foresaw,' might be made useful in the future. He re- 
 spectfully spoke : 
 
 “ Holy father, I belong to no sect of Christians, but 
 I am anxious to receive such instruction as will fit me 
 to choose among them. The church to which my be- 
 trothed bride belongs I will gladly enter if I can be 
 convinced that it is the true one.” 
 
 Father Jerome warmly grasped his hand, for he was 
 most earnest in the calling he had embraced from the 
 convictions of his own heart, and he thought he saw 
 before him a promising proselyte to the ancient faith 
 he firmly believed to be the only true one. 
 
 He spoke with solemn and impressive dignity. 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 191 
 
 “ My 8on, the heart that is open to conviction is al- 
 wa3^s a noble and faithful one. We will talk seriously 
 together at a more fitting time, and I hope to be able 
 to convince you where true salvation is to be found. 
 I am glad to know that this pet lamb of my flock will 
 not fall into unworthy hands, for I have loved her 
 from her babyhood.” 
 
 The priest looked so feeble and worn that Claire 
 hastened to place a chair for him, and he sunk into it 
 breathing heavily. 
 
 “ Dear Father, I fear that you have over-exerted 
 yourself,” said Mrs. Courtnay ; you seem very much 
 exhausted.” 
 
 It is the weary travel in the hot sun that has so 
 overcome me. I have walked many miles with this 
 haven of rest in view. I am failing rapidly, my 
 daughter, and I have come back to the old place to 
 yield up my spirit in its peaceful shades. But to 
 the will of God I resign myself.” 
 
 ‘‘“I trust that He will not decree that you shall be 
 taken from us in the midst of your days,” replied Mrs. 
 Courtnay, with emotion. “ I have often wished for 
 your return, and now that we have you back with us, 
 we will nurse you into strength and usefulness again.” 
 
 He shook his head, already silvered over, though he 
 had not passed his fortieth year, and mournfully re- 
 plied : 
 
 That may never be, for my labors are nearly end- 
 ed. But I did not come hither to cast a gloom over 
 my friends, and above all, I would not bring the 
 shadow of doom into a house that has just witnessed 
 the betrothal of two young and happy hearts.” 
 
 Claire had flitted out, and she now returned, follow* 
 
192 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ed by Betty, bearing a waiter on which refreshments 
 were placed. The old woman asked and received the 
 benediction of her spiritual father, and then bustled 
 out to complete the preparation of the tea which she 
 knew would prove the best restorative for the weary 
 priest. 
 
 Father Jerome had for years lived the hard and la- 
 borious life of a missionary", wandering from one moun- 
 tain district to another, wherever the followers of his 
 faith were to be found, occasionally spending an inter- 
 val of repose in the valley among the cultivated friends 
 he found there. Mrs. Courtnay had erected a small 
 chapel on her place, in which he officiated when in the 
 neighborhood ; and near it was a secluded cottage 
 which she had often pressed him to accept as a perma- 
 nent home. 
 
 Hitherto he had refused to give up his wandering 
 life, but now he had come to avail himself of the 
 promise she had made him, that the place should be 
 opeii to him whenever he felt himself willing to accept 
 it. A violent cold, contracted during the previous 
 winter, had settled on his lungs, and the priest knew 
 that his days were numbered, so he came to the friends 
 lie loved best to die with them. 
 
 When he had refreshed himself, Mrs. Courtnay 
 dieerfully said : 
 
 Your cottage is ready to receive you, father, for I 
 have had it kept in order for your reception at any 
 hour ; but you must spend a few days at the Grange 
 with me before you take formal possession.” 
 
 Tlianks, my dang] iter ; I knew that I should find 
 your benevolent lieart open to my necessities ; there- 
 tnre I came to } ou and to niy old friends here to minis- 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 193 
 
 ter to me when I am no longer able to suffice to my- 
 self. I liave not spared myself hi this service of others, 
 but it is better ‘ to wear out than to rust out.’ What 
 lias become' of the young people, and how is it that 
 I find Claire a betrothed bride while the crown of 
 childhood is yet upon her j^oung brow ? ” 
 
 With some reluctance, Lapierre explained how 
 Thorne came into the valley ; how ill he had been, 
 and how Claire had been compelled to play the part of 
 nurse to him. But he hastened to say that the cere- 
 mony Father Jerome had witnessed was not to be fol- 
 lowed by an immediate marriage. 
 
 The priest listened attentively, and then said: 
 
 It was unfortunate that the young man was thrown 
 on your hospitality, but it was fate, I suppose. I do 
 not ajiprove of long engagements ; they rarely end 
 well. If this Mr. Thorne is all you tell me ; if he can 
 secure the future of Claire, I think you will do well to 
 allow the marriage to take place without any unneces- 
 sary delay. They seem to be very much in love with 
 each other, so why should you postpone their happi- 
 ness ? ” 
 
 But Claire is so very young, as you yourself re- 
 marked just novn” 
 
 Yes — I was surprised that you had suffered things 
 to go so far, but having done so, it will be best to com- 
 [)lete the affair, for Claire will consider herself as much 
 bound to this young man as if the blessing of the 
 church had been pronounced over them ; and he, when 
 he leaves her, may consider himself free to go upon 
 his way, and forget his pledges to her. The poor 
 child will be left in a very disagreeable position.” 
 
 “ Really, father,” said Mrs. Courtnay, “ I scaicely 
 
 12 
 
194 the claxdestkxk marriage. 
 
 expected you to take sides \vit!i*Mr. Thorne — for lie is 
 most anxious to have his marriage concluded at once. 
 I hope you will not express your views before him, for 
 I have set my heart on taking Claire with me to Europe 
 next spring.” 
 
 ‘‘ Of course I shall not place myself in opposition to 
 her father’s wishes,” was the grave response. ‘‘ I 
 merely expressed my own convictions. I do not ex- 
 pect either vou or M. Lapierre to be influenced by 
 them.” 
 
 While this conversation went on Claire and her lovei 
 were out in the summer night beneath the stars talk- 
 ing such sweet nonsense as lovers like to hear ; utter- 
 ing vows of eternal constancy, and planning the ideal 
 life they would spend together in those days when they 
 would be permitted to walk hand in hand upon the 
 path of life. ^ 
 
 Thorne at length said : 
 
 ‘‘ But, Claire, I wish to claim you now. Two years 
 are so long to wait, and you will soon be removed so 
 far away. Oh ! my darling, if I do not claim you 
 within a month, I have a presentiment that something 
 will happen to separate us forever.” 
 
 ‘‘ But what can happen, Walter? The time seems 
 long, but it will soon pass away, and however distant 
 fiom you I may be, my heart will be ever with you — 
 my thoughts will always hover around you. If I go 
 with mamma, it will only be to render myself more 
 worthy to become your wife.” 
 
 “ I know — I understand all 3^011 can say on that sub- 
 ject ; but j^ou are all that I wish now. If — if — Oh, 
 Rosebud, listen to me, and yield to my prayer. You 
 are mine by a solemn ceremony now ; consent to make 
 
THE BETROTHAL. 
 
 195 
 
 that irrevocable without the knowledge of your father, 
 and all will be well. He will forgive us when it is 
 over. Speak, my angel — tell me that you will become 
 really mine, and I shall be the happiest and proudest 
 of men.” 
 
 Claire shrank from him, and hurriedly said : 
 
 “ Don’t tempt me to do wrong, Walter. Papa would 
 forgive me, but he would lose faith in me and also in 
 you, if we deceived him. My heart is traitor enough 
 to him without giving him this final blow.” 
 
 So you prefer sending me from you, miserable and 
 despairing, sooner than take your fate in your own 
 hands. Oh, Claire, if you loved as I do, you could 
 not be so cruel. I would defy the world for your sake. 
 I would pass through fire to win you, and you refuse 
 me what I have almost the right to demand after what 
 has passed here this evening.” 
 
 She stood white and trembling, uncertain on which 
 side her duty lay, but at length she faintly said : 
 
 Dear Walter, if you could look into my heart, you 
 would not say that your love for me is deeper or truer 
 than mine is for you. When I listen to you I have no 
 power to resist you, so pray be generous, and aid me 
 to do what is right. My word is pledged to my fath- 
 er, and I must not break it, reproach me as you will. 
 Neither can I bear the thought of a separation from 
 you. It seems to me that I shall die if you leave me 
 alone after this dream of heaven has opened to me.” 
 
 Yet I must go, since you refuse to give me the 
 hand I so ardently covet. My father is a very singu- 
 lar and imperious man, and if you do not return with 
 me as my wife, so great is his anxiety to see me mar- 
 ried, that he will be capable of insisting that I shall 
 
196 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 give my hand to a young girl he has long been most 
 anxious for me to marry. Of course I shall resist his 
 commands, but in doing so I shall disobey him as 
 much as you will your father if you marry me clan- 
 destinely.” 
 
 Claire did not see the sophistry of this argument. 
 She tremulously said : 
 
 ‘‘ Your father must indeed be a very strange person 
 to require such submission, when he knows that you 
 are attached to me. Have pity on me, Walter — do 
 not urge me any more, for I dare not wound my poor 
 old father by acting as you wish. He is not strong, 
 and — and I do not know what the result might be.” 
 
 Thorne saw how much excited she was — how weak 
 in her resistance — and he triumphantly thought that a 
 few more efforts would bring her to the terms he had 
 dictated. 
 
 At that crisis voices were heard issuing from the 
 portico, and Father Jerome came out with Mrs. Court- 
 nay, followed by Lapierre. Before entering her car- 
 riage, Mrs. Courtnay took leave of Claire, and said : 
 
 Come to me to-morrow, my love, for I have much 
 to say to you. Father Jerome will talk seriously to 
 Mr. Thorne, and I hope he will ratify all the pledges 
 he gave this evening.” 
 
 You must not doubt his perfect sincerity, mamma,” 
 was the whispered reply : ‘‘ for I know that Walter is 
 the soul of honor.” 
 
 “ I trust so, my love, for your sake. Now bid Father 
 Jerome good night, for I am going to take him away 
 with me.” 
 
 “ I am sorry for that, but of course you have tlie 
 best right to him.” 
 
THE W4RXING VERIFIED. 
 
 197 
 
 The pallid priest placed his hand upon the head of 
 the young girl, and gently said : 
 
 You have my blessing, my child, and my prayers 
 for your happiness. You may be the means of bring- 
 ing back a stray lamb to the fold, and Heaven will 
 reward you for it in its own good time.” 
 
 Claire reverently raised his hand to her lips and 
 deprecatingly replied : 
 
 ‘‘ I am afraid, father, that I have thought more of 
 the earthly happiness of my betrothed than of his 
 eternal welfare.” 
 
 ‘‘ But now we will think of both, daughter. I shall 
 talk with Mr. Thorne, and convince him that being 
 one with you in faith will make him more completely 
 one with you in affection and happiness. Farewell, 
 my child, I shall see you to-morrow at the Grange.” 
 
 Thorne found an opportunity to exchange a few ten- 
 der words with his betrothed before leaving, and in a 
 few more moments the old Frenchman and his daugh- 
 ter were left standing together in the silent yard. 
 
 CHAPTER XL 
 
 THE WARNING VERIFIED. 
 
 A S the sound of the carriage wheels died away in 
 the distance Lapierre said : 
 
 Come with me, iny darling, for a little while. I 
 am* unaccountably depressed by what has happened 
 here this evening ; it is selfish in me, but I feel as if I 
 have given another more power over you than I pos- 
 
198 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MAREIAGE. 
 
 sess myself. Sit near me, Claire, and let me feel that, 
 now your betrothed is away from you, you are all my 
 own again.” 
 
 He entered the portico and threw himself upon the 
 wide bench that was placed against the wall ; Claire 
 brought a low chair from the house and nestled down 
 beside him^ with her soft hands clasping his. She ten- 
 derly said : 
 
 Dearest papa, I love you dearly ; indeed I do, 
 though I have given my troth to Mr. Thorne. Do not 
 feel jealous of the affection he has won — it is so differ- 
 ent from that I cherish for you.” 
 
 Ah, yes — so different. I know — I understand, for 
 I have loved myself ; I know how exacting, how all- 
 absorbing first love is. I do not think I could bear 
 the certainty that another has taken from me the 
 highest place in your affections, if uij life were to be 
 prolonged. But God is merciful, and he takes me 
 from the trouble that must have come at some time, 
 though I scarcely looked for it so soon.” 
 
 Oh, papa ! don’t talk so ; I cannot bear it. Why 
 should you, of late, always speak of death in connec- 
 tion with yourself? ” 
 
 Because I am an old man, now, and the thought 
 of the inevitable is most familiar to me. But I do not 
 wish to sadden you, Claire, on this evening, which 
 should be so happy to you. You have pledged your- 
 self to your lover, and I trust that he will prove wor- 
 thy of trust. I shall not live to witness your union 
 with him ; nay, do not interrupt me, child ; I must 
 speak the truth to you, and you must listen to me with 
 calmness. I cannot bear any more excitement this 
 evening ; my heart is beating its funeral march now. 
 Feet its rapid pulsations.” 
 
THE WARNING VERIFIED. 
 
 199 
 
 He drew her liand over his heart, and with dismay 
 she felt the wild force with which the blood was rush- 
 ing through it. She faintly asked : 
 
 “ What does this mean, papa ? Wliy have you con- 
 cealed from me the suffering you must long have 
 borne ? What is it ? — oh, wnat is the cause of this ? ” 
 
 Lapierre lifted the hand tenderly and impressively 
 replied : 
 
 ‘‘It is the premonitory warning sent to all of my 
 race when death draws near. A little while, and you 
 will be fatherless — there — ^hush that cry, and listen to 
 me, Claire, for I feel as if I must no longer delay 
 speaking with you on the subject of your future.” 
 
 “ Oh, papa, papa, it breaks my heart to hear you 
 talk in this way.” 
 
 “ Hush, my darling — don’t unnerve me. What I 
 am about to say may console you, even for my loss. 
 Until to-night I have been opposed to an early union 
 with your lover, but something Father Jerome said to 
 me has caused me to take a different view of your po- 
 sition. It may be better to have your marriage over 
 soon — God knows if I am right, and I am so anxious 
 for your welfare when I am removed from you, that I 
 can scarcely judge fairly.” 
 
 With a movement of joy, Claire pressed his hand to 
 her lips, but he checked her when she would have 
 spoken : 
 
 “ Mrs. Courtnay will oppose'an early marriage, and, 
 if you choose, she will take you with her to France 
 and perform a mother’s duty by you. Should you 
 elect to go with her, seek your brother — ^bear him my 
 forgiveness, and use your influence to make him a 
 good man. Ah ! he was once the pride and joy of my 
 
200 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 life, but he suffered another to come between us — to 
 draw him from the path of honor'-— but that is all past 
 and gone now. He is my son — ^your brother — and I 
 do not wish to keep my children altogether apart.” 
 
 never wish to see him or to hold any communi- 
 cation with him,” said Claire, in a faint tone. “He 
 has been a neglectful son to you. After ruining you 
 he has forsaken you through all these years, leaving 
 you to labor in poverty for the bread you ate. Don’t 
 ask me to seek him, papa, for I can never do it.” 
 
 “ But it has not been altogether his fault, my child, 
 for I have withheld from him the knowledge of my re- 
 treat. Among my papers will be found proofs of the 
 debt he owes me, and to you he must repay it. He is 
 rich — he was once liberal, and for you he must do 
 what I have disdained to accept for myself.” 
 
 “ Don’t ask me to accept money from Armand, when 
 he has denied it to your necessities. I could not take 
 it from him. You make me wretched, papa, hj talk- 
 ing as if you were going to leave me forever.” 
 
 “Not forever, my darling ; beyond the grave we 
 shall one day be re-united, and that thought sustains 
 me now. I will not press the subject on you, Claire, 
 but hereafter, when you recall what passed between us 
 this night, you v/ill try to do what I wish. I feel very 
 much worn out and depressed, but I am not worse 
 than I have often been of late. I think a good night’s 
 rest will restore me to my usual state ; but I shall die 
 suddenly, Claire, and I wish to prepare you for the 
 shock ; that is why I have spoken to-night as I have 
 done. But you need have little fear that anything 
 will happen to me yet awhile. I only wish to say to 
 you, that when I am gone, if Father Jerome consents 
 
THE WARNING VERIFIED. 
 
 201 
 
 to unite you with your lover, in place of going to 
 France, you may decline the bounty of Mrs. Courtnay, 
 and go with the man of your choice.” 
 
 Claire uttered a low cry of. mingled pain and joy. 
 She said : 
 
 Why, papa, after the words I used this evening 
 when I gave my troth to Walter, your consent places 
 my fate at his disposal, and you knoAv how anxious he 
 is for a speedy marriage.” 
 
 ‘‘ But my consent is conditional. While I live I 
 will keep you near me ; when I am dead if the priest 
 approves, give Mr. Thorne your hand without any un- 
 necessary delay.” 
 
 The feelings of the young girl were divided between 
 joy and dread. The words of her* father filled her 
 heart with fears for him, while it bounded wildly at 
 the prospect so unexpectedly opened of an early union 
 with her lover. She gathered from his words that 
 Father Jerome was in favor of it, and deeply she 
 thanked him, unconscious that the day would speedily 
 come in which she would have bitter cause to regret 
 the view he had taken of her position and, in his anxi- 
 ety to secure, her fortune, had irrevocably wrecked it. 
 
 She kissed her father, and said : 
 
 I cannot thank you as I should, papa, for all your 
 tender and undeviating kindness to me. But* you 
 have talked too much already, and I think you had 
 better try to repose now. It is past your usual hour 
 for retiring, and your voice begins to fail you. To- 
 morrow you will think more cheerfully of yourself, 
 and I trust that you will yet be spared to me many 
 years.” 
 
 Perhaps so ; I only wished to prepare you for the 
 
202 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 shock when it comes, but I scarcely know what im- 
 pelled me to speak on this subject to-night. I will go 
 in now, but, after I am in bed, come to me with your 
 guitar, my child, and sing to ine some of the grand old 
 anthems you can render so effectively. 
 
 Lapierre arose and left her to think over the min- 
 gled joy and sorrow he had left with her ; and, be- 
 tween the two the excited girl felt as if she must be- 
 come hysterical ; but she controlled herself and seek- 
 ing her instrument, went into the simple dormitory in 
 which her father slept. 
 
 The moon-beams were streaming through the open 
 window, and Claire sat down in the soft light and 
 commenced her labor of love. She had often soothed 
 him to sleep in \he same manner, but never had her 
 voice sounded to him so thrillingly sweet as on this 
 night, though there was the sound of tears in it as she 
 gave utterance to the sublime strains that floated out 
 on the still air in all their solemn beauty. 
 
 Lapierre lay half entranced by the melody, with his 
 eyes fixed upon the fair face of the musician, mentally 
 praying that she might be saved from all harm — that 
 the life which lay before her might be one of purity 
 and peace. 
 
 Alas, poor father ! God was good to remove him 
 from the evil to come ; yet, had a longer lease of life 
 been granted him, he might, perhaps, have warded off 
 the direct part of the fate that was already closing 
 around his idolized child. 
 
 The old man found that the music excited, in place 
 of calming him ; and when Claire at length paused 
 and glanced toward the bed to see if he was sleeping, 
 he said : 
 
THE WARNING VERIFIED. 
 
 203 
 
 “ That will do for to-night, my daughter. I shall 
 sleep presently, but my nerves are so unstrung that 
 j^our charming lullaby has not produced its usual se- 
 dative effect. Come aFd kiss me, and then go to rest 
 yourself, for it is growing very late.” 
 
 Claire came to his side, and after kissing him several 
 times, she sat down on the chair beside the bed and said, 
 “ I am not tired, papa, and if I went away it would 
 only be to think by myself of what you so lately said. 
 If you let me stay with you a-while I had rather 
 be near you. Give me 5^our hand, and I will see if I 
 cannot magnetize you to rest.” 
 
 He placed his hand in hers, and she started as she 
 felt how^ cold and nerveless it felt. She held it be- 
 tween her soft palms, stroking it gentl}^ ; and after a 
 few moments, the restored circulation seemed to bring 
 new vitality to it. Many times he clasped the tender 
 fingers that sought to minister to him, murmuring 
 blessings upon her, but gradually he seemed to sink off 
 into a quiet sleep ; and softly disengaging her hand, 
 Claire imprinted a light kiss upon his wrinkled brow, 
 and left the apartment. 
 
 It was very late before she slept herself that night — 
 the feverish dread of the doom her father seemed to 
 t consider almost upon him held in abeyance the thrill 
 of joy with which she had learned that his views with 
 regard to her long separation from her lover, had un- 
 dergone a change in their favor. 
 
 She scarcely thought of Thorne during these long 
 hours of fear and doubt, for the dread was in her 
 heart, that the father who had been all the world to 
 her for so many years might be snatched from her at any 
 moment. She shuddered as she remembered his words 
 
204 the CLAISTDESTINE MAKRIAGE. 
 
 that night, and again began to feel the dull thud that 
 vibrated through his breast when she placed her hand 
 ipon it. She knew now that he was the victim of 
 heart disease, which, she had often heard him declare 
 :o be beyond the reach of medical skill. 
 
 Not long would this tender father be spared to her, 
 and in the silence of the night Claire vowed to re- 
 main with him to the end, in spite of the entreaties of 
 her betrothed to share with him the beautiful life 
 they had planned that evening beneath the quiet stars. 
 
 It was long past midnight before sleep came to weigh 
 down her eyelids, and then she slumbered profoundly, 
 for she was young and weary with the varied emotions 
 of the day she had just passed through. 
 
 Claire was usually up with the sun, but the next 
 morning she did not wake till old Betty came in with 
 an expression of bewildered fright upon her face, and 
 stood beside her couch. The woman laid her hand 
 upon the sleeper’s shoulder, and, in a husky voice, 
 said : 
 
 It’s late. Miss Claire ; you must get up to onct 
 and come out’n dis, for suffin’s happened. Oh, blesser 
 Lor’ ! dat I should have such a tale as dis to tell to dis 
 poor motherless chile.” 
 
 Claire started up wide awake at once, and the ashen 
 gray hue of Betty’s face filled her with alarm. She 
 rapidly asked ; 
 
 VvTiat is it, mammy ? What can have happened 
 to make you look so ? You seem frightened out of 
 your wits. It is very late. I have overslept myself. 
 Have you seen papa this morning ? Though, .of course, 
 you have ; he was not well k^st night, but I hope he is 
 better to-day.” 
 
THE WARNING VERIFIED. 
 
 205 
 
 Claire spoke quickly and almost at random^ for 
 something in tlie old woman’s face had communicated 
 to her mind an unspeakable dread of what was to fol- 
 low. 
 
 Yes, he’s better — he’s a deal better, but he aint 
 up yet,” said Betty, phtting a strcfng constraint upon 
 herself, for she feared the effect of the sudden an- 
 nouncement of the truth. You git up an’ put on 
 yer close. Miss Claire, an’ come to yer breakfus ; yer 
 pa don’t want his yet awhile.” 
 
 Claire sprang out of her bed, thrust her feet in a 
 pair of slijDpers, and threw on a dressing-robe, as she 
 hurriedly said : 
 
 He is ill, then. I must go to him at once and see 
 what is the matter.” 
 
 As she attempted to pass from the room, the old 
 woman threw herself before her. 
 
 Don’t ye go now, don’t ye, missy — ^yer fader don’t 
 want ye yit. I’s bin in to see him, an’ he’s — he’s ” 
 
 She broke down and, with a wild, affrighted look, 
 Claire sprang past her, dashed through the intervening 
 apartments, and entered that of her father. 
 
 M. Lapierre lay Avith his face turned to the door in 
 the same attitude in which she had left him on the 
 ]>revious night. Even the hand she had placed upon 
 his breast did not seem to have been moved from its 
 position, and on his face was that look but once seen 
 on that of any creature of mortal mould — the ineffable 
 serenity stamped there by the angel of Death ! 
 
 Claire knew the truth at once — his spirit had pass- 
 . ed away as she glided from his room believing that he 
 only slumbered; and she sank half insensible beside 
 his inanimate form. 
 
206 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 But the pang of this sudden bereavement again 
 aroused her to a full sense of the calamity that had 
 fallen on her, and she cried out in her anguish : 
 
 “ He is gone — ^gone away from me forever, Ah, my 
 father is cold — cold ! and I left him to breathe away 
 his life alone, with ‘no one near him, to receive his last 
 sigh — oh, I cannot bear it ! I cannot bear it ! ” 
 
 Betty had followed her closely, and she now took 
 her in her arms as she had done when she was a child, 
 and soothingly said : 
 
 ‘‘ Don’t take on so, my lamb. You’s allers bin good 
 to him, an’ I hearn you a-playing to him las’ night to 
 quiet him. Ah, he’s quiet enough now, poor soul! 
 but you mustn’t break your poor heart. Thai — thar, 
 my pretty I don’t look so wild. Come wi’ mammy, an’ 
 let her comfort you.” 
 
 Claire struggled faintly, but the old woman held her 
 firmly in her grasp, and she at length submitted to be 
 borne from fhe chamber of Death. 
 
 When she again placed her young mistress upon her 
 bed, Betty said : 
 
 ‘‘ Dere, yer may cry as much as yer likes now, my 
 precious, but you must’nt go back yonder. I’s sent 
 Pluto up to de Grange to tell de mistis what’s happen- 
 ed here, and somebody’ll be down directly to ’tend to 
 things.” 
 
 Then — then you have known it for some time ! 
 Why was I not called earlier ? Oh, mammy, I shall 
 never forgive myself for caring for any one else more 
 than I did for him. He has loved me all his life, too, 
 and he has broken his heart because I permitted 
 another to come between us. I know it is so, and I do 
 not deserve ever to be happy.” 
 
THE WARNING YEEIFIED. 
 
 207 
 
 “ Don’t talk dat way, Miss Claire. De Good Man 
 has tuck yer pa from yer, case He wanted him up 
 yonder where yer ma’ has waited for his cornin’ so 
 long. Think how happy dey is together dis blessed 
 mornin’, and take comfort to yer poor heart. De bless- 
 ed Marster never sens sorrow widout sendin’ help to 
 bear it ef we ax for it in de right way. When I went 
 inter de room o’ de old gemplin dis mornin’ an’ foun’ 
 not him but de shell he had lived in here, I was 
 mightily scar’t ; I ’suited wi’ my ole man, an’ he told 
 me to let ye sleep as long as I could, for t’would be 
 hard enough upon ye when ye did wake up. An’ I 
 minded him an’ let ye alone till I thought the folks 
 would be cornin’ down from de Grange an’ den I wak- 
 ed ye. Now, my Rosebud, put on yer close an’ fix up 
 yer hair, for Father Jerome will be here ’fore long, an’ 
 I know he’ll want to see you.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes ; I must see him,” said Claire. 
 
 And she mechanically arose and, with Betty’s assist- 
 ance, made her toilette. 
 
 This was scarcely accomplished when the sound of a 
 carriage stopping at the gate was heard, and in a few 
 more moments the bereaved girl was pressed to the 
 heart of her maternal friend. Claire related to her all 
 that had taken place on the previous night after her 
 godmother left her, and after calming her emotion as 
 much as possible, Mrs. Courtnay said : 
 
 Your father has had lately a strong presentiment 
 of his approaching fate, but he did not expect his sum- 
 mons to come so soon. He talked to me about his 
 death, and arranged what was to be done with you in 
 such an event. You are my child now, Claire ; by the 
 desire of your father I am to stand in the place of a 
 
208 the clandestii^^e makriage. 
 
 parent to you. My dear love, you know that, as fai 
 as 1 can, I will be to you as tender a protector as he 
 was who has left us.” 
 
 Yes, he told me. You are very good, mamma^ and 
 I love you dearly ; but no one can be to me Avhat my 
 poor old father was. Yet I left him to die alone — I 
 slept while he lay cold and lifeless so near me. Ah, 
 why could not some good spirit have been sent to warn 
 me of his condition, that I might have gone to him 
 and tried to save him.” 
 
 ‘‘ My love, such regrets are natural to one so sud- 
 denly bereaved as you have been, but no effort of yours 
 could have arrested the blow. You could have done 
 nothing for him — his death was painless, for it is evi- 
 dent that he passed from sleep into the rest prepared 
 for those who love and serve God. You know that 
 your father was a good Christian, and the thought that 
 he is now with the spirits of the blessed made per- 
 fect should console you. There, my child, bow your 
 head upon my breast, and weep till the fountain of 
 your tears is exhausted, but do not take blame to your- 
 self for what you could not help.” 
 
 Thus soothing and caressing the afflicted daughter, 
 Mrs. Courtnay passed an hour, and she succeeded in 
 calming the first violence of her grief. Father Jerome 
 then came in to see her, and the tender sympathy he 
 manifested for her — the divine consolation he offered 
 for her — at length quieted the tempest of remorse, for 
 Claire, in her heart, believed that the events of the 
 last two weeks, had hastened the fate of her father. 
 Thorne came later in the day, but she refused to see 
 him, and he was glad to escape from the gloomy house 
 of mourning, ana return to the Grange. 
 
THE WAR^TIKG YERIFIED. 
 
 209 
 
 AxTangements were made for the funeral, and on the 
 second day after his decease, Lapierre was laid to rest 
 in the graveyard of the Courtnay family beside the 
 yor.r.g wife who had been waiting there for him nearly 
 fif .'on years ! 
 
 Vhe old house was left to the care of Betty and her 
 husband, and Claire returned home with Mrs. Courtnay 
 to remain with her as the child of her adoption. 
 
 In that interval she had scarcely seen Thorne, but 
 he had daily written her most affectionate and sympa- 
 thetic letters, and went further towards consoling her, 
 than all the tender kindness lavished on her by her 
 god-mother and the good father. Yet if Thorne’s heart 
 had been looked into Claire would have found there 
 little real grief for the loss she had sustained. Isolated 
 and lonely as she now was, he felt almost certain that 
 he would triumph over such opposition as she could 
 offer to a clandestine marriage, and he did not despair 
 of bringing over the priest to his side. 
 
 He had spared no efforts to win golden opinions froni 
 Father Jerome. He had professed his willingness to 
 be convinced by his a'rguments in favor of his own 
 church, for it was of little importance to Walter Thorne 
 to what sect of Christians he nominally belonged. To 
 gam the desire of his heart he would have become a 
 Mussulm.an or a Parsee with equal indifference. Claire 
 was the deity he worshipped, and in his heart was no 
 thought of the sacredness of the pledges he was so 
 ready to give, provided they would enable him- to carry 
 out his own views. 
 
 On the day after Lapierre’s decease, he occupied the 
 time in writing replies to the letters he had received 
 To Wingate he dashed off* the following lines: 
 
210 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 “ Happy Y alley, August 1, 18— 
 
 “ Dear Bob : — You have been true to me in oae 
 sense, and treacherous in another. In the name of all 
 the Furies, why did you betray anything to the old 
 man ? Don’t you know well enough what a firebrand 
 he is, and how unreasonable he can be in his tantrums. 
 
 ‘‘I have a disgusting letter from him, threatening 
 all sorts of absurd penalties if I do not return home 
 at once, and play the part of a dutiful son ; a mawkish 
 one from Agnes, throwing herself fairly at my head, 
 and reminding me that I am bound to her in honor. 
 
 “After all, still and cold as she seems, she has 
 courted me more than I have her, and I submitted like 
 a fool to have the net thrown over me, which she is 
 ready to tighten, till there will be no escape from it. 
 
 “ You don’t know what it is to have love pulling 
 you one way, and interest another ; for it would be a 
 serious thing with me if the governor were to carry 
 out his threats, and really disinherit me. Reading 
 over your letter of remonstrance, and pondering on 
 his too plainly-expressed intentions, has brought me 
 face to face with the reality of the risk I have been so 
 ready to run, and I am consequently partially restored 
 to reason. 
 
 “ I have left the house of the old Frenchman, and 
 am at present at the Grange, as the guest of its mis- 
 tress, a middle-aged lady, with whom I am not likely 
 to fall in love. So much for the prudence of my course, 
 “ I am not yet well enough to travel, but I shall 
 leave this neighborhood as soon as possible, and com- 
 plete the tour I sketched out for myself in the begin- 
 ning of the summer. I shall not return to L till 
 
 the time appointed for ray marriage approaches, for 
 
THE WARNING^ VERIFIED. 211 
 
 neither my father nor Agnes shall abridge the few 
 weeks of freedom left me. I will write to them both, 
 d set their fears at rest, so far as my good faith to 
 i hem is concerned. 
 
 The letters yon so cleverly forged have been de- 
 stroyed, so yon need have no nneasiness abont them. 
 1 am mnch obliged to yon for complying with my 
 Avishes with reference to them ; bnt it was a nseless 
 tronble so far as I am concerned. The yonng girl with 
 whom I was so deeply infatnated, is to go to France in 
 a fcAv months to complete her education ; so yon see 
 that I am safely ont of that scrape, serions as it threat- 
 ened to be. 
 
 Since yon made mischief with the old man, the 
 best yon can do is to set him right abont this affair, 
 and dissipate the storm yon have raised. Yon may 
 direct yonr reply to Richmond, as I contemplate a visit 
 there, and I shall not linger mnch longer in the Happy 
 Valley. Yohrs, repentingly, W. Thorne.” 
 
 That will do, I think,” he mnttered, as he glanced 
 over the lines he had written. Wingate has served 
 my turn, and now he mnst have dnst thrown in his 
 eyes like the others. I shall leave the Happy Valley, 
 bnt I will take with me all that I valne in it. I will 
 not be baffled in that, come what will in the fntnre. 
 And now for the old man.” 
 
 Thorne seized his pen again, and, with a sneer on 
 his handsome face, wrote : 
 
 Happy Valley, August 1, 18—. 
 
 My Dear Father : — Yonr strange letter is before 
 me, and I mnst confess that I was snrprised and hnrt 
 by its abrupt tenor. T do not know what Wingate may 
 
212 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 ha\ e told you to put you in so violent a passion, but 
 whatever it was can be readily explained by me. 
 
 I met with an accident that came near being fatal, 
 and was ill in consequence of it. I was received in the 
 house of an old French emigre, and his daughter, a 
 mere child, but a very pretty one, was my nurse. I 
 was very grateful to ‘lier ; but the rhapsody I wrote to 
 Bob must have been penned under the influence of 
 partial delirium. I have not now the slightest recol- 
 lection of what I said, but, of course, it was wretched 
 nonsense. 
 
 ‘‘‘ I was so unfortunate it seems as to mislead Win- 
 gate as to the warmth of my feelings toward this 
 young girl ; and when your letter came I felt that I 
 had been very foolish to write to him as I did. 
 
 ‘‘ You need have no uneasiness concerning me, for 
 I have left the old man’s ruinous abode, and am now 
 the guest of a middle-aged lady, whose penchant for 
 art induced her to offer me her hospitality. As soon 
 as I have regained my strength sufficiently to resume 
 my wanderings, I shall leave the valley, and complete 
 the tour I planned before setting out from hdme ; so 
 you need not look for me back before the time agreed 
 on. 
 
 “ 1 can easily make all straight with Agnes, who, by 
 the way, has counselled me to pay my kind entertain- 
 ers lii)erally. I am most anxious to take her advice, 
 iuid I beg that you will send me a handsome remit- 
 tance for that purpose. Having thus discharged my 
 debt, I will shake the dust of the valley from my feet, 
 and go upon my way. Your affectionate son, 
 
 “ Walter Thorne.” 
 
 “And now for my last and most difficult task,” be 
 
THE WARNING VERIFIED. 
 
 213 
 
 thought. How am I to set the jealous fears of 
 Agnes at rest, and at the same time not infernally 
 commit myself. I do not know that sho would use 
 my letter against me ; but she might, and I should be 
 in a pretty scrape. She is not a woman to be slighted 
 and thrown off with impunity ; but her pride will 
 surely prevent her from suing me for breach of prom- 
 ise. I must be lover-like, or her jealousy will blaze up, 
 and spoil my game at the outset. I know that I am 
 getting into an awful mess ; but I’ll risk being blown 
 sky-high to gain such a dainty, darling, little Rosebud 
 as the one I have found here. When it is done, and 
 she is mine beyond recal, those who have lured me 
 into this other entanglement may make the best of it.” 
 
 In spite of his lightness of nature, and lack of truth, 
 Walter Thorne shrank from the task before him. 
 With a face strongly expressive of disgust, he wrote : 
 
 Happy Valley, Aug. 1, 18—. 
 
 ‘‘ My Dearest Agnes : — Your letter, containing 
 so much that is soothing to my heart, and also much 
 that is bitter to my pride, came safel}^ to hand, and I 
 need not tell 5^ou with what eagerness it was read — 
 with Avhat interest each sentence written by your hand 
 was dwelt on. 
 
 ‘‘ My dear girl, I was sorry to see what influence 
 Wingate’s nonsense had with you. He does not al- 
 ways stop to consider the effect his words may have, 
 and he often jumps to conclusions that facts will not 
 justify. 
 
 “ I should have written to you, in place of to him, 
 and told you of the accident that had happened to 
 me, but I was suffering from fever, and my mind was 
 not clear enough to venture on doing so. I must have 
 
214 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 sent him a precious lot of nonsense, which he should 
 have kept to himself, and I was surprised to find that 
 he had not done so. 
 
 I had a narrow escape from drowning the day I 
 entered this enchanting valley, and the drenching 1 
 got made me quite ill. I have been nursed by good 
 Samaritans, to whom I am very grateful, and one of 
 them, as you have been informed, was a young girl of 
 whom you condescend to be jealous, 
 
 “ My dear Agnes, if you could see what a mere 
 child she is, how unformed and ignorant of the world 
 and its ways, you would lay aside all fears as to my 
 constancy to yourself. 
 
 ‘‘ You will be convinced how unfounded they are 
 when I cell you I have left her father’s humble home 
 and am now the guest of Mrs. Courtnay, a wealthy 
 widow, with a grown-up son, who has ‘kindly invited 
 me to remain in her house till my convalescence is 
 complete. 
 
 ‘‘It is not, however, my intention to linger here 
 much longer, for I wish to continue the tour this acci- 
 dent has interrupted, and I shall bring you back some 
 charming sketches of the scenery I have passed 
 through. I asked for three months of perfect freedom, 
 mid it was granted by yourself and my father, and I 
 shall hold you both do your agreement. 
 
 “ After my marriage I can scarcely take so wild and 
 scrambling a tour, as this has been, for you would ex- 
 pect me to settle down and play the part of a dutiful 
 Benedict, so pray do not seek to abridge the few 
 weeks I can devote to my art witli a clear conscience. 
 
 “1^3^ the fifteenth of October I shall make my ap- 
 pearance in L , ready to complete the most iinpor* 
 
THE WARNING VERIFIED. 
 
 215 
 
 tant event iji my life. Till then, adieu, dear Agnes, 
 and cease to torment yourself with jealous fears con- 
 cerning me. I am a man who cannot be chained 
 down by conventional rules, and I should only recoil 
 from those who attempted to control my freedom of 
 action. At the time mentioned you will see me in 
 L , and my destiii}^ will then be settled. 
 
 Yours truly, W. Thorne.” 
 
 With a clouded biow and compressed lips Thorne 
 read over what he had written, and muttered : 
 
 It is the best I can do, but it is unsatisfactory. It 
 commits me decidedly, yet it will not entirely reassure 
 that jealous and exacting girl. I escaped from her be- 
 cause I knew she'd tie me to her apron-string, and ex- 
 pect me to play the part of a puling, love-sick fool. 
 Heigho ! I begin to think I had better have done 
 that than have come here to risk all my prospects in 
 life, for the sake of a bewitching little angel, without 
 a shilling of her own. 
 
 “ I wish I could break away from Rose and do the 
 honorable by Agnes, but that is impossible. The die 
 is cast by the old man’s death, and if my charmer will 
 consent to go with me, I will risk everything for her 
 possession. If she refuses, why then I'll go back and 
 sacrifice mj^self upon the altar of Mammon, to please 
 the governor.” 
 
 Thus ruminating, Thorne closed and addressed his 
 letters, and then busied himself upon a picture he was 
 painting. 
 
 A picturesque ruin, with its ivy-crowned walls, 
 stood in the background, with a narrow stream, 
 spanned by a rustic bridge in front. On its margin 
 
216 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 stood a young girl, holding a spray of roses in her 
 hand : Claire, in all her budding beauty, looked out 
 from the canvas, and Mrs. Courtnay, for whom it was 
 designed as a parting present, had declared the like- 
 ness perfect. 
 
 If he stole from her the child of her adoption, the 
 artist thought it would be but a fair exchange to give 
 her the shadow for the substance, and he worked on 
 with smiling lips and love-lit eyes. 
 
 As the fair features glowed into life beneath his 
 touch, the soft clear eyes looked into his own, he 
 thought only of Claire and the means of winning her 
 consent to a secret union, for he felt assured that Mrs. 
 Courtnay would not forego her own plans for the fu- 
 ture welfare of her ward. 
 
 Now or never must he win her, and in his egotistic 
 selfishness he refused to listen to such doubts as sug- 
 gested themselves as to how the object of his headlong 
 passion might fare when he became the master of her 
 fate. What was he preparing for her, for himself, in 
 the future ? He could not answer that question satis- 
 factoril}^ so he ignored it altogether, and only planned 
 for the immediate gratification of the wish he had most 
 at heart — to make this trusting child irrevocabW kis 
 own. 
 
 Thorne believed that he could win over Father Je- 
 rome so completely that he would not refuse to pro- 
 nounce the blessing of the church over them, even 
 without the knowledge of Mrs. Courtnay. He was 
 aware that the priest disapproved of long engagements, 
 and he felt sure that he was anxious to secure so good 
 a match as he believed himself to be for the daughter 
 of his old friend. So he doubted not that he should 
 eventually succeed in his plans. 
 
GUARDIAN AGAINST LOVER. 
 
 217 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 GUARDIAN AGAINST LOVER. 
 
 FTER a few days Claire began to recover from the 
 
 first stunning effects of the blow that had fallen 
 upon her ; but she was still so deeply depressed that 
 Mrs. Courtnay was alarmed for her health. She ap- 
 peared so languid and hopeless that nothing seemed to 
 interest her ; but, at length, her kind friend induced 
 her to leave her room, and, with some reluctance call- 
 ed on Thorne to aid her in bringing back some portion 
 of the young girl’s former fire and animation. 
 
 At first he found even this a difficult task, but grad 
 ually the magnetic power he wielded over her made 
 itself felt, and under its influence the color returned 
 to her cheeks, the light to her dimmed eyes. 
 
 For a few days Claire thought of her love for Wal- 
 ter Thorne almost with terror, for she believed it was 
 the knowledge of that which had struck a death-blow 
 to her old father’s heart. It was true that Lapierre 
 might have died any day, but she knew that, if agita- 
 tion had been spared him, he might have lived on for 
 months or years to come. 
 
 But, as the days passed on, that remorseful thought 
 grew dim, and soon it almost ceased to grieve her, un- 
 der the renewed infatuation that filled her whole being 
 to the exclusion of every other feeling. In the wide 
 world Claire saw but one refuge for her — and that was 
 in the love of this man who so tenderly wooed her to 
 his heart. 
 
 Her father had repented of his opposition to an early 
 
•218 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 anion, and now no one should stand between them — no, 
 not even the maternal friend who was so anxious to 
 save her from a too precipitate marriage. 
 
 Thorne saw her revive under his skillful charming 
 — saw the light of home and love relume in her lovely 
 eyes— the pale cheeks again kindle into bloom beneath 
 his ardent glances — and one evening when he stood 
 lAone with his hostess on the piazza, he said to her : 
 
 You can see for yourself. Madam, that your young 
 charge must go with me. She will droop and fade away 
 on your hands, if you insist on sending me away from 
 lier. It would be a cruel experiment to attempt such a 
 thing.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay coldly replied : 
 
 ‘‘ Yet, it is one I must make, Mr. Thorne. I stand 
 in the place of a mother to this poor girl, and I must 
 do by her as I would by my own daughter. I shall 
 not remain here after you go away. Father Jerome 
 needs better medical advice than the valley affords, 
 ior I begin to perceive a failure in his mind that alarms 
 me. I am afraid it is softening of the brain, brought 
 on by overwork, from which he is suffering. Claire 
 needs change too, and I think I shall spend the fall 
 and winter in Baltimore. I shall place both her and 
 Julia in a good boarding school till my son is free tc 
 accompany me to Europe.” 
 
 This is something quite new to me, Madam. What 
 does the priest say to your plan for his benefit ? I have 
 myself remarked what you speak of, and I think his 
 mind is certainly losing its balance.” 
 
 Father Jerome approves it, and he will take up 
 his abode with a brother of his order, who is an inti- 
 mate 1‘riend ; but I own that I have many doubts as to 
 
GUARDIAN AGAINST LOVER. 219 
 
 his ultimate recovery. He should be placed under 
 treatment as soon as possible.” 
 
 A cloud settled on the face of the listener, and he 
 curtly said : 
 
 “ If my presence here is any drawback to the carry- 
 ing out of your wishes, Mrs. Courtnay, I will make 
 arrangements to leave immediately. I regret that I 
 have not been earlier informed of them, for I should 
 be sorry to becbme de trop in your house.” 
 
 Nor have you been, Mr. ‘Thorne. I invited you 
 hither of my own free will, and I have enjoyed your 
 society much ; but I cannot shut my eyes to the neces- 
 sity of removing Claire from' your presence as soon as 
 possible. The greater your power over her, the 
 stronger seems the need of placing her where you can- 
 not be daily and hourly near her. Her spirits have in 
 a measure recovered their tone, and she is now able 
 to bear the separation from you. She will be permit- 
 ted to correspond with you regularly, for I do not 
 forget that her father sanctioned the engagement 
 between you. But you must pledge me your word 
 not to seek her after we remove to Baltimore, till we 
 are on the eve of embarking for Europe.” 
 
 By Heaven ! Madam, this is asking too much of 
 me. I cannot consent to an arrangement that will 
 separate my betrothed from me and place her under the 
 control of a set of teachers who would regard the very 
 fact of our engagement with a species of horror. It 
 will be too severe an ordeal for Claire to pass through, 
 for she is not strong, and — and she only lives in my 
 presence. You can see that for j^ourself. Madam.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay steadily replied : 
 
 “ I have seen with regret how utterly her will is 
 
220 the clandestine markiage. 
 
 dominated by yours, and that is why I must remove 
 her from your influence. It is a duty I owe to her. 
 New friends and new scenes will gradually restore her 
 to her natural condition, and she will learn to love you 
 reasonably without bending before you as if you were 
 an ideal incarnation of perfection. Such love as that 
 does not bring happiness to the woman who cherishes 
 it, nor yet to him on whom it is bestowed. Claire, 
 like all girls of her age, is full of romantic nonsense ; 
 but, if she were permitted to marry you now, the real 
 man would fall so far below the ideal she has formed 
 of you that a fatal reaction in her feelings might take 
 place. I have known girls to marry under such hal- 
 lucinations, and end by heartily wishing that Fate had 
 severed them from the object of their choice before the 
 Church had irrevocably bound them to a destiny that 
 proved far from happy.” 
 
 And you think it possible that such a change could 
 take place in the heart of the girl I adore ? ” exclaim- 
 ed the lover, with much heat. 
 
 With irritating calmness, Mrs. Courtnay replied : 
 
 ‘‘I am only discussing possibilities, Mr. Thorne. I 
 believe that you and Claire are ardently attached to 
 each other, and I think you would try to make her 
 happy in your own way. But she is too unformed 
 — too much of a child yet — to risk taking on herself 
 the duties of a wife and mistress of a family. It was 
 but the other day that she was chasing butterflies with 
 Julia, as much a child in heart as she is. Indeed, you 
 must consent to give her up to me as has already been 
 settled ; and I wish you to understand that I will 
 not recede from that. I love Claire almost as if she 
 were my own daughter, and she has no one but me to 
 
GUARDIAN AGAINST LOYER. 
 
 221 
 
 look to in this crisis of her destin}^ I shall be ready 
 and \yilling to surrender her to you Avhen the proper 
 time arrives, and I think that is as much as you can 
 reasonably expect of me.” 
 
 Thorne controlled his annoyance, and with a faint 
 smile, replied : 
 
 But I am not reasonable, Mrs. Courtnay, nor do I 
 suppose you expect a man as much in love as I am to 
 be so. I must yield to your authority, I suppose, but 
 you will not banish me before your plans are quite set- 
 tled. You will let me bask yet a little while in the 
 sunshine of my darling’s reviving spirits, for it will 
 not be well for her to be too suddenly separated from 
 me.” 
 
 ‘‘ I have no wish to send you into exile, Mr. Thorne, 
 till the time for my own departure draws near. I shall 
 be happy to claim you as my guest for the next three 
 weeks. That will bring the middle of September, and 
 that will be soon enough to settle ourselves for the 
 autumn and winter.” 
 
 ‘‘ Thank you for conceding so much ; and now I 
 will seek Claire, and tell her what you have determin- 
 ed on. Have you spoken of your removal to her.” 
 
 “Not yet. If you choose, you can repeat to her 
 what I have just said.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay left him, and went to her own apart- 
 ment, where she found Julia playing with a pet kitten. 
 
 She detained her child near her that the lovers 
 might have an uninterrupted interview, never dreaming 
 that Thorne would abuse her indulgence by tempting 
 the yielding and loving Claire to abjure her authority 
 and even win her consent to deceive ’ the only true 
 friend she possessed. 
 
909 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Thorne found the object of his search in the library, 
 lying listlessly upon a sofa drawn near an open win- 
 dow. She Avas paler than usual, and the deep black 
 in Avhich she was robed, the sad composure of her face 
 seemed to have added several years to her age. Claire 
 looked up as she heard his step, and light came back 
 to her dark eyes, smiles to her sad lips. She sat up 
 and arranged her dress, and Thorne placed himself be- 
 side her. He tenderly said : 
 
 “You are almost yourself again, petite. I have 
 been very unhappy about you, but your old animation 
 seems to be coming back, I am glad to see. But tell 
 me, love, would you not fade and droop again if my 
 presence were withdraAvn from you ? I am vain enough 
 10 think so.” 
 
 She regarded him with a half frightened expression, 
 
 “ You have not come to tell me that you must go 
 away? Oh, Walter, how can I bear to lose sight of 
 your dear face now he is gone ? You Avill not, you 
 cannot be so cruel as to desert me when I am almost 
 your ” 
 
 The word died on her lips, but he drew her to his 
 heart and Avhispered : 
 
 “ Almost my wife — ^yes ; but not quite, my angel. 
 Only consent to become such, and no one shall stand 
 between us. No one., Claire, for the right to claim you 
 is mine. Mrs. Courtnay is 3^our friend, and she wishes 
 to do what she thinks right, but she is planning to take 
 you from me ; to carry you to Baltimore and place j^ou 
 in a boarding-school till she sets out on her foreign 
 tour. You will be shut up with stupid people, who 
 will have no sympathy for you. They will exact dif- 
 ficult tasks from you, Avhen you might be with me so 
 
GUARDIAN AGAINST LOVER. 
 
 223 
 
 happy, so ^idored. Oh ! my love — my sv/eet love, only 
 listen to i^y prayer, and I will remove you from her 
 control. I will devote myself to your happiness.” 
 
 Are you quite certain of this, Walter ? ” she ask- 
 ed, in a faint voice. 
 
 Quite — for Mrs. Courtnay told me herself, and al- 
 lowed me to seek you and break her intentions to you. 
 Dear Claire, I shall be wretched without you, and of 
 what value will be accomplishments purchased at such 
 cost to us both ? After we are married, you shall have 
 masters if you wish it ; but if we take our fate in our 
 own hands, it must be without the knowledge of your 
 protectress. She has no legal claim on you, yet she 
 is firm in her determination to withhold you from me 
 for years to come.” 
 
 Claire raised her head and after a pause said 
 
 Walter, it is right that I should tell you what papa 
 said to me the night he left me forever. He seemed 
 to have changed his mind with reference to our marri- 
 age, and he said it might be best for us to be united 
 vnthout delay. If he had lived I think he would have 
 consented to give me to you before you left the valley.” 
 
 The lover listened to this revelation in delighted 
 surprise : 
 
 ‘‘ If that is so, Claire, you cannot hesitate to do as I 
 wish. The blessing of your dead father will be upon 
 us, and we can dispense with the consent of Mrs. 
 Courtnay.” 
 
 “ But I owe a great deal to mamma. She has been 
 very kind to me throughout all my life.” 
 
 “ True, love ; but your first duty is to me. Every- 
 thing depends on our immediate union, Claire. My 
 father will withdraw his consent, I am almost certain, 
 
•22-1 t|:ie clandestine marriage. 
 
 if I do not bring him his new daughter when I return 
 iiome. Only consent to a clandestine marriage, and 
 j^our friend will forgive and receive you again when it 
 is over. Oh, darling, if I lose you I shall be the most 
 
 retched of men.” 
 
 She softly said : 
 
 “ And I the most desolate of creatures separated 
 from you ; taken from the scenes I love and thrust 
 among strangers. I could not live through such an 
 ordeal, I know I could not.” 
 
 ‘‘ Such is also my conviction, and I said as much to 
 Mrs. Courtnay, but she insists that you will find change 
 of scene all that is necessary to restore your health and 
 spirits. An exhilarating change she proposes ! She 
 will remove you from the freedom of your country 
 life, and shut you up in stuffy rooms, with books for 
 your companions, the drudgery of study your only oc- 
 cupation. Contrast that with what I offer you, Claire, 
 ;md make your decision.” 
 
 Thorne could scarcely have conjured up a more re- 
 pulsive picture before the mind of the thoughtless 
 creature who listened to him. She had never been 
 compelled to acquire anything ; the lessons set for her 
 by her indulgent father had been learned or neglected, 
 as suited her own fancy, and but for the quick percep- 
 tions and retentive memory with which nature had 
 endowed her, Claire would have acquired very little. 
 
 But these had enabled her, in a desultory way, to 
 gain as much cultivation as girls of her age usually 
 possess, and the libraiy at the Grange had afforded her 
 a wide range of literary reading of which she had 
 eagerly availed herself. 
 
 After a pause of some length she said : 
 
GUARDIAN AGAINST LOVER. 225 
 
 Have you consulted with Father Jerome on this 
 subject?” 
 
 Yes— and I have nearly brought him over to oui 
 side. He thinks it best for our union to take place 
 before I leave tlTe valley, and in spite of Mrs. Court- 
 nay’s opposition, I believe I can induce him to unite 
 iis.” 
 
 Claire vaguely said : 
 
 Father Jerome is a good man, and I can abide by 
 his decision without fear. In fact, I have my father’s 
 permission to do so.” 
 
 Then if I bring you the assurance that he con- 
 sents, you will not refuse to give me the right to call 
 you my own ? My precious love, that is all I ask, for 
 1 am certain of success with the priest.” 
 
 Claire shrank from pledging herself so far ; she tim- 
 idly said : 
 
 ‘‘ I wish I knew what is right — what will be best 
 for us both. I have heard it said that clandestine mar- 
 riages are rarely fortunate, and I — I must give up my 
 only frit^nd to go with you, Walter. I shall be so 
 utterly dependent on you for everything.” 
 
 “ And that is just as it should be, my angel. The 
 wife should look only to her husband for protection 
 and support, and you shall find that you have lost 
 nothing by the exchange I wish you to make. Besides, 
 Ml'S. Courtnay will forgive you, and be as fond of you 
 as ever, after your fate is irrevocably fixed.” 
 
 Ah, if I thought that, I would not hesitate. And 
 you are quite sure that your father wishes you to be 
 married without delay ? ” 
 
 I wish I were as sure of everything else as I am 
 of that,” replied Thorne, laughing. The old man ia 
 U 
 
226 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 terribly in earnest about putting the noose matrimo- 
 nial upon his only son. He wants a mistress at Thorn- 
 hil], and the gay company young people will be sure 
 to draw around him.” 
 
 Claire's face brightened. 
 
 Then I may feel certain of a kind welcome from 
 him. I like the thought of presiding over his house 
 much better than being shut up in a stifling school- 
 room, poring over difficult tasks. I hope that I shall 
 be able to make your father love me dearly, Walter. I 
 sliall try, at any rate, to brighten his life and reflect 
 on him a portion of our happiness.” 
 
 Thorne could scarcely repress a shiver as he thought 
 of the reality that probably awaited her, but he stifled 
 the faint feeling of remorse, and rapturously ex- 
 claimed : 
 
 Then you ivill go with me, darling of my life ? ” 
 
 And he snatched her to his breast and kissed her 
 many times. 
 
 Claire extricated herself from his embrace, and trem- 
 ulously said : 
 
 Give me till to-morrow to think over what you 
 have said. I must know what Father Jerome thinks 
 of such a step before I irrevocably consent. It seems 
 very wrong for me to deceive so good a friend as 
 mamma has always been to me, and she will think very 
 hardly of us when she finds that we have betrayed her 
 confidence.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay will forgive us, love. She has no 
 legal authority over you, for she has not been ap- 
 pointed your guardian. Young as you are, you are 
 quite free to act for yourself; if you refuse to avail 
 yourself of your position, and do as I wish, I 
 
GUARDIAN AGAINST LOVER. 
 
 227 
 
 leave you at ouce. T will no longer linger here, mad- 
 dening myself the sight of that which I cannot 
 hope to attain. T give you your choice, Claire, be- 
 tween a secret union with myself or a speedy parting. 
 
 I am willing to allow you the time to decide on one 
 ‘ r the other.” 
 
 She raised her humid eyes to his face with an ex- 
 ] ression of pathetic entreaty in them, but the words • 
 she was about to utter died on her lips as Mrs. Court- 
 nay entered the library. 
 
 Thorne removed himself further away from his be- 
 trothed. Claire flushed deeply and then became pale 
 as death. Her friend remarked her agitation, and 
 gently said as she seated herself : 
 
 “ Mr. Thorne has communicated to you my plans by 
 this time, my dear, and I hope you approve of them. 
 My most earnest wish is to do what is best for you, 
 Claire, for you are a precious legacy to me from your 
 father.” 
 
 “ I believe I understand that, mamma, and I am most 
 grateful for all your kindness ; but — ^but to tell you 
 the truth, T do not like being sent to a boarding-school. 
 You know that I have never been used to confinement, 
 nor to wearisome tasks.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay smiled faintly as she replied : 
 
 T know that you have never yet been disciplined 
 into obedience to the requirements of life ; but it is ne- 
 (M.‘ssary to your future well-being that you shall submit 
 }'ourself to it. At first you may feel as a wild bird 
 suddenly caged, but you are too rational and gentle a 
 creature, to dash yourself as he does, against your pii* 
 son bars. T must do my duty by you, Claire, and you 
 will yet acknowledge that I am right. Your father’s 
 
228 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 wishes should have much weight with you too ; and 
 you know that I am to control your destiny till you 
 are of an age to leave my guiding hand with safety.” 
 
 But he talked with me the night he died, and he 
 then spoke as if he had changed his mind as to — as to 
 my marriage with Walter. His words gave me free- 
 dom to act for myself ; and I think papa’s consent to 
 an immediate union gives Mr. Thorne the right to de- 
 man the fulfilment of the pledge I gave him when we 
 were betrothed.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtenay looked much annoyed and more sur- 
 prised at this bold assertion from the lips of her adopted 
 child. She coldly said : 
 
 You must have misunderstood him, Claire, for M. 
 Lapierre expressed himself very differently to me. At 
 all events, I shall use my own judgment as to what is 
 best for such a mere child as you are ; and I scarcely 
 think Mr. Thorne will set up his claims in opposition 
 to mine. If he loves you as he should, he will see 
 that I am only actuated by the tenderest affection for 
 you in what I have planned for you.” 
 
 She looked towards Thorne, but he attempted no re- 
 ply ; he had risen, and was standing beside the win- 
 dow, impatiently drumming upon the frame. Mrs. 
 Courtnay bit her lip, and said : 
 
 Come with me to my room, Claire ; I wish to talk 
 seriously with you, with no disturbing influence near 
 us. Excuse us, Mr. Thorne. We will leave you to 
 the companionship of books, while I reason with this 
 untamed spirit, and try to show her what will be for 
 her good, and yours.” 
 
 Thorne turned his head, and, with bitterness, said : 
 
 Of course I must excuse you, Madam, Ihougl) you 
 
GUARDIAlSr AGAINST LOYEK 
 
 229 
 
 take from me the light of my existence. I will con- 
 sole myself by reading Hervey’s Meditations among the 
 Tombs, as they will be most congenial to the present 
 state of my mind.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay excused the petulance of the annoy- 
 ed lover, and, with a faint smile, replied : 
 
 “ I recommend, in preference, something less som- 
 bre. A package of new books came to-day, and you 
 will find them on the table. Come, my dear, let us 
 leave Mr. Thorne to- recover his temper, and, with it, 
 his usual suavity of manner.” 
 
 The two went out together, but when the young girl 
 gained the door, she turned, gave a glance of intelli- 
 gence to her lover, and, kissing her hand to him van- 
 ished. 
 
 She’s good pluck after all,” muttered Thorne, 
 ‘‘and she’ll stand by me yet, in spite of the lecturing. 
 Mrs. Courtnay may as well preach to the winds, for I 
 can see that Claire means to risk her fate with me.” 
 
 “ Risk ! Good heaven ! why did such a word come 
 to my lips ? I know that I am mad to persist in this, 
 for God knows to what I may bring that poor girl yet, 
 I love her with the most insane passion ; but would I 
 sacrifice myself for her if the w^orst should come ? 
 Alas ! I fear not, for I am weak and unstable as water.” 
 
 He sat down, and tried to think, for, false as he was, 
 Walter Thorne was not utterly base. He meant to do 
 what was right by this helpless young creature, if he 
 found it possible, without too great detriment to his 
 own interest ; but thinking was not his forte, especial- 
 ly when the subject was an intricate one, so he soon 
 started up, and went in pursuit of Father Jerome, 
 hoping to gain from him some encouragement to rush 
 headlong into the ruin he was preparing for himself- 
 
230 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Now, when the consent of Claire was almost won*, 
 he began to waver himself, and doubt the result of his 
 rashness. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 THE HASTY MARRIAGE. 
 
 IHORNE found the priest in possession of the pret- 
 
 JL ty cottage in the rear of the chapel which had been 
 erected especially for his use. The chapel was a small 
 gothic building beautifully finished, and the interior 
 was decorated with paintings from sacred subjects, 
 Avhich had been executed b}^ Mrs. Courtnay herself. 
 The altar was draped with hangings, embroidered by 
 the same fair hands, for in her solitude it had been the 
 employment of several years of her life to ornament 
 the shrine at which she offered her devotions. 
 
 The cottage contained but two rooms, fitted up with 
 the ascetic taste of the occupant ; but Father Jerome 
 belonged to a very strict order, and, even in his deli- 
 cate state of health, he allowed himself no luxuries. 
 
 The floors were bare, but the walls of the outer 
 room were covered with devotional pictures ; in a re- 
 cess between the windows stood a marble head of 
 Christ crowned with thorns, and above it hung an 
 ebony crucifix. The interior apartment contained an 
 iron bedstead, which supported the straw mattress on 
 which the priest reposed his worn and wasted frame 
 when his vigils allowed him to seek the rest nature 
 imperiously demanded. Two chairs, with a small 
 table, completed the furniture. 
 
THE HASTY MABRIAGE. 
 
 231 
 
 Seated beside the latter, was the emaciated figure of 
 Father Jerome, with a large tome open before him. 
 Thorne looked at the pale, spiritual face, and remem- 
 bered what Mrs. Courtnay had said. There was a 
 singular brightness in his eyes that told of constant 
 inward fever, and a vagueness in the expression, which 
 betrayed the insidious disease that was sapping his 
 mental powers. 
 
 The shock of M. Lapierre’s sudden death had given 
 the last impulse to the lurking evil ; the tension upon 
 his system had been too great and long sustained ; for, 
 in the intervals of his active life, the priest had been 
 an ardent student, and the over-wrought brain was 
 rapidly giving way. He began himself dimly to sus- 
 pect that it was softening beneath the load he habitu- 
 ally laid upon it, and he was most anxious to consult 
 a medical friend in Baltimore as to his actual condi- 
 tion ; hence his ready assent to Mrs. Courtna5’'’s plans. 
 
 He had been making an effort to think earnestly on 
 the subject of the lovers and their fortunes, but in his 
 {inxiety to secure a proselyte, and save a wandering 
 soul, he gave little weight to Mrs. Courtnay’s objec- 
 tions to an immediate marriage between them. 
 
 He thought if Thorne escaped him now, he would 
 return to the world, and forget the serious impressions 
 he had led this good man to believe he had received ; 
 but if he took with him as his wife a daughter of the 
 church, she would keep him in the path in which he 
 should walk, and with Father J erome every other con- 
 sideration bent before that. 
 
 To save souls was his mission, and of what conse- 
 quence was a clandestine marriage, in comparison with 
 the weightier consideration ? I am afraid he thought 
 
232 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 of Claire very little, for he had taken so great a liking 
 for Thorne, that he regarded her fate as quite secure 
 in the keeping of one who professed to be so deeply 
 impressed with the sublime truths they had discussed 
 together. 
 
 The priest welcomed his guest with a wan smile, and 
 pointing to a chair, said : 
 
 I am glad that you have come, my son, for when I 
 am alone I cannot lay aside the old habit of study, and 
 I begin to feel that it is too much for me. The mind 
 weakens with the failure of the physical energies, and 
 I am not good for much now. I have been trying to 
 think over what you said to me yesterday, and to de- 
 cide on what is best to be done. It is a pity for all 
 concerned, that Mrs. Countnay is so immovable, when 
 she thinks she is iii the right. As to myself, I can see 
 no objection to this marriage taking place at once, if, 
 as you say, your parents are willing to receive Claire 
 Lapierre as your wife.” 
 
 “I have already assured you of that fact. Father,” 
 replied Thorne, perfectly unembarrassed. ‘‘No one 
 has a right to an opinion on the subject but my father, 
 and you have read his letter to me. I have also 
 shown you others, which prove the truth of what I 
 have stated with reference to my family and future 
 prospects.” 
 
 “ Yes — yes — all that was satisfactory enough,” was 
 the musing reply. “ It will be a fine thing for a de- 
 pendant young girl to step at once into such a position 
 as you offer Claire. She will have the power to do 
 much good, and that should always be considered.” 
 
 “ My dear young friend, I hardly like to let you go 
 out into the world again without taking with you this 
 
THE HASTY MARRIAGE. 
 
 233 
 
 pretty creature. She is a good child, and she will be 
 a sweet monitress to you in the temptations that will 
 assail you. I really think that Mrs. Courtnay is too 
 hard on you in this affair ; but she will not listen to 
 my representations any more than to your’s.” 
 
 No — she c]iooses to have her own way, that is tlie 
 truth of it,” said Thorne, bitterly. ‘‘Mrs. Courtnay, 
 with all her goodness, is a very imperious woman, and 
 likes to make ever}^ one around her bend to her will. 
 I have been speaking with her this afternoon, and she 
 is like granite. I have also had an interview with 
 Claire, and I have learned something from her which 
 is important. She says that on the last night of her 
 father’s life, he gave his consent to an early union be- 
 tween us, and she is under the impression that some- 
 thing you said to him caused this change in his views.” 
 
 “I remember — I expressed my doubts as to the pru- 
 dence of long engagements. I said to M. Lapierre, 
 that they rarely end happily for the parties concerned.” 
 
 “Nor will this one end well^ if I am compelled to 
 3/ield my wishes to others. Besides, Father, when 
 Claire and myself were betrothed, she expressed her- 
 self in such a manner, that armed v/ith her father’s 
 consent, I have the right to demand the ratification of 
 her vows. She declares that consent was given, and I 
 ask you to pronounce over us the blessing of the 
 church, without allowing Mrs. Courtnay to suspect 
 that such a thing has been done, till I think it best to 
 proclaim our marriage. If you will consent to this, T 
 pledge myself to prove to you that I am a liberal and 
 true son of the faith. I shall receive my bride ar 
 your hands, as the dearest gift you could bestow, 
 and in requital of the service, I will make a rich offer- 
 
234 the clandestine marriage, 
 
 ing to your church. So far as you are yourself con- 
 cerned, I know that you are indifferent to money, 
 therefore I do not offer it to your individual accept- 
 ance.” 
 
 “ Thanks, my son. Of course I am not at liberty to 
 refuse your liberality to the great hierarchy of which I 
 am a lowly servant ; for the money bestowed on us, 
 enables us to succor the helpless — to lift up the down- 
 trodden, and maintain the prestige of the ghurch. 1 
 have served it in my humble way, but I doubt if it 
 will be right for me to accept a bribe to do what it 
 would be so displeasing to the friend whose hospitali- 
 ty I enjoy. She would take the defection of her 
 adopted child greatly to heart, and I scarcely see my 
 way clear ; though, heaven help me ! I can see noth- 
 ing clearly in the last few weeks ! ” 
 
 He pressed his hand to his brow as if in pain, but 
 Thorne paid little attention to that. His own lately- 
 awakened doubts, as to the prudence of his course, 
 died out as soon as he found any wavering on the part 
 of the priest. He impetuously exclaimed : 
 
 It is your duty to serve and save me. Father Je- 
 rome. If you refuse what I ask, I will go on my way, 
 reckless of what may happen to me. I will plunge 
 into the wildest dissipations, with no check upon me ; 
 for if I lose Claire, I shall become desperate. With 
 her hand clasped in mine, I shall walk safely over 
 temptation — without her, I shall be lost — lost.” 
 
 The old man lifted his head, and gazed on him with 
 his glittering and unsteady eyes, and a shudder thrilled 
 through his frame at the repetition of the last word. 
 He tremulously said : 
 
 No — no — not lost, if I can save you, by the sacrifice 
 
THE HASTY xMARRIAGE. 
 
 235 
 
 of a few scruples. My son, you are terribly in ear- 
 nest, I see, and — and — as the consent of M. Lapierre 
 was given, I do not think it can be wrong to give you 
 the bride you covet, especially as so much is at stake, 
 for yourself. You have conquered : come hither with 
 Claire at midnight, and I will pronounce over you the 
 blessing of the church.” 
 
 Thorne started, and seemed divided between joy and 
 surprise at the sudden concession. He said : 
 
 So, soon as that father ? We may not be able to 
 make our arrangements as rapidly as you require.” 
 
 ‘‘ It m.ust be to-night, if at all^ for I feel very 
 strangely. To-morrow it may be too late to serve you, 
 and in the hereafter God may require at my hands the 
 soul that I might have used the means to save, and 
 v\'ould not. In some respects the marriage must be in- 
 formal, but as you have professed the Catholic faith, 
 you will feel that it is indissoluble ; and — and — I am 
 sure that I can trust you with the welfare of my 
 friend’s daughter.” 
 
 ‘‘You may trust me. Father,” and the speaker was 
 deeply in earnest when he uttered the words. “ I 
 can never thank you sufficiently for conceding so much 
 to me, so I will not make the attempt. I have already 
 made my confession and prepared mj^self for the ordeal 
 before me. Is there an3dhing else that remains to be 
 done?” 
 
 “ Send Claire to me,” was the faint response. “ I 
 am not well, and I must see her before I lie down to 
 repose m3" worn out body.” 
 
 Thorne lifted his thin hand, and, respectfully press- 
 ing it, said : 
 
 “ I will seek her at once. Father, and communicate 
 to her the result of our interview,” 
 
236 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 He left the cottage in a whirl of feeling., which it 
 would have been impossible to analyze. His fate was 
 settled beyond recal now, and the few scruples he had 
 were cast away. In a glow of rapture he moved for- 
 ward, as if walking on air, through the winding ave- 
 nue of trees that led to the house. 
 
 At a sudden turn in it he beheld Claire moving slow- 
 ly and dejectedly in the direction of the chapel. Her 
 eyes were bent on the ground, and she was evidently 
 unconscious of the vicinity of her lover. Thorne 
 sprang forward, clasped her ardently to his breast, and 
 rapidly said : - • 
 
 It is all right, my darling wife ! The good father 
 will unite us. He has pledged his word to do so im- 
 mediately. My love, you look so deeply depressed, 
 and I am delirious with joy. What has Mrs. Court- 
 nay been saying to make you so unhappy ? ” 
 
 Claire wept hystericall}^ upon his breast a few mo- 
 ments, and then brokenly said: 
 
 ‘‘ Mamma was very grave, but very kind. She tried 
 to make me see that it is necessary to test your con- 
 stancy, Walter ; but if I thought you could be untrue 
 to me, I should die at once.” 
 
 ‘‘ You shall not die, Claire, but you shall live for 
 me. Father Jerome is waiting for you to hear your 
 final confession before we are united. This night he 
 iias himself appointed, and I hope you will make no 
 objection.” 
 
 Claire uttered a faint cry. 
 
 ‘^So soon as that! Oh, Walter, how can I consent 
 Lu so sudden a marriage ? ” ' 
 
 You will consent when I tell you that the priest is 
 evidentlyjbecoming veiy ill, and if there is any delay, 
 
THE HASTY ISl A R R T A G E. 
 
 237 
 
 he may not be in a condition to serve us at all. It is 
 lucky you came hither so opjDortnnely, for I was won- 
 dering how I could communicate with you before 
 night.” 
 
 Mamma sent me to confess to Father Jerome, and 
 ask his advice. I am afraid that we are all treating 
 her very badly.” 
 
 “I don’t know about that. She treats us cavalierly 
 enough in all conscience, for she lays down the law, 
 and expects us to abide by it. Don’t look so shocked, 
 little one. T know it sounds like treason to you to 
 speak thus of Mrs. Courtnay, but my patience is worn 
 out with her exactions. Go on, petite^ and see the 
 [ riest. I will follow you in half an hour, ajid walk 
 back to the house with you.” 
 
 Vv^ith a troubled and doubtful heart, Claire pursued 
 her way to. the cottage. She found Father Jerome still 
 seated in his chair, but so white and unner\ ed that she 
 hastened to offer him water. This revived him a lit- 
 tle, and he listened to the artless confession she came 
 to make. 
 
 At its close he earnestly asked : 
 
 “ Do you love this young man above all earthly crea- 
 ures, my daughter ? Do you believe with all your 
 heart that you can be faithful to him through good and 
 evil report — through all the chances and changes of 
 life?” 
 
 “ I do love him. Father, with all the strength of 
 my soul. I will be faithful to him through every- 
 thing.’* 
 
 Then there is no need of further delay. I fee] 
 
 \ ry strangely this evening, and I cannot tell what is 
 impending over me. I must make your future sure 
 
238 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 before my senses quite desert me. Summon your love 
 at once, and let him assist me into the chapel. It will 
 be best to have the nuptial rites over before my senses 
 fail me.'’ 
 
 Alarmed by his strange looks, Claire tremblingly 
 said : 
 
 “You are too ill to attend to anything now, Father. 
 Walter is near here, and I will summon him to assist 
 you to your couch.” 
 
 “ Do so. But if you wish me to marry you at all, I 
 must not lie down before doing it, for I scarcely think 
 that I shall ever rise from my bed again, when I am 
 once placed upon it. This is your hour ; avail your- 
 self of it, or give up your marriage altogether. With- 
 out you to guide him in the right path, that young 
 man will go down to destruction, and his soul will be 
 required at my hands. Call him, I insist. It is too 
 late to^shrink back now.” 
 
 Claire went to the door, and found Thorne linger- 
 ing near it. At a sign from her he rapidly approached, 
 and together they entered the inner room. 
 
 The priest languidly raised his head, and faintly 
 said : 
 
 “ It is too late for me to go to the chapel now, for I 
 feel as if all my strength is deserting me. Kneel down 
 l)efore the table ; it can serve as an altar. I have al- 
 read\' baj)tized you, and received your first confession, 
 Walter Thorne, and thus you have become a son of 
 l!i ‘ (‘iiurcii. Take the hand of 3mur betrothed, and 
 I'eceivc^ !ier as ^mur bride.” 
 
 The 3"oung pair, with rapidly beating hearts, obeyed 
 nis commands; the voice r^f Father Jerome seemed to 
 gain strength, and in resonant tones he performed the 
 
THE HASTY MAKRIAGE. 
 
 239 
 
 marriage service. But as he pronounced the blessing, 
 he fell back quite insensible. 
 
 The married lovers had no time to think of the 
 strange scene in which they had just borne so impor- 
 tant a part. Thorne dropped the hand that rested in 
 his own, and, starting up, lifted the father to his hard 
 couch, and placed him upon it, while Claire busied 
 herself in efforts to restore him to consciousness. But 
 he lay befoi*e them, white and cold, with no sign of 
 life save his heavy breathing. 
 
 I must remain with him while you go up to the 
 house, and inform Mrs. Courtnay of his condition, 
 Claire. Betray nothing by your looks, my darling, for 
 we must keep what has happened here a profound 
 secret till we are far away. You will be careful ? ” . 
 
 Yes — yes. Oh, Walter — if he should die, it would 
 be dreadful to think that we were married by a man on 
 the brink of eternity.” 
 
 ‘‘ He will not die if he has help at once. Hasten 
 on your errand, my love, for much depends on prompt- 
 ness in such a case as this.” 
 
 Claire sped away, to spread consternation through 
 the family, for Father Jerome was beloved by every 
 one in it. Assistance soon came, and Mrs. Courtnay 
 had him carefully removed to the house, where a more 
 comfortable apartment had been hastily prepared for 
 him. 
 
 When the physician who was sent for arrWed, he 
 still lay in the same heavy stupor, and Dr. Bledsoe 
 pronounced the attack pressure on the brain. He re- 
 sorted to such remedies as he hoped would relieve him, 
 and they were so far successful, that during the night 
 consciousness was restored. But it was evident to 
 
240 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 those around him that his mind wandered, and the 
 physician shook 'his head over the symptoms, and ex- 
 pressed his fears that the overwrought brain would 
 never react again. 
 
 Father Jerome might regain bodily strength to walk 
 about as usual, but the power of controlling his 
 thoughts had departed from him forever. 
 
 This was sad news to Mrs. Courtnay, for she had 
 long relied on him as an adviser and comforter, but 
 she bowed her head in submission to the affliction, and 
 occupied herself in contributing to his recovery as far 
 as lay in her power. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 THE FLIGHT. 
 
 ALTER THORNE had triumphed over the weak- 
 
 T Y ness of the stricken priest, and won the coveted 
 idol he had set up for a worship, destined to be as brief 
 as it was intoxicating. 
 
 He overruled the desire of Claire to inform Mrs. 
 Courtnay of what had taken place in the cottage on 
 the evening of Father Jerome’s seizure, and, clothed 
 with his marital authority, he insisted that she should 
 secretly leave the home in which she had been so 
 kindly received, and go forth with him into that world 
 which she had pictured to herself as a scene of eiichant- 
 inent. 
 
 Thorne was well supplied with money by this lime, 
 for his father, reassured by the tenor of his last com- 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 241 
 
 munication had sent him a check for a considerable 
 sum in the belief tliat it would be used to reward those 
 who had nursed him through his illness, and release 
 him from any further obligations to them. 
 
 Col. Thorne had accepted his son’s explanations, 
 and believing that Walter would not dare to deceive 
 liim so flagrantly, he dismissed from his mind all fear 
 as to his non-appearance at the time appointed for his 
 marriage with Agnes Willard. 
 
 Thorne wrote to the neighboring town in which he 
 had passed several days before his advent in the vallej^ 
 and ordered a carriage to be sent by midnight to wait 
 at the lower gate opening into the grounds around the 
 Grange till he made his appearance. The price he 
 offered for the service ensured secrecy and punctu- 
 ality on the part of the men employed ; and Claire, 
 with a palpitating heart commenced packing such 
 articles as were absolutely necessary to take with her. 
 
 By the time their preparations were completed, the 
 priest was declared out of immediate danger, though his 
 mind was still wandering and unsettled, and he but 
 vaguely recognized the friends that ministered to hi ai 
 so tenderly. With many tears Claire prepared the h t- 
 ter she was to leave behind her. Thorne warned h^r 
 not to betray to Mrs. Courtnay, the part Father Jerome 
 had played, lest she should be angry at being circum- 
 vented b}^ him. He declared it would be quite as well 
 to have her to suppose that their union would take 
 place after their evasion, and thus the helpless invalid 
 would escape all blame from the friend on whose kind- 
 ness he was so completely thrown. 
 
 To Claire this seemed very generous on the part of 
 her dear Walter, and she obeyed him without question, 
 U 
 
242 the clandestine makriage. 
 
 unconscious that she was thus placing in his hands a 
 power that would ere long be fatally used against her- 
 self. She penned the following lines with a sad heart, 
 but she did not for one moment regret the step that 
 she had taken : 
 
 “ My Dear Friend and Mother. — I dare to 
 call you by the last name, though I am proving m3^self 
 a most ungrateful child ; but, oh, mamma, I love Wal- 
 ter to that degree that I cannot refuse to do anything 
 that he asks me. 
 
 ‘‘ When you read this, I shall be far away — I shall 
 be his alone — his beloved and cherished wife. . You 
 know’ that Mr. Thorne is honorable and true, and 
 therefore you can trust me to him, though I am so 
 young and helpless. 
 
 Dear- Mamma — I love you very dearly, and it 
 makes my heart sad to deceive you ; but you were so 
 unbending you would not listen to our prayers, and I 
 had not strength to struggle against the entreaties of 
 him I so adoringly love. You will forgive me — Walter 
 insists that you will — and I am only too willing to 
 believe that your tender heart will not close against 
 the child of your love, though she has deserted you for 
 another. 
 
 “You will remember that I had the consent of my 
 father to our union, and if he had lived, this flight 
 would not have been necessary. That thought wnll lielp 
 to reconcile you to your poor child, for I shall always 
 love you as if you were indeed my mother. 
 
 “We are going to Eastern Virginia, wJiere we shall 
 
 remain several w^eeks before going to L , to take 
 
 up our abode with Walter’s father. He will welcome 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 243 
 
 me kindly and graciously, although I bring nothing 
 to his son, save a warm and true heart and an earnest 
 desire to render the home over which I am to reign, a 
 happ5^ one. 
 
 ‘‘ Dearest Mamma — I hope the time is not far dis- 
 tant Avhen I shall receive you in my house its most 
 honored and beloved guest. Have no fears for me. 
 I place such faith and trust in him who has chosen me 
 from all the world as the companion of his life, that I 
 am sure I risk nothing in going Avith him, even in this 
 clandestine manner. 
 
 ‘‘ Before you set out upon your travels we must 
 meet again, for I could not bear so long a separation 
 Avithout being clasped to your heart, and hearing from 
 your dear lips the assurances that I am forgiven. Kiss 
 Julia many times for me, and do not feel too harshly 
 toAvards your poor child, for my heart is sadly divided 
 between love and duty. 
 
 Your attached, though disobedient, 
 
 Claire.” 
 
 Having sealed and addressed this missive, Claire 
 went to the apartment of Father Jerome to take leave 
 of him for the last time, she feared. He lay in a pallid 
 trance, muttering vaguely of the duties he must no 
 longer neglect, for his time Avas very short. 
 
 A young brother from the neighboring town had 
 come over to watch beside him, but worn out with his 
 vigils, and the heat of the past day, he was sleeping 
 in a large chair by the bedside, and the light step of 
 the visitor did not arouse him. 
 
 Claire knelt beside the couch and pressed the pale 
 hand of the sufferer, which lay upon the coverlet, 
 
1-^4 the clandestine mareiage 
 
 i v verently to her lips. She prayed fervently lor his 
 1*1 storation, and mentally blessed him for the happi- 
 ness she believed he had conferred on herself, and the 
 (d)ject of her ardent affections. 
 
 Father Jerome unclosed his eyes, and a gleam of in- 
 ti liigence came into them. In a faint tone he whis- 
 j)ered : 
 
 Is it you, my daughter, where is Mr. Thorne ? I 
 wisli to speak to him — to tell him how solemn are the 
 (futies he has assumed toward a being so helpless and 
 dependent as you are.” 
 
 In the same tone she replied : 
 
 Walter is not with me. Father — he will come 
 later to see you. You are much better, I trust.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes — all is well with me now. I am going to my 
 reward, but you have much to do in the long life that 
 is probably before you. I gave you to your lover, 
 Claire, that you might keep the wandering feet 
 straight — the light and erring nature from straying in 
 forbidden places. You are good and true — ^you will 
 make your husband so, for much depends on your in- 
 fluence.” 
 
 His Avords became unintelligible, and Claire hastened 
 to implore his blessing before he sank off into one of 
 the deep slumbers from which it became more and 
 more difficult to arouse him. Father Jerome seemed 
 to understand her, for he gropingly placed his hand 
 upon her head and, in a scarcely audible whisper, ut- 
 tered a few broken words, the sense of which she fail- 
 ed to catch. 
 
 Claire, however, kneAv what he meant to say, and 
 she arose comforted and strengthened for what lay 
 bef .)re her. She flitted out as noiselessly as she had 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 245 
 
 entered, witliout disturbing the slumbers of the tired 
 watcher. 
 
 The supper bell sounded soon after, and the excited 
 girl made an effort to appear at this last meal without 
 betraying the agitation of her feelings. Thorne was 
 radiant and his gaiety was so irrepressible that Mrs. 
 Courtnay regarded him with grave surprise and asked 
 if he kne^ that Father Jerome was considered by his 
 physician in a very critical condition. 
 
 ‘‘Pray excuse me,” he said. “ I feel unusually 
 light-hearted this evening, and I forgot that a dying 
 man is in the house. I was trying to brighten up 
 Claire a little, for she looks as if she had lost her last 
 friend.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay glanced at the face of Claire, and saw 
 that some unusual emotion was mirrored in it. She 
 kindly said : 
 
 “ Till 1 am laid to rest Claire will have one friend 
 who will stand by her through good and evil report. 
 Let her console herself for the good Father’s condition 
 by that thought. He has been her spiritual guide, 
 but I am the mother chosen by her own heart to fill 
 the place of the one that was so early taken from her,” 
 
 Claire impulsively grasped the hand of the speaker 
 and pressed it to her heart, as she said : 
 
 “Dear mamma, I can never sufficiently thank you 
 for all your past kindness to me. Let what will hap- 
 pen, never believe that I am ungrateful.” 
 
 “ Why, what can happen to make me think that ? ” 
 
 And Mrs. Courtnay glanced from the changing face 
 of Claire to that of Thorne, but his defied scrutiny. 
 He vailed the annoyance he felt, and coolly said: 
 
 “ Your fair protegee has paroxysms of sentiment, I 
 
246 
 
 TH£ CLANDESTINE :iIARRIAGE. 
 
 perceive, Madam. Claire is too impulsive. Slie musi 
 learn to control the expression of her feelings, and 1 
 see now the wisdom of the training you are so anxious 
 to afford her. We should both be very grateful for 
 your thoughtfulness.” 
 
 iMrs. Courtnay glanced from one to the other with a 
 puzzled expression ; but Claire, warned by the sharp- 
 ened inflection in Thorne’s voice, stifled the emotions 
 that were struggling for utterance, and succeeded so 
 well that her friend only said : 
 
 I am glad that you are convinced of the wisdom 
 of my plans for securing your future happiness. 
 Nothing could be more fatal to it than a precipitate 
 marriage between two persons so young and inexperi- 
 enced as yourself and Claire. You have a great deal 
 to learn, Mr. Thorne, before you are fitted to become 
 a kind and considerate husband, and this child has been 
 so tenderly and indulgently reared that she will exact 
 a great deal from you when you are married. I ” 
 
 Thorne eagerly broke in upon her : 
 
 “ Pardon me, Mrs. Courtnay, but I must say that 
 every exaction on the part of the woman I love I shall 
 consider as a proof of her affection forme, and I would 
 devote my life to render her happy in her own way.” 
 
 Claire gave him a radiant glance of thanks, but Mj-s. 
 Courtna}^ drily replied ; 
 
 So you think now, I doubt not, but the glamour 
 of passion soon passes away, and a gentle and tender 
 confidence must succeed it to render the matrimonial 
 yoke endurable. If the fervent heat of summer con- 
 tinued forever there ^yould be little comfort in life, and 
 if the egotism and selfishness of love did not soften in- 
 to something less entrancing, but better for the con- 
 
THE F I I G H T. 
 
 247 
 
 tciitment of every-day life, tlie union you are so anxious 
 to cement Avould become a burden.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, mamma, what a disenclianter 3^011 are,” mur- 
 mured Claire. I should Avish to dwell forever in 
 the dream castle I have built, and forget tlie prosaic 
 realities of life.” 
 
 , That is Avhat the romantic heart of }'outh desires, 
 lu}^ love, but such is not the will of Heaven. i\Iany 
 duties are given us to perform, and in the extended 
 sphere in Avhich you will hereafter move you will find 
 A^our present crude theory of life an impossible m3uh.” 
 In a displeased tone Thorne replied : 
 
 ‘‘ If such are to be your teachings, Mrs. Courtiia}^, I 
 scarce!}^ think I should be willing to leaA^e m3" Peri 
 witli A'ou, if I could help m3^self. Let the beAvildering 
 dream of loA^e be as brief as intoxicating, is 1113^ tlieoiy, 
 provided one is perfectly happy Avhile it lasts. It Avill 
 ot least be something to look back with 
 
 joy, if one can sny, ‘ I have once Avalked the earth as a 
 demi-god and revelled in such bliss as an angel from 
 Heaven might have envied.’ ” 
 
 His impassioned e3"es sought those of Claire, and the 
 expression he read full3^ responded to the sentiment he 
 had just expressed. Mrs. Courtnay smiled sadly. 
 
 You remind me of a man of wiiom I once read, 
 wlio spent the last money he possessed in a magnificent 
 supper, and after enjoying it Avith infinite zest, he 
 aAvoke from the sleep that folloAved to find himself a 
 pauper. The Avild passion you describe lasts but a day 
 and the night that follows is dark and dreary enough. 
 I think it well that I have refused to allow Claire to 
 give 3 "^^ her hand Avithout a probation that may bring 
 you more rational vieAvs of life.” 
 
248 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 ‘‘Perhaps so,” he said, and the smile that wreathed 
 his lips was inexplicable to her. 
 
 They arose from the table, and Thorne courteously 
 said : 
 
 “ I have to thank you for your hospitality, Mrs. 
 Courtnay, and take my leave of you to-night, for ] 
 sliall depart at so early an hour of the morning that 
 you will not be visible.” 
 
 “ Are you really going, Mr. Thorne ? I thought 
 you would remain till Father Jerome is better.” 
 
 “ I might in that case linger for months ; and happy 
 as I should be to remain at the Grange, the commands 
 of my father will not permit it. I have already made 
 arrangements for my departure : a carriage comes from 
 S to take me away, and by dawn I shall set out.” 
 
 * Mrs. Courtnay glanced at Claire, who had grown 
 very pale at this announcement. She courteously 
 said : 
 
 “ I am sorry that you cannot give us a few more 
 days, Mr. Thorne, but if your father commands your 
 presence, of course you must obey. As I do not wish 
 to play the part of the stern duenna, I grant Claire 
 permission to spend this last evening with 3^011 in the 
 library. I Avish you a pleasant and safe journey, and I 
 shall look forAvard to a happy re-union hereafter, Avhen 
 our vieAvs Avill be more in harmon3\” 
 
 “ Thank }"Ou. I OAve 3^011 much, Mrs. Courtna3^, and 
 I shall not forget the debt. Think of me as kindly as 
 you can, and accept my thanks for this last boon.” • 
 
 He bowed over the- hand she extended to him, and 
 then left the apartment, taking Julia Avith her after 
 she had been kissed and patted on the head by the 
 departing guest. 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 249 
 
 The lovers went into tlie library together, and in 
 great agitation Claire exclaimed : 
 
 It is dreadful to act in tliis underhand manner, 
 Walter I l\Iamma is so honorable herself that she can- 
 not suspect us of double-dealing. Oh ! what will slie 
 thiniv of me when she knows with what treachery I 
 liave rewarded her confidence ? ” 
 
 Think, my darling I Wh}-, only that youth and 
 love are reckless of consequences. She who has 
 been content to ‘dwell in decencies forever,’ will be- 
 gin to comprehend tlie deliri*um of passion and to un- 
 derstand to wliat lengths it will drive its votaries. 
 Claire, if 3'ou had not been mine past recal, I should 
 liave been maddened by the cold and prudeiit utter- 
 ances of Mrs. Coiirtnay to-night. Don’t 3'Ou agree 
 with me that present bliss is worth all the future maj^ 
 hold out to us as a lure to sacrifice that which is with- 
 in the grasp ? ” 
 
 Slie faintly replied: 
 
 “I — I hardly know, Walter ; but I should like our 
 happiness to be as enduring as it is entrancing. All I 
 if we could live on, loving as we do now, we would 
 not envy the bliss of the angels in Heaven ! ” 
 
 Then let us be angels while we imiy. If a change 
 must come — if a blight must fall on the love we cher- 
 ish for each other, at least let our bliss be perfect 
 while it lasts. Cast that cloud from your brow, 1113' 
 sweet love, and smile on me, forgetful of all on earth 
 or heaven but him to whom you have given 3^ourseIf.*’ 
 Thus lovingl3' adjured, the momentary cloud left 
 the brow of the infatuated Claire, and she nestled to 
 his side, laid her head upon his breast and listened en- 
 tranced to the tender promises he breathed into her 
 
26(J THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ear Never should she have cause to regret the clan- 
 destine marriage she had made — never cease to find in 
 him the adoring lover he then was ; and Thorne delu- 
 ded himself into believing all he uttered. 
 
 His self-love was flattered by Claire’s unquestioning 
 reliance on himself — her implicit obedience to his com- 
 mands ; his conscience silenced by the strong will 
 which led him to gratify himself at all hazards ; and 
 even his dread of his father’s wrath was laid at rest by 
 his determination to enjoy his brief dream of bliss 
 without one intruding care. 
 
 If he was like a man on the brink of Niagara, about 
 to be swept down by its resistless waves, he would at 
 least float down with the music of the waters in his 
 ears, the sun shining through the mist, weaving a rain- 
 bow of glowing loveliness around him as he clasped 
 his beloved to his beating heart and dared the plunge 
 for her sake. He would not think of the future, the 
 present was all in all to him ; the hereafter might take 
 care of itself. 
 
 At nine o’clock Mrs. Courtnay came in to speak a 
 few more parting words to her guest, and to take 
 Claire away with her. Thorne had labored to impress 
 on the latter the necessity of repressing all outward 
 sign of emotion when she bade her protectress good 
 night, but when they stood together at the door of 
 Mrs. Courtnay ’s chamber, the poor child threw her 
 ;;.i ins around her and returned her good night kiss 
 •v. th such fervor that her friend laughingly said : 
 
 ‘ One might suppose it was I you were about to 
 pii i from, Claire, in place of your lover. There, my 
 ?■: ar, go to your room, and tiy and compose yourself, 
 j ' 11 send Nancy to you with a sedative, which you 
 must drink like a good girl.” 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 251 
 
 Claire feebly murmured her thanks, and hastened 
 to her own room, to struggle with the emotions which, 
 at this last moment, threatened to overwhelm her 
 powers of self-command. 
 
 Ill a few moments the servant came with some aro- 
 matic drops which she accepted but took very good 
 care not to take. When the house was quiet, and all 
 seemed buried in profound repose, she stole into a 
 small room opening from Mrs. Courtnay’s, in which 
 Julia slept. The little girl was in the sound sleep of 
 childhood, and she did not even stir when Claire wept 
 OA'er, and kissed her, wondering where and how they 
 would meet again. 
 
 She then flitted back to her own apartment, com- 
 pleted her preparations for departure, and sat beside 
 her window awaiting the signal that had been agreed 
 upon between herself and Thorne. The room was on 
 the second floor, with windows opening to the floor of 
 the long piazza in the rear of the house ; from this, a 
 fliglit of steps led to the lower story, and it was easy 
 enough to effect her escape without danger of detec- 
 tion. 
 
 Claire heard the hours strike upon the large clock 
 in the hall, and when two rang out, it was followed 
 by a slight scraping sound upon her door. She started 
 up, unclosed it, and Thorne came noiselessly in, softly 
 closing the door behind him. 
 
 It is time,” he whispered. The moon is rising, 
 and we can be far away before your absence is sus- 
 pected. I have been down to see the driver of my ^ 
 carriage, and everything is quite read}^” 
 
 And I too am readj^,” was the reply, but her voice 
 slightly quivered, and she cast a regretful glance 
 
252 the cl an- destine marriage. 
 
 around the secure shelter she was leaving for — she 
 knew not what. 
 
 Thorne advanced to the window, unclosed the shut- 
 ters, and together they slipped out, made their way 
 noiselessly to the lower floor, and passed toward the 
 steps. Old Carlo lay upon a mat near the door, but 
 he only raised his head and uttered a feeble whine of 
 recognition, and permitted them to go on without any 
 further demonstration. 
 
 When they had crossed the yard, Thorne carrying 
 her carpet-bag in his hand, Claire ventured to whisper : 
 
 “ I forgot Carlo. If he had barked, mamma would 
 have been sure to look out to see what was the mat- 
 ter.” 
 
 I took good care of that,” he carelessly replied. 
 ‘‘ I remembered the danger from him, and I gave him 
 a sedative more potent than the one I met Nancy tak- 
 ing in to you.” 
 
 Oh Walter! I hope you gave the poor old fellow 
 nothing that could hurt him,” gasped Claire. 
 
 Pooh, child ! what was I to do ? There was no 
 alternative, for I would not permit the life of so insig- 
 nificant a creature to stand in the way of our success- 
 ful evasion. He will not suffer long, and he will only 
 be helped off to dog’s paradise a little sooner than he 
 must have gone at any rate.” 
 
 Claire felt as if a sudden blow had been dealt her, 
 and she uttered a little cry. 
 
 ‘‘Are 3"ou mad?” asked Thorne, almost fiercely, 
 “ that you risk such an outcry as that while we are so 
 near the house ? What have I done that you should 
 act in such a manner ? ” 
 
 “You have wounded my heart, that is all,” she 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 253 
 
 faintly replied. “ The dog was fond of you, and 1 
 have often seen you pet him. Do you always rid 
 yourself of what is in your way, in this summary man- 
 ner, Walter ? 
 
 ‘‘Don’t be a goose, Claire. If a man does not put 
 impediments out of his way, how is he to get on in 
 life? Things that are of no consequence I thrust 
 aside with very little remorse. As to old Carlo I 
 think I have done him a service by giving him a ticket 
 of leave from this lower world, in which he was get- 
 ting to be a nuisance.” 
 
 “ But I thought you were attached to him, Walter. 
 I could not strike a deadly blow at the life of any 
 creature I love.” 
 
 “ Perhaps not ; but you are a woman ; men are dif- 
 ferent, you see, and you must make allowances. It 
 was a choice between getting safely off with j^^ou, or 
 leaving Carlo the power to give the alarm. Of course 
 I could not hesitate.” 
 
 It came to the lips of Claire to say that humanity 
 was of no sex, but she repressed the words with a faint 
 shiver, and Thorne, who had made her take his arm, 
 asked : 
 
 “ Are you cold, my darling ? I hope you have not 
 come away without wrapping a shawl around you.” 
 
 “ No — I am not cold, and I am sufficiently wrapped 
 up. I am only trembling at the thought of what will 
 be felt by mamma to-morrow when our flight is discov- 
 ered. Walter, I have given up everything for you, 
 and — and — I begin to fear that I may become one of 
 those impediments upon your path of which you spoke 
 just now.” 
 
 Tliorne stopped and looked down on tl/e pale face 
 
254 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 on which the moon was shining, and he earnestly said : 
 
 ‘‘ How can you imagine such a thing as that, Claire 
 It seems like sacrilege to utter such a suggestion. Are 
 you not my chosen wife — flesh of my flesh ? We are 
 one in the sight of Heaven, and in trampling on you, 
 I should be outraging myself. What are all my vows 
 worth if they have not brought to your heart the con- 
 viction that you are the one desire of mine ? ” 
 
 She thrilled with happiness at this assurance, and 
 clung to his arm with a tender pressure that expressed 
 more than words. 
 
 “ Forgive me, dear love ; but I have onlj^ you, and 
 I tremble at the mere thought that I may become a 
 burden to you. I am so helpless — so dependent — and 
 I have nothing to give you but my poor little faithful 
 heart.” 
 
 ‘‘ I ask for no higher prize, my darling. Do as I do, 
 Claire. Make the most of the passing hour, for that 
 is all that we are sure of in this uncertain life. Do 
 not poison ^ love’s young dream ’ by the intrusion of a 
 single fear, but accept the bliss the gods provide, and 
 be thankful for it. I do not suffer a care to dim my 
 present, though I might, if I would permit myself to 
 do so.” 
 
 Then all is not perfectly serene in his Heaven any 
 more than in mine,” thought the poor little runaway, 
 and she clouded her horizon still further by conjectur- 
 ing what drawbacks to perfect felicity her companion 
 thrust away from him that he might enjoy his stolen 
 bliss in its utmost capacity to bless. 
 
 She was madly attached to him, but she thought of 
 the long and prosperous future that she believed open- 
 ing before them, quite as much as of the present. To 
 
THE FLIGHT. 
 
 255 
 
 be near him — to live in his presence — was not 3nough 
 for her, delightful as it was. She must have some as- 
 surance that this happiness was to continue and in- 
 crease as the years flowed on before she could fully 
 realize that it was hers. 
 
 They crossed the wide lawn, passed through a skirt 
 of woodland, and gained the lower gate, to find the 
 carriage drawn up on one side of the road, with the 
 driver nodding on his seat. 
 
 Before the man was fully aroused, Thorne had placed 
 Claire in the vehicle, and was preparing to enter it 
 himself. The driver drowsily said: 
 
 Is that you, Mr. Thorne ? I’ve waited so long that 
 I believe I was almost asleep just now.” 
 
 There can be but one opinion about that, John, 
 Theie — I’ll shut the door myself ; drive on, and get to 
 
 S as soon as possible. I wish to be in time to catch 
 
 the morning stage.” 
 
 Very well, sir. By five o’clock I’ll set you down 
 at the tavern, and you’ll have time to get a bite before 
 the stage starts.” 
 
 ‘‘ All right then ; go on as fast as you can.” 
 
 ‘‘ I wonder what he’s in such a hurry for, and what’s 
 a takin’ of him off in this here myste’rous Avay ? — ^but 
 ’taint none o’ my business,” soliloquized the driver ; 
 and with this philosophical conclusion, he whipped up 
 his horses, and was soon winding through the steep 
 road which had been cut through the mountain ridge 
 that enclosed the valley. 
 
 The egress Avas on the opposite side from that on 
 which Thorne had made his abrupt and dangerous en- 
 trance into it, and as they emerged on the table-land 
 above, the first ro^y gleam of day was seen. The stars 
 
THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 faded out, one by one — the moon paled her brilliancy 
 before the royal ruler of the day, as she arose amid 
 ti:e pomj) of golden and purple clouds. 
 
 Claire shed a few bitter tears as she was borne from 
 the scenes she had known and loved from her birth, 
 but they were wiped away by her lover, and her emo- 
 tion soothed by the tenderest assurances of eternal de- 
 votion. 
 
 She believed them, for she had unbounded faith in 
 him, and after the decisive step she had taken, nothing 
 was left for her but trust in the promises he so pro- 
 fusely lavished. 
 
 This was given as unreservedly as Thorne could 
 have wished, and by the time they reached the little 
 village to which they were bound, Claire had almost 
 forgotten her regrets at forsaking the friend of her life 
 to go with him. 
 
 They drew up at the door of the unpretending tav- 
 ern, and the driver was struck with astonishment when 
 he saw a lady handed from the carriage. He uttered 
 a loud whistle, and exclaimed under his breath : 
 
 “ Well, by Jingo ! this beats all ! It’s the old 
 Trencher’s gal, as sure as shooting ! and she’s going 
 off with that feller. I might ha’ knowed, when I was 
 told to wait in that hollow, that some mischief was 
 afoot. But it’s none o’ my business — ’as she bakes, 
 slie must brew,’ as my old mammy used to say ; but 
 it's a sorry drink she’s getting readj" for herself, or I’m 
 liO conjuror.” 
 
 Thorne ordered a private room — in which their 
 ! reakfast was served. He was in the gayest of spirits, 
 and Claire, obedient to his impulse, brightened up, in 
 spite of her sleepless night, and they passed a pleasant 
 
FATHER JEROME. 
 
 257 
 
 hour before the stage-horn sounded beneath the win- 
 dow. In a few more moments they were whirling 
 rapidly towards Richmond, and the young fugitive 
 was borne onward to the sad destiny she had so reck- 
 lessly embraced. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 FATHER JEROME. 
 
 1 ^’ the morning the first thing that happened at the 
 Giange was the discovery of Carlo lying stark and 
 stiff upon the mat on which he usually slept. Nancy 
 found him thus when she came in to her morning 
 duties, and she presently huiried to her mistress to re- 
 port what Rad happened. With staring eyes she stood 
 beside Mrs. Courtnay’s bed, and said : 
 
 I clar’ mistis, dat somebody’s bin about de yard 
 dat oughtn’t to bin, an’ dey’m bin and pizened dat 
 good ole Carlo, caze he’d ’a’ barked and waked you 
 up.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay sat up and looked at her in some 
 alarm. 
 
 ‘‘ Has anything been disturbed ? ” she asked. 
 Have you been through the house to see in what 
 condition it is ? ” 
 
 Yes’m — I’s bin through every place, ’cept Miss 
 Claire’s room, an’ dat were locked. I knocked at de 
 do’, but she never heard me, and so I come to you. 
 But nuffin aint bin took as far as I kin see, an’ ef 
 ’twas a robber, he only wanted suffin he foun’ outside 
 16 
 
258 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 de house. Mr. Thorne’s done gone, hut in course 
 ’tMan’t liwi dat was a prowlin’ ’round, a killin’ of our 
 dog.” 
 
 With trembling hands Mrs. Courtnay hastened to 
 make her toilette, and then went out to ascertain the 
 state of affairs. Carlo was quite dead, so she ordered 
 him to be removed and decently interred. After a 
 hurried survey of the house she called to Claire to 
 open her door, and when all remained silent in her 
 room, with a quickly beating heart she moved toward 
 the lower end of the hall and unlocked a door that 
 gave on the back piazza. 
 
 On stepping out a single glance showed her that the 
 shutter nearest to her was imperfectl}^ closed, and even 
 before she entered the vacant room Mrs. Courtnay felt 
 certain of wdiat had happened. 
 
 On the toilette table lay the letter addressed to her 
 by the fugitive, and she read it with mingled emotions 
 of compassion and anger — compassion for the mis- 
 guided girl, and anger for the duplicity of which she 
 had been guilty toward herself. At that moment she 
 was not disposed to extenuate Claire’s fault, for she 
 felt her ingratitude too deeply. She had placed her in 
 the position of a daughter, and trusted her as such, 
 and this was her return for all the kindness lavished 
 on her. 
 
 I wonder if she poisoned my poor old dog,” slie 
 thought. ‘‘It would only be in keeping with the rest. 
 Yet no — I wrong the poor child — badly as she lias 
 acted, ^he could not have done that. Another and a 
 more ruthless hand gave Carlo his fate, and Claire, in 
 her turn, will find tlie same iron grasp crushing lier to 
 the earth. Unhappy child ! this reckless, selfish man 
 
FATHER JEROME. 
 
 259 
 
 will work her wo yet, I sadly fear, for she has no one 
 to stand between him and herself and demand justice 
 for her. If he marries her, all may be well, but who 
 knows if he will do that? Oh ! Claire — Claire, Avhy 
 have you deserted the only friend who could have 
 averted from you the evils into which you have so 
 recklessly plunged.” 
 
 She folded the letter, and slowly sought the lower 
 part of the house. When it became known among 
 the household that Claire was missing, the mystery of 
 Carlo’s fate was solved, though few among them be- 
 lieved that she had destroyed the old dog who had 
 been the companion of so many of her rambles in the 
 days of her childhood. 
 
 It was he as done it,” was muttered among the 
 negroes. 
 
 And Nancy said : 
 
 “ Though he may think a poor dog o’ no account, it 
 were a bad start to make wi’ Miss Claire. I s’pose 
 he’s a-gwine to marry of her an’ come back here askin’ 
 of the missis’ parding ; but ’twont be no use, caze she 
 looks white an’ set in the face, an’ I don’t b’leive much 
 would come of it.” 
 
 When Julia learned the flight of her playfellow, she 
 wept and implored her mother to send after her dar- 
 ling Rosebud and bring her back in spite of Mr. 
 Thorne’s opposition. She wailed : 
 
 “ My Claire will be sorry and come back, mother, 
 whether he wants her to or not. It was wicked of 
 Mr. Thorne to take our Rosebud awa}^ from us — and 
 what will my brother say ? 
 
 “ He can say nothing more than I do — that Claire 
 has chosen her own lot and we have no further oon* 
 
260 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 cern with her affairs. Do not speak of her to me again 
 Julia, for I can never hear her name without pain. She 
 Las wounded my heart so deepl}^ that I hardly can 
 ever forgive her.” 
 
 Yet in spite of her resentment, Mrs. Oourtnay would 
 have sent a messenger upon the track of the fugitives, 
 authorized to see them married, had there been any 
 one near who could have been dispatched on such an 
 errand. But there was not — her son was far away, 
 and if Andrew had been at the Grange, she would 
 scarcely have considered it safe to send him in pursuit 
 of the man who had robbed him of the object of his 
 boyish preference. His temper was violent, his feel- 
 ings ardent ; and she understood better than any one 
 else how deep a blow the knowledge of Claire’s eva- 
 sion would be to him, young as he was. 
 
 She could only fold her hands and sigh as she thought 
 over the fate her childlike prot^g^e had so recklessly 
 embraced, and all anger died out of her womanly heart 
 as she foreboded the disastrous consequences that 
 might result to Claire from the event of the past night. 
 
 When the scarcely -tasted breakfast was over, Mrs. 
 Courtnay went, as was her usual custom, to inquire 
 how Father Jerome had passed the night. She found 
 him a little better, and this morning he seemed able to 
 speak quite rationally. 
 
 He noted the unusual cloud upon her brow, and 
 asked : 
 
 “What is it, daughter, that troubles you ? Let me 
 lift the burden from your heart and offer such conso- 
 lation as I have often given you in past days.” 
 
 “ If I thought you could bear the revelation I have 
 to make, Father, I would not hesitate ; but I fear that 
 
FATHER JEROME. 
 
 261 
 
 the cause of my sadness would too dee],ly alfect you.” 
 
 He gently replied : 
 
 ‘‘ Christ bore the burden of our sins, and I, His 
 humble representative on earth, must not shrink from 
 my share. I am stronger than you think. I feel much 
 better this morning, and my brain is clear enough to 
 advise you. Tell me, daughter, the cause of your 
 trouble, that I may offer such balm as religion can 
 afford.” 
 
 Thus urged, Mrs. Courtnay briefly informed him of 
 Claire’s elopement, and read to him the letter she had 
 left for herself. He pressed his hand upon his brow, 
 and after a few moments of wandering thought, 
 brought to his memory the events of the evening on 
 which he had been seized with illness. He said : 
 
 It is right that Claire should go with her husband, 
 though why she has gone off in this clandestine man- 
 ner I am unable to understand. She told you of what 
 took j)lace in my cottage on that night before I 
 fainted.” 
 
 “ She told me nothing. Father ; her course through- 
 out has been one of deceit. To what do you re- 
 fer? Surely — surely did not lend yourself to the 
 
 service of these young people, and then conceal it 
 from me ! But pardon me, I forget that you have not 
 been in a condition to speak of this since that night.” 
 
 No ” — was the faint reply. ‘‘ I have been lying 
 as one in a trance since that day ; but they came to me 
 assuring me of the consent to their union given byTVT. 
 hapierre before his death, and I was weak enough to 
 believe that I was serving the good cause by uniting 
 them. 1 was gaining a son to the church, for Mr. 
 Thorne made his marriage a condition of becoming 0110 
 
262 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 of US. I thought any means justifiable to save a hu- 
 man soul, and Claire will keep him in the path that 
 leads to salvation.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay listened with surprise and chagrin to 
 this explanation ; but it relieved her of her darkest 
 fear on Claire’s account. She quickly asked : 
 
 ‘‘Will the marriage stand any scrutiny, Father? 
 Should Mr. Thorne find it convenient to repudiate it, 
 will not Claire be able to prove its validity ? There 
 could have been no license, and no witnesses were 
 present.” 
 
 The sick man proudly replied : 
 
 “ The service of the church will suffice to a true be- 
 lieve^ and I think Mr. Thorne was sincere in his pro- 
 fession of our faith. He will not dare to cast off the 
 wife wedded to hyn with all the forms. The ceremony 
 is binding, even without such legal securities as men 
 have invented. ‘ Whom God hath joined together, let 
 no man put asunder.’ Is not that sufficient ? You^ at 
 least, should believe it, my daughter.” 
 
 “ I do. Father ; but if this young man should prove 
 recreant to the vows he has taken, what redress would 
 this young girl have? Should you not recover, she 
 may be placed in a most wretched and helpless posi- 
 tion.” 
 
 “ Why should you imagine such a possibility ? Mr. 
 Thorne seemed an earnest and true man, and he was 
 madly in love with Claire.” 
 
 “ I think the last myself, but such passions are apt 
 to exhaust themselves quickly, and he may soon tire 
 of her. I feel assured, now, that he has deceived us 
 as to the consent given to his marriage by his father. 
 If his statements had been true, or if he had intended 
 
FATHER JEROME. 
 
 263 
 
 lO act honorably by Claire, lie would not have con- 
 cealed their union from me when I no longer possess- 
 ed the power to prevent it. Nor would he have ex- 
 acted from his wife that she should not refer to it in 
 her letter to me. Did you not remark that she speaks 
 .t becoming his wife : she does not state that she is 
 already such.” 
 
 ‘•But, my friend, that is unfair to the young man. 
 FJe showed me letters which proved the truth of all 
 his statements, and I am unwilling to attribute to him 
 such turpitude as you hint at. Claire has no fortune, 
 but she is of good family, and quite his equal in other 
 respects. Why then should you doubt his honorable 
 intentions ? ” 
 
 “ I may be wrong to do so, and I will hope for the 
 best ; compose yourself, Father, for you are becoming 
 too much excited. When you are stronger, I will get 
 you to give me a written certificate that the ceremony 
 of marriage was performed by you, and that may help 
 to keep Mr. Thorne true to his pledges.” 
 
 “ I will give it to you. Let me be propped up, and 
 writing materials placed before me. I will at least per- 
 form this act of justice before I die.” 
 
 The young priest was summoned from the next room, 
 wliere he was resting upon his night watch by his 
 friend, and Mrs. Courtnay went in search of what was 
 required. 
 
 She soon returned, but in that brief interval a sud- 
 den reaction had taken place, and Father Jerome lay 
 white and nearly insensible upon his pillows. Every 
 effort was made to restore him, but he sunk from that 
 moment, and never rallied before his death, which toot 
 place a few days later. 
 
264 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 ANDREW COURTNAY’S FURY. 
 
 I T was much to Mrs. Courtnay to know that Claire 
 had not abandoned her protection till a husband 
 possessed the right to command her to follow him, but 
 she bitterly regretted that proof of the marriage in 
 some tangible form had not come into her possession. 
 A vague dread that Thorne intended to act unfairly by 
 his mysteriously wedded bride would remain in her 
 mind, and she watched and waited for some com- 
 munication from the fugitive with a solicitude that 
 could scarcely have been greater had Claire been her 
 own daughter. She could not write herself, for no clue 
 had been afforded to the place to which they had 
 gone, and she was compelled to suppress her anxiety 
 as she best could. A boy was sent regularly to the 
 post-office several miles distant for letters, but four 
 weeks rolled by before one came. The postmark was 
 Richmond, and Mrs. Courtnay eagerly tore open the 
 envelope, and read the following lines from Claire : 
 
 “ Richmond, October 15, 18 . 
 
 Dear, Dearest Mamma : — I should have writ- 
 ten to you before, but Walter would not permit me to 
 betray the place of our temporary residence till we were 
 on the eve of leaving it. He is the dearest and most 
 devoted of husbands, but he is a little imperious in his 
 ways, and you know it is my duty to obey him. It is 
 also my pleasure to do so, for he is all the world to 
 me. 
 
ANDKEW COURTNAY’S FURY. 
 
 265 
 
 “ How complete is his power over me you may be 
 able to comprehend when it induced me to abandon 
 you and my darling Julia, to go out with himiiito that 
 world of which I was so ignorant. Pardon that de- 
 sertion, dear mamma, and believe that my heart was 
 saddened by remorse for the part I was compelled to 
 play. 
 
 When I have your forgiveness I shall regret noth- 
 ing in the past, for I have gained everything by con- 
 forming to the will of my husband. He devotes him- 
 self to me — he loads me with beautiful presents, and 
 shows me everything that can interest or improve me ; 
 and his refusal to permit me to write to you before this 
 was occasioned by his fear that you might send some 
 one in pursuit of us to intrude on the charming se- 
 clusion of our honeymoon. 
 
 ‘‘We came directly to Richmond and took lodgings 
 with a widow lady living on Shoco Hill, who has a 
 lovely home, embowered in trees and foliage. Her 
 family consists of herself and two small children, and 
 she was glad to give up two of the best rooms in her 
 house for the liberal price offered by W alter. 
 
 “We were at the hotel but two days, and we lived 
 there very privately, till my husband found this charm- 
 ing nest of bloom and verdure. From our windows 
 we have a view of the city lying below us, with the ro- 
 mantic river beyond foaming and struggling over 
 ledges of rock, and on the opposite shore the pretty 
 town of Manchester. 
 
 “ There is nothing to remind me of the wild moun- 
 tain glen in which I have passed my life, but there is 
 much to charm and delight me. There is an old 
 brick church on a neighboring hill to which it gives 
 
266 'ihe clandestine make. age. 
 
 its name, which was built before the revolutionary war, 
 and the grass-grown yard that surrounds it is filled 
 with the graves of those who have long since passed 
 away. I Avent there once, but Walter thinks it too 
 gloomy a place to visit a second time, and our rambles 
 are taken in another direction. 
 
 Such long and charming Avalks as we enjoy ! how 
 my heart swells with thankful joy as I lean upon his 
 arm, and listen to his dear voice, discoursing with that 
 eloquence with which even you have been charmed. 
 
 Col. Thorne wishes him to enter political life, and 
 if he does I am sure he will soon be known as one of 
 the finest in the land. Think how proud I am that 
 this gifted, noble being has chosen me, insignificant as 
 I am, as the companion of his life — the sharer of his 
 future greatness. What can I offer him in return but 
 the entire devotion of my life ? 
 
 “ I would make any sacrifice to prove my devotion 
 to him ; yet why should I speak of sacrifices, when 
 Walter asks none — would accept of none from the be- 
 ing he wishes to screen from every sorrow, from every 
 danger. If you could witness his tender care for me 
 you would be satisfied that my happiness is safe in his 
 keeping, and you would admit that I have done well 
 to trust my future in his^gentle hands. 
 
 ‘‘Dear mamma, think kindly of Walter, though he 
 did steal your adopted child from you. Remember 
 that it was to croAvn her with perfect bliss that he was 
 guilty of that treachery, and pardon him for the sake 
 of the little Avife he seems so proud of. Yes — I am 
 happy ; there Avill not be a cloud on my horizon Avhen 
 I am assured of your forgh-eness ; so hasten to send ii 
 to me as soon as you receive this. 
 
ANDREW COURTNAY'S FURY. 267 
 
 “ Walter has taken me to see the capitol, and there 
 f saw the statue of the Father of his Country, por- 
 traying tliQ grand and noble lineaments of the greatest 
 and best of men. There is also one of La Fayette, 
 which is said to have been a good likeness, but the 
 gallant Frenchman looks like a common mortal w'hen 
 brought in comparison with the serene grandeur of 
 our countryman. 
 
 ‘‘We often linger in the beautiful grounds around 
 the capitol, and Walter has been reading to me the 
 history of the times that ‘ tried the souls ’ of all good 
 patriots. He finds my mind full of poetry and non- 
 sense, and he is endeavoring to lay a foundation for 
 something more solid. I listen to him with devout 
 attention, but I am afraid that my thoughts too often 
 wander from the subject to the beloved reader ; my 
 vagrant fancy busies itself with picturing the beautiful 
 future that lies before us, and I please myself with im- 
 agining the triumphs his genius will some day attain. 
 
 He paints a little, too, for he is taking another 
 portrait of me ; I think he must have idealized my 
 head a little, for I cannot be so lovely as the creature 
 that glows upon his canvas. Walter scouts that sug- 
 gestion though, and insists that he has made a failure ; 
 that he can never transfer to his picture the animation 
 of my mobile face. I hope you will see it some day 
 and judge which one of us is right. 
 
 ‘‘ Our honeymoon is nearly over, alas ! but if fate 
 should maliciously deny me the perfect happiness I 
 anticipate in the days to come, I shall at least be able 
 to look back upon these precious weeks as a golden 
 reflection from Heaven. Walter has even made me at 
 times, forget that such a cloud as your displeasure lin- 
 
•268 the cl akdesti^^e marriage. 
 
 gers on my horizon. Lift that from my heart, beloved 
 mamma, and T shall go on my way serene as the sun- 
 shine that falls around me on this lovely morning. 
 
 I half sigh however, when I think how soon we 
 must leave this fairy spot, which will always be en- 
 chanted ground to me as the scene of our first wedded 
 experience. Yet I am glad to go to my future home 
 — to behold all the fine and beautiful things of which 
 I am to be the mistress. 
 
 Thornhill is a magnificent residence, Walter tells 
 me, and the old gentleman is impatient to have a 
 youthful mistress established over it. I do not know 
 how 1 shall bear myself in those unaccustomed scenes, 
 but I am trying to assume the dignity of a matron be- 
 fore I am introduced to my father-in-law. I rather 
 dread the ordeal, for Walter admits that Col. Thorne 
 is a man of odd temper, and sometimes difficult to 
 please. He is good enough to say, though, that he 
 has no doubt I shall win my way to his favor as readily 
 as I liave to his own heart. I am afraid that Walter 
 asserts this only to keep up my courage, but I shall do 
 my best, and make every effort to please the old gen- 
 tleman for his son’s dear sake. 
 
 By the. time this reaches you we shall be on our 
 
 way to L , and your reply must be sent to me 
 
 there, under cover to Walter. Dear mamma, I en- 
 treat that you will write at once, and gladden my 
 heart by a full and free pardon for all the uneasiness I 
 have made j^ou suffer on my account. 
 
 “ I hope by this time that Father Jerome is quite 
 restored, as he seemed to be improving before I left. 
 Kiss Julia for me a score of times, and remember me 
 to all the servants. 
 
ANDKEW COURTS AY’S FURY. 
 
 269 
 
 ‘‘Walter Avill add a few lines to this long epistle, 
 and I leave him to say all that he wishes for himself. 
 
 “ Your grateful and attached, 
 
 “Claire Lapierre Thorne,” 
 
 “ P. S. — i sign my name in full, because it is the 
 first time I have had occasion to write it, and I wished 
 to see how it would look.” 
 
 In a dashing, free hand Thorne had added these 
 lines : 
 
 “ My dear Mrs. Courtnay, I flatter myself that you 
 will forgive me for stealing your pet from you, when 
 you learn how happy she is in the new life to which I 
 have introduced her. 
 
 “ We have enjoyed a brief interlude of Eden 
 blessedness which I shall always gratefully remember ; 
 but all things must come to an end and life’s duties 
 will no longer permit me to dally longer in this Armi- 
 da’s bower. I have made a sketch of the exquisite 
 cottage home in which we have passed the last four 
 weeks, and I have had it framed to be forwarded to 
 you as a peace offering. 
 
 “ You will detect a figure robed in white, standing 
 in the sunshine that glints through the trees, and you 
 will have no difficulty in identifying it as the darling 
 of both our hearts. 
 
 “ It is necessary for us to leave this place in a few 
 more da3^s, for my father is becoming impatient at my 
 long absence, and I must hasten to make my peace 
 with him by presenting to him the gem of which I 
 robbed \^ou. Pardon me for makine such a return for 
 your hospitaiit}^ but the temptation was irresistible. 
 
270 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 and you were so immovable that no other alternative 
 was left me. 
 
 ‘‘ It will be best for Claire’s letters to come, for a 
 season under cover to me. I cannot explain why at 
 present, but j^ou shall soon know my reasons, and also 
 how your protegee prospers in her new sphere. 
 
 With the highest sentiments of esteem, I am 
 yours respectfully, W. Thorne. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnaj^ read these letters over twice, and 
 pondered long upon the last. She remarked with a 
 feeling of discontent that Thorne never referred to 
 Claire as his wife, though she called him her husband, 
 and doubtless believed herself as securely wedded to 
 him as if a dozen witnesses had been present at their 
 espousals. She accused herself of becoming suspicious, 
 but she admitted that there was cause to doubt the 
 fairness of his proceedings, since he was unwilling to 
 permit Claire’s letters to be sent openly to her under 
 her new name. 
 
 If Thorne’s assertions respecting his father were 
 true, why was this precaution necessary ? She reluc- 
 tantly came to the conclusion that a battle would have 
 to be fought between the father and son before the 
 young wife could be received in the paternal home. 
 That Claire was perfectly unsuspicious of the decep- 
 tion he had practised, w^as evident from the tenor of 
 her letter ; and judging Walter Thorne from that fact 
 alone, so high-toned a Avoman as Mrs. Courtnay could 
 arrive at but one conclusion ; that the agreeable man 
 of the world had few scruples where a question of self- 
 gratification w^as involved, and she regretted more bit- 
 terly than ever that Claire had ever taken so false a 
 step at the commencement of her life. 
 
ANDREW OOURTNAyS FURY. 
 
 271 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay was very sad, in spite of the joyous 
 tenor of Claire’s letter ; she felt it impossible to with- 
 hold for a single day the forgiveness she so sweetly 
 implored, — for the poor child might need it to console 
 her for the unlooked-for difficulties into which she was 
 about to plunge. 
 
 She went to her desk and dashed off a few lines, 
 intending to write more fully when she felt more in 
 the mood. She wrote : 
 
 “ Grange, October 25, 18 . 
 
 My Dear Child. — I freely send you my forgive- 
 ness, and hope that it will, indeed, lift from 3"Our life 
 the only cloud that rests upon your perfect happiness ; 
 that it may continue, and increase, is my ardent prayer. 
 
 Father Jerome is indeed better, for he is in the 
 home of the blessed, ministered to by angels. He re- 
 vived sufficiently to explain your abrupt departure, by 
 assuring me that he had himself bestowed on Mr. 
 Thorne the right to command you to go with him. 
 He told me of what took place in his cottage on the 
 night of his seizure ; I can only account for the de- 
 ception he countenanced, by the partial failure of his 
 mind, for I do nob think it was well done to solemnize 
 the marriage ceremony in a clandestine manner, and so 
 informally, so far as the laws of the land we live in 
 are concerned. 
 
 Of course, as a true Catholic, Mr. Thorne must 
 feel as much bound to you as if a hundred witnesses 
 were present, but I should have been much better satis- 
 fied if every precaution had been taken to render your 
 union indissoluble. 
 
 “ Pardon these doubts, but Mr. Thorne’s course to- 
 
272 the clandestin’e makkiage. 
 
 wards myself has not been such as to inspire me 
 with perfect confidence in him. I consent, hovvmver, 
 to judge him by his future conduct toward you, and 
 if he continues to render you happy in the lot you 
 have embraced, I will gladly suffer the past to be buried 
 in oblivion. 
 
 ‘‘ Should you need a friend, remember that, in spite 
 of your desertion, I shall always be ready to stand by 
 you, and sustain you to the best of my ability. 
 
 “ Your affectionate friend, 
 
 “ Julia Courtnay.” 
 
 These lines she enclosed in the following reply to 
 Thorne : 
 
 “Grange, October 25th, 18 . 
 
 Mr. Thorne. — As you desired, I send Mrs. 
 Thorne's letter under cover to yourself, but the neces- 
 sity of such a precaution fills me with doubt and fear 
 as to the reception she is likely to meet with from your 
 father.^’ 
 
 ‘‘ You led me to believe that he desired to see you 
 speedily married, and cared little on whom your choice 
 might fall, provided your wife was presentable, and 
 well connected. I hope you told me the truth, that 
 the letters you exhibited were genuine ; for if thej 
 were not I can think of no height nor depth of treach- 
 ery of which you could not be capable. 
 
 I will not dilate on this subject, for it is too 
 painful to me, and too humiliating to you. Father 
 Jerome is dead, but he informed me of the marriage be- 
 fore he expired : he would have left written proof of 
 it, had time been granted him ; but it was not. I tell 
 you this to show you how entirely my poor child is 
 
ANDREW COURTNAY^S FURY. 
 
 273 
 
 thrown upon your honor. Oh ! be true to the vows 
 you have plighted to her, and shield her from the 
 ehects of your own imprudence. 
 
 “ If my surmises with reference to your father’s op- 
 position to your unworldly choice are correct, you will 
 be tempted to cast Claire off to regain his favor ; but 
 I will not think that you could be capable of such a 
 wrong as that. You seemed to adore her, and you 
 will not break her heart, for she is as utterly devoted 
 to you as one human being can be to another, and she 
 would scarcely survive a separation from you. 
 
 I fear that I have said too much, but you will ex- 
 cuse it as the offspring of my solicitude for the dear 
 girl I have loved so long, and cared for as if she were 
 my daughter. 
 
 Your friend or foe, as you shall deal by h(3r, 
 
 Julia Courtnay.” 
 
 A few days after these letters were dispatched a 
 
 box was sent over from S , in which was packed 
 
 the picture to Avhich Thorne had referred. Mrs. 
 Courtnay had it taken out, and set up against the wall 
 for examination, and she was surveying it with criti- 
 cal eyes, when she heard the sounds of an arrival. A 
 well-known step sounded through the hall, and in sur- 
 prise and dismay, she heard the voice of her son, ask- 
 ing where she was to be found. 
 
 She had given Andrew permission to pass his sum- 
 mer vacation in a pedestrian tour through Maryland, 
 and a portion of southern Virginia, but by this lime 
 slie supposed he had returned to Charlotteville to re- 
 sume his studies with the new term. She was annoyed 
 17 
 
274 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE, 
 
 and rather alarmed to find him under her roof when he 
 should have been in his class. 
 
 The door was thrown wide, and a slender youth of 
 about twenty years of age entered the room. He bore 
 no resemblance to his mother, for his complexion was 
 very dark, his features delicately and sharply cut, with 
 deep-set eyes, of a bluish grey that contrasted some- 
 what weirdly with his olive skin and lustreless black 
 hair and eyebrows. 
 
 His thin lips were strongly compressed, and the 
 stormy expression of his face did not relax when he 
 saw his mother advancing to greet him. She anxiously 
 asked : 
 
 My dear boy, what has brought you home at such 
 an unusual time as this ? Though T am always glad 
 to see you, I must disapprove of your breaking off 
 from your studies in this abrupt manner.” 
 
 Andrew put out his hands to take the one she offer- 
 ed him, but withdrew it again almost with a gesture 
 of repulsion, as he bitterly said : 
 
 “ It does not matter where I am, madam, for I am 
 in no state now to give my mind to study. I am better 
 here than where I should disgrace myself by neglect- 
 ing everything that would be required of me.” 
 
 Why, what can have happened to you, my son ? ” 
 Mrs. Courtnay apprehensively inquired. “ Have you 
 got into another difficulty with the professors ? I 
 hoped that you had sown all your wild oats and meant 
 to devote 5^ourself to your studies.” 
 
 He looked at her with a faint, defiant smile, and 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘ I would have done that — I would have made every 
 effort to gain your approbation, if you had not played 
 
ANDREW COURTNAY’S FURY. 
 
 27S 
 
 me false. You know to what I looked as a reward 
 for steadiness and application ; yet, in my absence, you 
 have permitted a stranger to enter your house and bear 
 from it the pearl of* my life. Was this well done, 
 mother ? Why was I kept in ignorance of what was 
 going on here unless it was to serve your own purpose 
 by placing an impassable barrier between Claire and 
 myself?” 
 
 Thus brusquely arraigned, Mrs. Courtnay coldly re- 
 plied : 
 
 I had no voice in the arrangement of Claire’s mar- 
 riage — it was secretly solemnised, and she eloped with 
 Mr. Thorne. I did not mention it in my letters to 
 you, because I did not wish your mind to be disturbed 
 by news which I knew would be painful to you. How 
 have you learned anything about it ? ” 
 
 Andrew passionately said : 
 
 ‘‘ I have seen her, but only for a moment. I was 
 loitering on the public road, on my way to Richmond, 
 when a stage passed me, from the window of which 
 Claire was looking. I knew her in a moment, and I 
 shouted to the driver to stop ; but he only laughed, 
 and called back : 
 
 ‘ All full, youngster — no room for wayside pas- 
 sengers.’ 
 
 “ He cut his horses and dashed on, though Claire 
 confirmed my recognition by kissing her hand to me, 
 and she pointed to the fellow that sat beside her, who 
 looked so well pleased that I could have killed him. I 
 never knew till that moment how dear she was to me, 
 but when I saw that carriage rolling away in the dis- 
 tance, bearing her from me forever, I felt as if all joy, 
 all hope, all ambition went with her. I left my compan- 
 
276 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 lons and came hither as soon as I recovered from illness 
 that attacked me on the way, to ask you to explain 
 why you have permitted so great a wrong to me to be 
 consummated. You have long known what Claire was 
 to me, yet you have received that man in your house 
 — 3^ou must have encouraged his pretensions, or he 
 would never have dared to snatch from me my heart’s 
 darling.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay began to comprehend now what she 
 liad not before suspected — that the childish love of her 
 son for his pretty playmate had become the absorbing 
 passion of his life. She had not believed that, at his 
 age, the feeling could have struck so deep, and she 
 listened in alarm to the passionate vibrations of his 
 voice. 
 
 Andrew had a diflBcult temper to deal with, for he 
 was both tenacious and resentful, and for many reasons 
 she had been unwilling to allow his childisli romance to 
 have any other ending than the one which had so 
 abruptly come. Jealous, violent, and haughty, she 
 knew that few women could be happy as his wife, and 
 she deprecated the thought of his uniting his fate 
 with that of another fire spirit ; for, in spite of Claire’s 
 loveableness, she knew that in her nature lay unde- 
 .veloped traits which would spring into active and bane- 
 ful life under such treatment as Andrew would give 
 even to one he loved. 
 
 Better a disappointment, she thought, than life-long 
 wretchedness through an unsuitable marriage, and from 
 this conviction had arisen her tacit encouragement of 
 Thorne’s suit. To soothe and reconcile this impetu- 
 ous, and often unreasonable being, was now her task*, 
 and, as she looked into his dark face, instinct with 
 
AISTDREW COURTKAY’S FURi:. 277 
 
 passion and pride, she felt how difficult of accomplish- 
 ment it would be. She gently said : 
 
 ‘^My dear Andrew, do not blame me for what has 
 happened. Mr. Thorne met with a severe accident 
 in entering the valley through the gorge above the 
 Lady’s Tarn. He came near losing his life, and lay ill 
 several days at M. Lapierre’s house. It was then that 
 the attachment was formed which has led to such an 
 unhappy result. After her father’s death, Claire came 
 to me. Mr. Thorne was already my guest, as I had 
 asked him here for the purpose of separating him from 
 my god-child. I could not refuse him the hospitality 
 of my house, and I did not dream that he would abuse 
 it in the manner he did. I made every effort to retain 
 Claire with me, and her secret marriage was as dis- 
 pleasing to me as it seems to be to you. But since it 
 is irrevocable we must reconcile ourselves to it.” 
 
 Andrew almost savagely replied : 
 
 ‘‘ As if that were possible ! I remember that you 
 wrote something to me about a fellow being nearly 
 swept into the tarn, and I suppose it was he. I wish 
 to God that he had gone down, down into the tideless 
 water, never to be seen among men again ! It had 
 been better fate, perhaps, than the one that may over- 
 take him yet.” 
 
 His mother looked into his agitated face, and, laying 
 her hand upon his arm, firmly said : 
 
 ‘‘ That threat must be an empty one, Andrew. If 
 you love Claire, or care for her happiness, you can 
 never seek to injure the man with whom she was so 
 deepl}^^ infatuated as to forsake her home, and every 
 friend she possessed in the world, to go with him. You 
 feel this bitterly now, but your pride will soon teach 
 
278 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 you to forget a girl who has preferred another before 
 you.” 
 
 “ Oh, mother, you don’t know how bitter it is to 
 have the sweetest hope of a young life suddenly 
 wrenched away ! ” and his voice, which had been hard, 
 suddenly broke, and a burning tear rolled down bis 
 cheek. I could take the life of this man who has 
 rivalled me, and never feel a regret for doing it. But 
 of what avail would that be ? I should only make 
 Claire hate me. I hope he will be as false to her as he 
 Avas ro you when he stole her from you. I hope he 
 will estrange her heart bj^ unkindness till it is forced 
 to turn to me for consolation. Don’t look at me so. 
 I do hope it, and Claire deserves such retribution for 
 forsaking those who so truly loA^ed her, to run off witli 
 him.” 
 
 Andrew, my dear son, do not speak thus, I en- 
 treat,” remonstrated his mother. If Ave all met our 
 deserts think v^hat a howling Avilderness of pain and 
 despair this bright and beautiful Avorld would be. Re- 
 member the French proverb, ‘ that curses, like chick- 
 ens, come home to roost,’ and refrain from invoking 
 them on our poor, thoughtless refugee.” 
 
 ‘‘ If the curse would only take the form of Claire, 
 and she Avould come back to us lialf broken-hearted 
 by that felloAv’s barbarity, I could do nothing but re- 
 joice, for then I might be able to console her.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay gravely shook her head. 
 
 She Avonld only be more Avidely severed from you 
 than ever, my poor boy. Give her up as lost to you 
 for ever, AndreAv, and seek to uproot every fibre of the 
 unfortunate passion you have cherished for her. Claire 
 would neA^er have made you haupy ; s> i wasj ni-»»5m'tp.d 
 
ANDREW COURT NAY’S FURY. 279 
 
 lo yo\] in every way ; but I trust that with the man 
 she has chosen she will find such happiness as will de- 
 velop the better portion of her wilful nature, and leave 
 its darker passions unstirred. If you really care for 
 her, you wdll pray that such may be the result of her 
 [•recipitate marriage.” 
 
 Pray ! ” he scoffingly repeated ; pray for such a 
 consummation as that ! No — I am not such -a muff! I 
 v ould much sooner take some of Old David’s male- 
 dictions and hurl them at the pair. I only hope that 
 their fool’s paradise will soon come to an end, and that 
 Claire will think, with a sore and aching heart, of the 
 love- she slighted and ran away from. I cannot forgive 
 her ; neither can I help loving her, and hating the 
 man she prefers to me. I would like to punch his 
 head for him, or thrash him to a jelly for his presump- 
 tion. If I had known what was going on here. I’d 
 have done it, too, long ago.” 
 
 He rose from the seat on which he had thrown him- 
 self, and walked to and fro, in much excitement, and 
 his mother sat pondering in pained silence, wondering 
 what to him would be the result of this bitter disap- 
 pointment. She had veiy little control over him, for 
 his imperious temper had always mastered her when 
 she attempted to use such authority as she possessed, 
 and, in the present crisis she felt certain that he would 
 set it entirely at naught, if she made an effort to draw 
 the rein ever so slightly. 
 
 Suddenly his eyes fell upon the picture which Mrs. 
 Courtnay had set up in a good light. He recognized 
 the figure of Claire at a glance, and, with a tiger-like 
 bound toward it, he exclaimed : 
 
 ‘‘ Who painted that ? Who dared to send back the 
 shadow when the reality h^s vanished ?” 
 
280 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Mr. Thorne is an amateur artist; that picture is 
 his work, and it only came to me this morning. He 
 sent it as a peace offering.” 
 
 Andrew glared at it with his strange looking eyes, 
 from which fire seemed actually to scintillate. With 
 bitter emphasis he said : 
 
 “Love has taught the artist a good lesson at all 
 events. Small as that figure is, no one who has once 
 seen Claire would fail to recognize the grace and har- 
 mony of her person. Even the tiny face is full of life 
 and expression. But the eyes ! I never saw that light 
 in them before ! God ! was it born of her love for the 
 painter ! 
 
 “ Had she ever regarded me with that love-lit 
 glance, I should have gone mad with joy,” and he fast- 
 ened his burning eyes upon the brilliant face, as if he 
 would intoxicate himself with its marvellous charm. 
 
 Andrew went on as if communing with himself : 
 
 “ Doubtless, that flower-wreathed cottage was the 
 temple of their love — those shaded paths the Eden in 
 which they wandered — my idol crowned with happi- 
 ness by another hand than mine, the queen of those 
 sylvan shades. But for how long will that royal gift 
 of love be hers ? Already her sceptre may have de- 
 parted, and she may have learned that her hero, her 
 demi-god, is but a clay image, with hand of steel and 
 heart of stone. I hope it will be so — I pray that it may, 
 for then she will return to me, and I — yes, I will con- 
 sole her.” 
 
 His mother tried to catch the sense of his mutter- 
 ings, but failed to do so. She was anxiously regarding 
 him, Avhen he suddenly turned to her and abruptly 
 said : 
 
AISTDREW COURTNAY’S FURY. 
 
 281 
 
 ‘‘Give me tliis, and I will forgive you for letting 
 Claire escape from your guardianship. If it was paint- 
 ed by my detested rival, I shall value it as no one 
 else will.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay deprecatingly said : 
 
 “ It will be better to have no reminder of Claire 
 near you, Andrew. How can you hope to forget her 
 if that picture is placed where you can see it every 
 day ? ” 
 
 “ I don’t intend to forget her — I have no wish to do 
 so, and I could not if I wished it ever so much. 
 Something tells me that we have not lost her for good. 
 She will yet come back to us — I am sure ef it. Give 
 me the picture — I have the best right to it.” 
 
 There was a latent fierceness in his Ijnes which 
 warned his mother of the volcano of passu n that was 
 ready to explode, and she hurriedly replied ; 
 
 “You may take it to your room for the .^resent, if 
 you wish it ; but as it was a gift to me, I u ^ not feel 
 justified in transferring ifc to you.” 
 
 He seized on it and, going toward the 4* with a 
 strange smile, said : 
 
 “ Possession is nine points of the law. \\ave it 
 now, and when you will get it back, I canrie.. t'dl. I 
 will have the shade if I cannot possess the nvl\,tance 
 — that’s about as much as most people get .'.i this 
 Avorld of wretched mistakes and maddeninj;: vlisap- 
 pointments. I am going to my room — don’t bd any 
 one come near me ; keep Julia away — I mv^st be Vlone 
 till — till — I have mastered my own heart.” 
 
 He left the apartment, and Mrs. Courtnay sat Ljten- 
 ing till he slammed the door of his chamber, vhich 
 was above the room in wliich she sat. She hea'‘ 1 his 
 
j 2 THE CL AIvTDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 rapid feet pacing to and fro, occasionally stamping on 
 (lie floor, in the whirlwind of rage and passion that 
 moved his soul, and she shivered and grew pale with 
 dread. 
 
 Julia, who had been out walking with her nurse, 
 came in eager to see her brother, and it was with 
 some difficulty that she was prevented from going up 
 to him. But the child was tractable and easily con- 
 trolled, so the unhappy mother succeeded in keeping 
 her near herself, though she found it very difficult to 
 explain to the little girl why she was not to go up and 
 talk with Andrew, when she had not seen him for so 
 long a time. 
 
 He came down to supper, looking quite calm, fon- 
 dled Julia, and was more respectful to his mother. 
 Later in the evening, to her surprise and joy, he an- 
 nounced his intention to set out on his return to Char- 
 lotteville the next day. 
 
 To her inquiring look he abruptly replied : 
 
 I cannot remain here to devour my own heart in 
 the solitude of this place. I will bury myself in books 
 till the spring comes ; then you will go to Europe, as 
 you promised. You need not look apprehensive, 
 ma’am — I am not going after the robber who has ap- 
 propriated the precious jewel I left in your charge. T 
 am not quite s^uch a z^xny as that. It will come back 
 to us when the pinchbeck setting is proved worthless. 
 I know some things beforehand, and I have a presenti- 
 ment of what is to happen. Runaway matches seldom 
 end well, and this one will not prove one of the excep- 
 tions.” 
 
 My son, I beg that you will not predict evil to 
 Claire, and exult, as you seem to do, in the hope of its 
 accomplishm ent. ’ ’ 
 
ANDREW COURTNAY'S FURY. 
 
 283 
 
 * Andrew laughed hardly. 
 
 “She has brought evil enough to me, God knows, 
 and tit for tat is fair play. But we won’t renew that 
 subject, mother ; let us talk of something more agree- 
 able. I will tell you of my summer tour, for I met 
 with some amusing adventures in my rambles. I 
 should have looked back on them with unmixed pleas- 
 ure but for the meeting that abruptly ended all enjoy- 
 ment for me. I will try, however, to put that in the 
 background, and tell you what preceded it.” 
 
 The remainder of the evening passed away more 
 agreeably than Mrs. Courtnay had dared to hope. 
 She was amused and interested by the details given 
 with much graphic power by the young man. At a 
 late hour they separated ; and when she awoke the 
 following morning, she was surprised to learn that 
 Andrew had been gone several hours. He left behind 
 him a note for herself, which only contained these 
 words : 
 
 “ Dear Mother : — I shall return to my studies at 
 once, and try to regain the time I have lost, but you 
 need not hope that I shall distinguish myself. I shall 
 no longer strive to do so, for I have lost the incentive 
 that spurred me on. I take with me the only inspira- 
 tion that can give me courage to go on in the course 
 you have marked out for me — the picture of Claire. I 
 may madden over it in the solitude of my chamber, 
 but I should oertainly lose my reason if I left it behind 
 me. Andrew.” 
 
 Thus ended his brief visit, which seemed only to 
 have been made to bring his mother to an account for 
 
284 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 the part she had taken in giving a rival the opportuni- 
 ty to win from him the girl of his heart. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 THE YELL RENT AWAY. 
 
 T the last stage of his journey toward L- 
 
 Xjl Thorne left the public conveyance and hired a 
 small open carriage, in which he could drive himself 
 and his companion on to his father’s house. It was 
 but ten miles from the point at which he stopped, and 
 the afternoon was more than half gone before he was 
 ready to set out. 
 
 He lingered at the stopping place longer than was 
 required, for he wished to get to Thornhill after night, 
 as he had many painful misgivings as to the reception 
 he might meet, and he began to dread presenting his 
 companion as his wife. 
 
 As the inevitable hour of trial approached, in his 
 heart he cursed himself as the most egregious of fools 
 for the part he had played. Now that the object of 
 his pursuit was won, after the fashion of men of his 
 stamp, he ceased to value what was so entirely his 
 own. He had thrust care behind him and enjoyed a 
 few weeks of halcyon bliss, which he now thought had 
 been too dearly purchased if the price exacted for 
 them was to be his father’s favor and the possible loss 
 of his inheritance. 
 
 He vainly asked himself what he should do if the old 
 Colonel proved inflexible. He could decide on noth- 
 ing till that first momentous interview was over, and 
 
THE VEIL RENT AWAY. 
 
 285 
 
 a cold thrill came to his heart as he thought that noth- 
 ing less would appease the ire of Col. Thorne than the 
 sacrifice of the confiding being who sat beside him, 
 perfectly unconscious that her advent in the home to 
 which he was taking her would produce a storm that 
 might forever wreck her bark of life. 
 
 ‘‘ Should he stand by her through everything? ” was 
 the question Thorne asked himself more than once, 
 but he could find no reply to it. His love-dream 
 had been very sweet, but he was becoming a little 
 weary of its monotony, and with every mile they 
 passed over, a slight feeling of irritation against the 
 hapless cause of the dilemma in which he found him- 
 self placed, gained ground. 
 
 Claire caught a glimpse of his knit brows and 
 troubled face, and she paused in her prattle and asked : 
 
 “ What annoys you, Walter? ” Are you afraid that 
 your father will be dissatisfied with me ? I promise to 
 try and make the best impression on him. I am so 
 anxious to do credit to your choice, that I shall make 
 every effort to please him.” 
 
 He uttered a constrained laugh. 
 
 ‘‘ Don’t fill your head with fancies, Claire, or you 
 will be sure to fail. Do your petite^ and I — well, 
 
 we shall soon know what we have to depend on now.” 
 
 ‘‘What do you mean, Walter?” Is there any 
 doubt — any fear in your mind as to — as to ” 
 
 Her voice died away, and Thorne turned and looked 
 sharply in her face. He slowly said : 
 
 “ I wonder what you would think if I were to tell 
 you the exact truth ? — you must soon know it now, at 
 any rate.” 
 
 He saw that she became very pale as she asked : 
 
286 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Have you withheld from me anything I ought to 
 know, Walter? Has not everything been perfectly 
 fair and above-board with your father ? ” 
 
 Why no-o — not exactly. The fact is, the old man 
 does not know that I am actually married, and as he 
 has rather strict notions on the subject of filial duty, he 
 may flare up rather unpleasantly when he first sees you. 
 He is a regular bombshell, but I hardly think he will 
 explode with violence when I introduce you^ for you 
 are pretty enough to disarm the rage of a tiger. I 
 only say this much to prepare you to excuse his infirmi- 
 ties of temper, and — and to bear with them for my sake.” 
 
 If that is all, you need not look so grave, for I can 
 bear a great deal more from your father. But I am 
 sorry you kept from him the knowledge of our mar- 
 riage. I thought the news would be so pleasing to 
 him that you would hasten to inform him of it.” 
 
 Don’t you see. Rosebud, that the Governor would 
 have been offended if he knew that I was forced to 
 elope with you in order to secure you ? And then he 
 would have insisted that I should come home at once 
 with you ; but as I wished to enjoy our honeymoon 
 without being intruded on by other people, I did not 
 care to let him know what had happened.” 
 
 But you have surely written to tell him before this, 
 Walter? You would not take me to your father’s 
 liouse Avithout first preparing him to receive me as your 
 v/ife ? ” 
 
 ‘‘Well — yes — I did write, but ” 
 
 He paused, unwilling to admit that he had not pos- 
 sessed the courage to send his letter. 
 
 “ But what, Walter? ” Claire asked, her voice almost 
 failing her. 
 
THE VEIL RENT AWAY. 
 
 287 
 
 Oh, nothing. Don’t go and agitate yourself now 
 till you become so unnerved as to be unable to sustain 
 yourself creditably through the ordeal that awaits you. 
 Everything depends on you, Rose ; if you don’t win the 
 good graces of the old gentleman in your first interview 
 with him I don’t know' what the result may be to both 
 of us. I tell you this to put you on your mettle, for 
 you are a plucky little thing when once you are fairly 
 roused.” 
 
 There was a sudden flash from her dark ej^es, but 
 the fire was speedily quenched by the tears that sprang 
 to them, and she faintly said : 
 
 ‘‘ I regret that so much deception has been necessary 
 to win so worthless a prize as I seem likely to prove. 
 If you had told me the whole truth about your father, 
 Walter, I think I should have elected to remain with 
 mamma till you could openly and honorably have 
 claimed me.” 
 
 “ In that case I should never have claimed you at 
 all,” Thorne cynically replied. ‘‘ My only chance was 
 to take, time by the forelock, for my father was deter- 
 mined to have me married, and he never would have 
 consented to the delay of two years. I have brought 
 him a daughter-in-law he should be proud of, and it 
 rests with yourself to render the path before you 
 smooth and easy to travel.” 
 
 I will do my best,” was the low reply, and Claire 
 asked no more questions, for she began to dread the 
 revelations that might be made to her, and she felt that 
 she needed all her strength for the approaching meet- 
 .ing. If Walter had deceived her in one thing, might 
 he not have done so in others ? What reliance could 
 slie place in him, if all his assurances of a tender wel- 
 
288 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 come in her new home were false ? Claire was too 
 much bewildered to think clearly, but the future 
 which she had pictured in such glowing hues, sud- 
 denly loomed before her dark and menacing, though 
 she could not comprehend the extent of the danger to 
 which she was exposed. 
 
 Comforting herself with the thought that he had in 
 some measure prepared his wife for the rude shock that 
 awaited her, Thorne drove on in silence till the stars 
 came out, and at a sudden turn in the road the lights 
 from the town of L shone like fireflies in the dis- 
 
 tance. 
 
 We are in sight of L ,” he then said, and the 
 
 large gabled mansion, on the rising ground to the left, 
 is Thornhill. We shall be there in a few moments; 
 remember what I have said to you, Claire, and be 
 calm and courageous.” 
 
 “ I am calm,” was the reply ; I have been nerving 
 myself for what was so unexpected, and will be so un-. 
 pleasant — butT shall not fail to do all in my power to 
 conciliate Col. Thorne.” 
 
 They drew up at a gate leading into the grounds ; 
 the horse was secured by throwing the bridle over a 
 projection of the iron fence, and Thorne lifted Claire 
 from the vehicle, as he said : 
 
 ‘‘ I think it best to avoid the bustle of an arrival, 
 therefore we will walk up to the house. I wish to see 
 my father alone a few moments, and at this hour I 
 shall find him in his library. I will take you to a sit- 
 ting-room near it, and leave you there till we come to 
 you. You won’t be afraid to stay by yourself in the 
 dark a few moments ? ” 
 
 “ No — I am not afraid of the dark, but I do not 
 
THE VEIL RENT AWAY. 
 
 289 
 
 iike to Ue smuggled into your father’s house as if I 
 have no right to enter it. I never expected from you 
 such treatment as this, Walter, and I begin to dread 
 — I scarcely know what.” 
 
 Pooh ! nonsense, child. I only wish to bear the 
 first brunt of his anger, and make things easier for you. 
 After I have talked him over, I will bring him to you. 
 Let us take this path — ^it leads to a side entrance near 
 the room to which I wish to take you. You will be 
 quite safe from interruption there, for no one ever enters 
 it at this hour.” 
 
 With most reluctant feet did Claire enter the grand 
 house to which she had so lately expected to be gra- 
 ciously welcomed as its future mistress. Trembling 
 with dread and excitement with which bitter and angry 
 mortification was mingled, she sat down in a large 
 chair which Thorne wheeled toward a window th . ough 
 which the moon was shining. 
 
 In reply to his whispered words of apology and er ’ 
 couragement, she curtly replied : 
 
 I shall do very well, only I hope you will not be 
 gone very long ; neither my courage nor temper may 
 stand this test if you try them too severely.” 
 
 “ Temper, my angel ? I thought you were always 
 as serene as a calm summer morning.” 
 
 ‘‘Lighnting and tempest are born of summer heat,” 
 she lightly replied ; but on you the storm shall never 
 burst if 3^ou continue to me all you have lately been. 
 If not, I cannot answer for the result.” 
 
 Thorne haughtily drew back, and asked : 
 
 ‘‘ Is that intended as a threat, Claire ? ” 
 
 “ I hardly know. I am bewildered at the strange- 
 ness of my position ; it is so different from what I 
 18 
 
290 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 have been led to expect. Don’t try me too far, Wal- 
 ter. If you get angry with me just now for the first 
 time, I may break down when it is most important to 
 be calm.” 
 
 Thorne stooped forward and kissed her on the fore- 
 head, and she received the caress as a peace offering, 
 through her heart was too sore at that moment to res- 
 pond to it. All this had come upon her so suddenly 
 — she was so unprepared for the reception she was 
 likely to meet from her new father-in-law, that she 
 could not entirely quell the resentful pangs that dis- 
 quieted her heart, 
 
 Thorne went out, leaving the door open behind him. 
 As Claire sat there alone in the dark and cheerless 
 room, a chill struck to her very heart, and she felt as 
 if all the light in her j^oung life had been quenched in 
 the certainty of the double-dealing of him she had so 
 implicitly trusted. 
 
 How far had he revealed the truth to her ? she won- 
 dered. What means would he take to appease the 
 wrath of the parent he evidently dreaded to meet ? 
 Poor little girl ! she was as proud as she was loving, 
 and she felt humiliated to the dust by her present 
 position, while she clung wildly to the husband to 
 whom she had so unreservedly given herself. 
 
 All her dreams of grandeur faded suddenly away, 
 but she felt strong to go out upon the hardest path, 
 and fight the battle of life with the man she loved, if 
 his strong hand was held forth to sustain her. That 
 he would give her up at the command of his haughty 
 father, she did not once think. 
 
 Claire knew, without being told, that the marriage 
 made by Col. Thorne’s son would not be approved by 
 
THE VEIL RENT AWAY. 
 
 291 
 
 him, and she grew faint and sick as she remembered 
 that letter which she Avas constrained to believe a for- 
 gery. In excuse for her husband she said to herself: 
 
 He must haA^e loved me to desperation, or he would 
 never have used such means to Avin me. Poor, dear 
 Walter ! Avith so tyrannical a father as Col. Thorne 
 must be, there was no other course left open to him. 
 I, at least, should be the last one to judge him harshly 
 for what was done for my sake. No — no — I will not 
 — I Avill not.'’ 
 
 But in spite of all her efforts to be truly loyal to her 
 husband, fears and doubts would still surge up, and 
 through all her after life, Claire remembered the half- 
 hour passed in that darkened room alone, as the bitter- 
 est of her unhappy experience. 
 
 Thorne stumbled- through the narrow, lateral hall 
 till he came to a door which opened into a vestibule 
 lighted by a bronze lamp swung from the centre of the 
 ceiling. He crossed the floor noiselessly, and entered 
 a room on the opposite side without knocking. A small 
 fire burned in the grate, though the evening was Avarm 
 for the season, and a shaded lamp stood on a circular 
 table draAvn up near it. 
 
 The door leading into the octagon room before de- 
 scribed, was open, and through it floated the fragrance 
 of a fine cigar. By this token Thorne knew that the 
 terrible judge he sought was not far away, and with a 
 Aveak and trembling heart he adAmnced to that sanctum 
 in Avhich he had so often borne the brunt of his fath- 
 er s Avrath. But all that had gone before, would, he 
 believed, be child’s play in comparison AAuth what now 
 lay before him. Thorne could scarcely have been 
 more unnerved if he had been about to enter the den 
 
292 the clandestine MAKRIAaB. 
 
 of a tiger, and his courage sank down to zero as he ap** 
 proached the open door. 
 
 By the dim light, Thorne saw the old gentleman re- 
 clining at his ease in a large chair, with his feet rest- 
 ing on another. He was smoking vigorously, a habit 
 Col. Thorne always had Avhen he was in an irritable 
 mood. Walter hesitated a moment, but he felt that 
 he must get through with what he had to say, and go 
 back to Claire before she became too much agitated to 
 play the part assigned her in the reconcilation on 
 which so much depended. So he cleared his throat as 
 a hint of his presence, and was greeted with the ex- 
 clamation — Who the devil is that ? and how do you 
 dare intrude on me in my own sanctum ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ It is I, father ; I have just arrived, and I thought 
 it best to seek you here, without troubling any one to 
 announce me.” 
 
 Oh ! it’s you at last, is it ? I had begun to think 
 that I should be forced to go in pursuit of you my- 
 self, if I got you here in time for your wedding. A 
 precious lover you are, to be sure ! If I were Agnes, 
 I would send you to the inferno before I would accept 
 so tardy a wooer.” 
 
 I should not care much if she were to do so,” was 
 the indifferent response. Better to go to as hot a 
 place as the one you mentioned, than freeze in the icy 
 regions to which such a woman as Miss Willard be- 
 longs. I must speak the truth to you at once, father, 
 for this is no time to falter. I have come home to 
 break the engagement you induced me to form. I can- 
 not marry Agnes.” 
 
 ‘‘What is that you dare to say?” thundered Col. 
 Thorne, jumping up and confronting his rebelluua 
 son. 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 
 
 293 
 
 ‘‘ I say, sir, that it is impossible for me to make the 
 young lady you have chosen for me my wife.” 
 
 With a chilling sneer, his father responded — 
 
 Indeed ! but am a man who tramples on impos* 
 sibilities, and I will grind both you and them into the 
 dust, if you persist in the assertion you have just 
 made. Are you mad, Walter Thorne, that you come 
 hither within two days of the time appointed for your 
 marriage, and talk in this absurd manner ? ” 
 
 Walter cowered before the fury of his tones and 
 gestures, but he found voice to say — 
 
 No, sir! I am not mad now, but I think I have 
 been so for the last few weeks of my life. I must 
 tell you at once, that I have placed an impassable bar- 
 rier between Miss Willard and myself; a man ham- 
 pered with one wife can scarcely be expected to take 
 another.” 
 
 Col. Thorne suddenly sank down on a chair as if he 
 had been shot, and for several moments nothing was 
 audible save his gasping breath. Walter had made a 
 desperate plunge, and almost breathless he waited for 
 the result. He expected an outburst of furious abuse, 
 but presently his father said, more as if communing 
 with himself than addressing him : 
 
 So — this is what you’ve been up to since you left 
 
 L ? Hampered^ are you ? then the veil has fallen, 
 
 and you see the girl who has taken you in, and made 
 an egregious fool of you, with disenchanted eyes. 
 Who is she? What is she? I must know all the 
 particulars of this inconceivable folly.” 
 
 He was so much calmer than his son had dared to 
 hope, that he was deceived by this unexpected quiet- 
 ness ; and quite unconscious that it was only the lull 
 
294 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 before the storm. Walter sat down and gave him as 
 brief and correct an outline of the last few weeks of 
 his life as was possible to one so steeped in deceit as 
 he was. Col. Thorne listened with set teeth that at 
 intervals were ground together witli internal raging 
 he found it difficult to repress : but he did it till such 
 facts as his son chose to place before him were known ; 
 then, in tones hoarse with fury he cried : 
 
 ‘‘ I know you to be a weak, impulsive fool, Walter 
 Thorne, but I never supposed your imbecility would 
 take such a form as this. You, bound to one woman 
 by every tie of honor, have actually given your hand 
 to another ! And she ? — what is she, that you dare 
 come to me with this story? An obscure, penniless 
 creature, with nothing to recommend her, save a few 
 fleeting charms that happened to please your flckle 
 fancy. I swear to you by all my hope in life, that this 
 nobody that you have picked up in your idle tramp, 
 which I was a fool to allow you to undertake, shall 
 never enter my house. She shall never be acknowl- 
 edged as a member of my family, and if you persist in 
 clinging to her, you may give up all expectations from 
 me. I will cast you off ; you may beg, starve, die in 
 a ditch, and I will not put forth my hand to aid you. 
 There ! — I hope that is plain enough speaking : and by 
 the Eternal ! I mean every word I have said.” 
 
 “ But, father, if you would only see her,” pleaded 
 Thorne, in desperation, only talk with her a few 
 moments, you would not be able to withstand the 
 sweet charm of her presence any more than I did.’* 
 Sweet charm ! Don’t exasperate me to frenzy, 
 Walter. I worCt see her, and you may choose this 
 hour whether you will go with her to poverty and 
 
THE VEIL RENT AWAY. 
 
 295 
 
 wretchedness, or consent to repudiate the tie that 
 binds you to her. An informal marriage such as yours 
 can easily be set aside, especially where there is wealth 
 on one side, and obscurity on the other. The artful 
 minx who has entrapped you so cleverly is a mere no- 
 body, — she will have no friends here to sustain her, 
 and I can easily get this absurd marriage annulled. 
 Consent to be divorced, and I will pass over this folly ; 
 refuse, and you may leave my house never to enter it 
 again — never to look to me for the smallest assistance 
 in the dismal future you will embrace. Do you think 
 a j)retty face is worth such a price as that ? Will 
 your charmer be able to console you for the sacrifice 
 of the wealth you must give up, if you persist in cling- 
 ing to her ? I trow not, for luxury and ease are the 
 idols of your self-indulgent nature.” 
 
 Walter Thorne leaned against the window-frame for 
 support, for his agitation was extreme, and for several 
 moments he was incapable of utterance. 
 
 ‘‘ Speak,” thundered his irate father. ‘‘ Choose 
 your path ; for by the Eternal, I have offered the only 
 terms on which I will still continue to acknowledge 
 you as my son.” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, sir — oh my father, have mercy on this poor 
 child — on me, for I love her. She has trusted herself 
 to me, and I cannot play the part of a villain by her.” 
 
 Col. Thorne raised his finger and pointed towards 
 the door. Then, there is your path, sir. Walk out 
 of my house, anff never dare to appeal to me again 
 under any circumstances. My heart will be steeled to 
 you — my purse closed. I will repay Agnes for your 
 desertion hy settling on her every cent of my fortune. 
 Her father is ill unto death, and your marriage must 
 
296 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 have been postponed at any rate ; I shall have time to 
 free jou from your degrading bondage if your consent 
 is given. Agnes must soon be an orphan, but I will 
 be a father to her ; she shall console me for giving up 
 my ungrateful son.” 
 
 Father, you only say this to try me. You know 
 that, reared as I have been, with no profession — no 
 means of making a living, I could never support my- 
 self, much less a wife.” 
 
 Give her up, then,” was the sharp, fierce response. 
 
 offer you an alternative.” 
 
 ‘‘ Blit how terrible an alternative. Rose loves me , 
 she will break her heart if I desert her. I should be 
 wretched myself.” 
 
 ‘‘You would not think of that other heart you have 
 won, when you were dashing headlong to your own 
 ruin ; but I think of it, and I will do all that man can 
 to give back to Agnes the worthless ingrate she is so 
 unfortunate as to have fixed her affections on. I have 
 named the only terms on which I will forgive this dis- 
 graceful episode in your life, and it rests with yourself 
 to reject, or accept it.” 
 
 “ But, father, would Miss Willard accept me, when 
 she knows what has occurred ? Even if I consented 
 to play the villain to my wife, you could never induce 
 so proud a woman as Agnes to forgive the infidelity of 
 which I have been guilty.” 
 
 “ Leave that to me. Only consent to be freed from 
 the shackles that bind you, and I will answer for the 
 rest. Agnes is not at home. She went with her fa* 
 ther to Philadelphia, in the vain hope that the physi- 
 cians there could benefit him ; I have just returned 
 from a visit there to them, and Mr. Willard is no bet- 
 
THE VEIL RENT AWAY. 
 
 297 
 
 ter. They will remain in Philadelphia for better med- 
 ical advice, but he is not long for this world. I was 
 fretting about the delay in your marriage, but I can 
 see now that Fate has managed affairs best for us all. 
 Agnes need know nothing of the foolish escapade of 
 Avhich you have been guilty. The whole thing can be 
 settled and you freed from your matrimonial yoke be- 
 fore she returns home. See how lenient I am to af- 
 ford you that. chance to retrieve yourself in my favor.’’ 
 
 “ But father, you think only of Agnes, and give no 
 compassion to the poor girl you so ruthlessly condemn 
 to be cast off by me. I entreat that you will see her 
 and speak with her, if but for a moment. She is so 
 fair, so bewitching a creature, that your heart will 
 relent toward her — you will even be proud to claim 
 her as your daughter, if you will only give her a 
 chance to win you over. That is all I ask of you. 
 Fortune is nothing to you, for you have enough and to 
 spare. Rose is of good family — of gentle breeding, 
 and — and — I adore her.” 
 
 The unhappy young man made this plea in as firm a 
 V'oice as he could, but his father was unmoved by it. 
 He cynically replied : 
 
 “I understand all about that. Such men as you 
 love madly, blindly, for a few brief months ; then the 
 object of the passion is cast aside as carelesslj^ as a 
 faded flower is trampled under foot. If you should be 
 unwise enough to give up my favor, together with your 
 own inheritance, for the sake of this girl, you would 
 soon learn to hate her for the sacrifice you had made. 
 There can be no happiness for her in this ill-omened 
 union, and still less for yourself. You can provide 
 liberally for her — I will not object to that ; but as to 
 
298 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 receiving her as my daughter, it is out of the question. 
 Place yourself in a position to redeem your pledges to 
 Agnes Willard, and I will ignore the late events of 
 your life. Refuse, and, as I before said, you may this 
 night go forth a beggar, and what is worse, a helpless, 
 fastidious beggar, with no hope for the future ; for I 
 solemnly swear to you that nothing shall ever induce 
 me to see you or assist jow. while you remain true to 
 the obscure creature you are so anxious to thrust upon 
 my favor.” 
 
 The cutting emphasis with which Col. Thorne spoke 
 convinced Walter how deeply in earnest he. was. He 
 knew better than any other how inflexible his father’s 
 nature was — how ruthless in his purpose he could be — 
 and his heart sunk like lead in his bosom. He faintly 
 said : 
 
 You speak of a divorce, sir, as if it were a thing 
 easy to be obtained, I — I do not know on what ground 
 T could ask for one, for I have voluntarily chosen my 
 wife, and thus far we have been very happy together.” 
 
 Ah, bah, that is easily managed. You are a very 
 young and unexperienced man — you have been en- 
 trapped into a misalliance that will destroy all your 
 prospects in life. ' Those facts, backed by my influence 
 and money, can accomplish what I wish. I observe 
 that you already speak in the past tense — ^you say you 
 have been happy with your charmer : very good — live 
 henceforth on the memory of that, and do not insist on 
 clinging to a dead passion when all its glamour has 
 passed away. Withered flowers have only a sicken- 
 ing odor, and they are not worth the price that, in your 
 case, will be exacted for them. Tell me now, upon 
 your honor, do you value this girl above fortune, posi • 
 
THE VEIL RENT AWAY. 
 
 299 
 
 tion, above the happy and prosperous future I hav.e ar- 
 ranged for you ? ” 
 
 Walter reflected a few moments before replying. 
 He confessed to himself that he had begun to weary 
 of Claire — of the demonstrative afl^ection she so exube- 
 rantly lavished upon him ; and he felt that to relin- 
 quish for her sake all that he most highly prized, was 
 a sacrifice he was incapable of making. 
 
 He had almost forced her to his arms, and now he 
 was preparing to cast her from them at the bidding of 
 his implacable father. Yet in justice to him it must be 
 told, that it cost him many bitter pangs to give her up 
 — to blight her beautiful dream of happiness, and 
 leave her in the opening dawn of life wrecked and 
 hopeless. 
 
 It was better, he argued with himself, that she should 
 be the sacrifice than that both should be shattered on 
 the desolate strand of life ; for he possessed neither 
 the power nor the will to make a future for her. He 
 was at that moment reduced almost to his last dollar, 
 and he dared not risk being cast out from his luxurious 
 home with no dependence for the future. Claire 
 might even, in time, reproach him for the poverty into 
 which they must inevitably sink, for he knew that his 
 artistic talent, miperfectly cultivated and capriciously 
 exercised, could not afford them bread. 
 
 Col. Thorne quietly resumed his cigar, while his son 
 stood near him, balancing against each other love and 
 fortune. He understood the nature of the man before 
 him, and he felt perfectly confident as to the result. 
 
 With intense bitterness Walter finally said : 
 
 It is not a question of a happy future, sir ; for that 
 
 now a tioneless thing* for me. If I consent to give 
 
300 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 up tlie darling of my heart and carry out the plan on 
 which you have so strongly set yours, you will be an- 
 swerable for the wretchedness my union with Agnes 
 Willard must bring to both her and myself. I never 
 loved her, though I submitted to your will so far as to 
 ask her to become my wife. Forced to accept her as 
 such, after repudiating the woman I prefer, I shall hate 
 her ; I shall be guilty of that which will make me hate 
 myself.” 
 
 “ I shall risk it, at all events,” was the cool response. 
 
 I can see plainly enongh that your passion for your 
 darling, as you call her, has passed its heyday, and you 
 are not willing to bury yourself in its ashes. So much 
 the better for you ; and as to the artful minx who has 
 so sweetly beguiled you, let her take the consequences 
 of her own folly. I shall have little care for her, be- 
 yond furnishing the means to pension her off when 
 once you are fairly rid of her. Let us now settle the 
 means of accomplishing that, if you have decided.” 
 
 Good Heavens, sir, will nothing move you ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Nothing — I am steel — marble — adamant, to any 
 entreaties you may urge. Submission — or irretrievable 
 ruin.” 
 
 The two looked each other in the eyes, and the head 
 of the younger man drooped hopelessly upon his breast. 
 With a hard and contemptuous smile. Col. Thorne 
 said: 
 
 “ I see that you understand your position at last ; 
 and now tell me the truth — the marriage was clanden- 
 stine — was there a license ? — were any witnesses pres- 
 ent?” 
 
 In a low, reluctant tone his son replied : 
 
 There was neither. She trusted to my honor — to 
 
THE EXPLOSION. 
 
 301 
 
 the fact that we were united by a Catholic priest ; and 
 as Rose looks on that ceremony as. indissoluble, she 
 believed I felt the same. There was no time to obtain 
 a license, for I took advantage of Father Jerome’s con- 
 sent to unite us, as soon as it was given.” 
 
 “ And the priest ? ” asked Col. Thorne, quickly. 
 “ Will he be likely to come forward as a witness, to 
 prove that you were really married ? ” 
 
 ‘‘If he were living he would certainly do so ; but 
 everything seems to favor the iniquity you would force 
 upon me. The old man’s mind was failing him, I 
 think, before he consented to unite us ; and he was 
 struck with paralysis soon afterward. I left him al- 
 most in a dying condition, and I should not be surpris- 
 ed if, by this time, he is dead.” 
 
 Col. Thorne arose, threw away the stump of cigar, 
 and decisively said : 
 
 “ The affair can be settled easily enough then. The 
 divorce will be a mere form, for there is really no proof 
 of the marriage. I shall get one though, for I will 
 have no shadow of a doubt on the validity of your 
 union with Agnes. I will claim her as my daughter, 
 or I will disown you as my son. That is my ulti- 
 matum.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 THE EXPLOSION. 
 
 C OL. THORNE passed into the adjoining chamber, 
 lifted the screen from the lamp and turned its light 
 
302 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 on the face of his son, who had mechanically followed 
 him. Ho had no feeling of compassion for the pallid 
 anguish he saw written on Walter’s agitated features : 
 a man of iron purpose and pitiless will, he permitted 
 nothing to stand in the way of a resolution he had once 
 taken. He even refused to let Claire stay in the house 
 one night, saying : 
 
 ‘‘ I bid you remove her from this house without de- 
 lay, for I do not recognize her right to enter it at all. 
 The tie that binds you to her is not legal ; at the pro- 
 per time I shall prove that it is not; and what Avould 
 be said or thought of me if I received one in her doubt- 
 ful position, and permitted her to remain here even 
 for a few hours ? ” 
 
 The speaker turned away from the writhing figure 
 of his son, and started back at the apparition that 
 stood in the doorway ; a girl as colorless as the dead, 
 draped in deep mourning robes, stood as if rooted to 
 the threshold, with an expression of such wild agony and 
 doubt on her white face, that even that hard man shrank 
 back appalled as he read its meaning. Her eyes were 
 fastened on the cowering form of her husband, and she 
 almost disdainfully said : 
 
 “ Come, Walter, let us go — I see that I am not want- 
 ed here. But what does he mean by saying that our 
 marriage was not legal? It was, I am sure, for Father 
 Jerome would never have lent himself to a deception 
 that would ruin me and render us both wretched.” 
 
 At the sound of Claire’s voice, Walter started 
 and turned toward her, but as he would ctpproacli- 
 ed her his father steno'^^d tVr cen them and mockingly 
 said • 
 
 do, young lady, you have not disdained to play the 
 
THE EXPLOSION. 
 
 303 
 
 part of the eavesdropper, and have proved the truth of 
 the old adage, that they seldom hear any good of them- 
 selves.” 
 
 A faint flush came to Claire’s cheek, and she proudl}^ 
 replied : 
 
 ‘‘I came hither but a moment since in search of my 
 husband. He left me so long alone, and in darkness, 
 that I thought something must have happened to him. 
 I followed the sound of voices, and came within hear- 
 ing just as you uttered that cruel falsehood. I am his 
 wife, sir, and until I was almost at your door I be- 
 lievecL that you were waiting to welcome me most 
 gladly as your daughter.” 
 
 Though struck by the simple dignity with which so 
 young a creature spoke. Col. Thorne was not moved 
 by the pale loveliness of her face, nor by the tremu- 
 lous anguish which thrilled in the tones of her voice. 
 He coldly said : 
 
 “ My son is an unprincipled deceiver where women 
 are concerned. He did not ask my consent to marry 
 you, and if he had done so, he knew full well that it 
 would never have been given. He was not free to 
 bestow his hand, for it has long been pledged to the 
 girl I have chosen for his wife. He admits that some 
 ceremony was gone through with, but it was unwit- 
 nessed ; there was no license, and, therefore, I choose 
 to rcigard it as illegal. It shall be set aside, for my 
 son shall not bind himself irrevocably to poverty for 
 the sake of a pretty toy of which he is already weary.” 
 
 He uttered the cruel words without shrinking, 
 though he read on her face the force of the mortal 
 blow they dealt. Claire turned to Thorne and almost 
 in a whisper asked^: 
 
804 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 ‘‘ Is this true ? The first I already divined — but the 
 last cruel assertion must be false. Oh, Walter, leave 
 me not to suppose that you already weary of the being 
 you wooed so fondly to your heart ! that some other 
 woman held a place in it before you knew me ! Be 
 true to me, Walter — assert your own manhood, and 
 let us go forth to face the world together, strong in our 
 mutual love, and ready to bear the heaviest burdens 
 life may lay upon us, provided they are borne 
 together.” 
 
 Claire held her hand toward him, but Thorne did 
 not move to clasp it, and his father disdainfully 
 broke in : 
 
 “ Let us end this scene, if you please ; I wish you 
 to understand that my will is Walter Thorne’s law^ 
 and I have already won from him the promise, that he 
 will repudiate the flimsy tie that binds him to you, 
 and return to her who has the best claim upon him. 
 Look at him as he shrinks and cowers there and give 
 credence to my words.” 
 
 Thorne had again thrown himself upon a seat, his 
 head bowed, and his face covered with his hands, un- 
 willing to look upon her he was preparing himself to 
 renounce. He felt that the angel with the flaming 
 sword had entered their Eden, and driven them forth, 
 never to re-enter it again ; his heart impelled him to 
 spring to the side of his helpless wife, and sustain her 
 against her pitiless antagonist, but the dire conse- 
 quences to himself arose before him, and he dared 
 not. 
 
 Claire made a few steps towards him and faintly 
 said : 
 
 “ Walter, I have but you : are you so false to the vows 
 
THE EXPLOSION. 
 
 305 
 
 you have pledged to me, that you are ready to give 
 me up at the bidding of your father ? 
 
 At this appeal he cast a despairing glance toward 
 her, and then cried out: 
 
 Oh Claire ! what other choice is left me ? I can- 
 not work, to beg I am ashamed, and you see you have 
 heard for yourself Avhat the will of my father is. What 
 can I do but submit to it ? ” 
 
 A faint cry issued from her colorless lips, so full of 
 anguish that it penetrated even to the callous heart 
 of that haughty old man, but he repressed the emo- 
 tion as a weakness, and listened to the words she was, 
 with effort, speaking. 
 
 Oh, Walter! I have trusted you, so implicitly; 
 believed in you so fully, yet you can so ruthlessly 
 tread upon my poor heart. You have crushed the life 
 out of it this night; and henceforth it is dead — dead^ 
 
 She turned and swiftly left the room. 
 
 ‘‘I must follow her,” cried Walter, and he rushed 
 madly in pursuit of the flying figure. In her present 
 frame of mind he knew not what desperate resolution 
 might enter Claire’s stricken heart, and be acted on, 
 before she had time to think of the enormity of the 
 crime of self-destruction. 
 
 Col. Thorne made no effort to detain him, for some- 
 thing in the face of the unhappy creature, so suddenly 
 torn from her dream of love, and hurled into the 
 depths of despair, had frightened him, cold, and harsh 
 as he had shown himself. 
 
 The moon was shining brightly, and by its clear light, 
 Thorne discovered the outline of a dark-robed figure 
 just disappearing beneath the shadow of the trees in 
 
 19 
 
306 the clandestine xMARRiage. 
 
 the direction of a narrow, but deep stream, which 
 wound through the grounds. 
 
 With fleet steps he pursued, and gained the bank 
 just in time to prevent her precipitating herself into 
 the dark waters. Claire struggled frantically, crying 
 out: 
 
 “ Let me go — let me go. I will not live to be for- 
 saken, and disgraced. You will cast me off, and no one 
 else would then receive me ; death is my only refuge.” 
 
 Thorne held her firmly clasped in his arms, and ut- 
 tered every protestation that could calm and reassure 
 her in that fearful moment. But she was wild with 
 anguish and resentment, and she replied to them by 
 the bitterest reproaches for bringing such insult and 
 humiliation upon her as she had lately borne from his 
 father. All the fire in her nature was aroused, and 
 her outraged love seemed to him to have died as sud- 
 den a death as even Col. Thorne could have wished. 
 
 Finding how useless her efforts were to escape, Claire 
 submitted to be removed from the brink of the stream, 
 and after a few moments she imperiously said : 
 
 Take me from this place in which I have been so 
 bitterly insulted ; where I have learned that there is 
 no faith to be placed in man. I have seen that you are 
 ready to yield me up to the desolate future that must 
 be mine, after taking so fatal a step as our marriage 
 has proved to me ; but I warn you that I will not be 
 cast off without seeking — seeking forever till I find the 
 means to avenge the dastardly wrong you are ready to 
 consummate towards me. I am helpless, and at 3"our 
 mercy now; but it will not always be so. Were you 
 worthy the name of man, you would stand by me at 
 all hazards ; labor for me, make a future for us both. 
 
THE EXPLOSION. 
 
 :^0T 
 
 as the toiling millions of earth do for the mates they 
 have chosen. But you^ lapped in liixuiy, steeped in 
 selfishness, you throw a young and helpless creature 
 upon that world you have not the courage to face your- 
 self, and, w'orse than that, you are ready to stain her 
 name with the assertion that the tie she believed the 
 golden link that bound her to peace and happiness, 
 was but a sham — a shameless lie — yet such it v/as not, 
 well you know, though you will, with the power of 
 that bad old man to aid you, make it so appear; to 
 others. 
 
 ‘‘ You^ as a professing Catholic, know that no secu- 
 lar tribunal can sever the bond that unites us ; yet 
 why should I appeal to the religion I now know you 
 only professed to gain an end. False in that, as in all 
 the rest, I find you utterly unworthy of the adoring 
 love I have so blindly lavished on you.” 
 
 Claire spoke with such rapid and fervid utterance 
 that Thorne found it impossible to interrupt her. His 
 half-awakened remorse was stifled by this torrent of 
 reproaches ; he writhed beneath the truths so plainly 
 spoken, and when she at last paused, he coldly said : 
 
 It is as well that the disenchantment should be 
 mutual. We have played out our pretty little farce of 
 mai’ried felicity ; you cannot say that I did not make 
 you supremely happy for one halcyon month, and I 
 admit that you rendered me so too. I am not ungrate- 
 ful, though I may seem so now. We can both look 
 back to that blissful interlude in the monotony of life, 
 and have the sweet consolation of knowing that we 
 have been blest, let fate bring us what it may in the 
 future.” 
 
 “ As if the brightness of those days will not darken 
 
308 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 all that are to follow them,” she bitterly replied. “ 1 
 did not ask for a glimpse of Eden : the ‘ sober certainty 
 of waking bliss ’ is infinitely more to my taste, yet wo 
 is me ! it can never — never now be mine.” 
 
 You are too young to despair of anything. Rose. 
 Let us endeavor to forget our past, and try to find 
 contentment, at least, in the days that are to come. 
 W e have both been rudely awakened from our love- 
 dream. You have found a deceiver and a villain in 
 the hero of your fancy, and I have found a termagant 
 and a bitter scold in the goddess of mine : thus we 
 are quits. Let us part as friends, since my father has 
 decreed that part we must.” 
 
 There was much of his father’s cynical hardness in 
 his tones, and Claire recklessly replied : 
 
 ‘‘ Yes — let us part ; but not for ever. Break the 
 bond that unites us ; but you shall yet find that faith 
 and truth to me had been better for your own prosper- 
 ity, as well as for your happiness. Take me from this 
 place, I say — remove me as far away as is possible, for 
 the very air seems to stifle me. There is a town not 
 far way ; take me there, and give me time to think 
 over all that has so suddenly come upon me.” 
 
 Thorne led her back to the carriage, placed her in it 
 
 and drove slowly toward L . She supposed he 
 
 was going to a hotel, but he turned off from the princi- 
 pal streets after entering the town, and presently drew 
 up in front of a handsome gothic cottage, almost em- 
 bowered in trees. 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 309 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 ADA DIGBY. 
 
 C LAIRE sat too much absorbed in her own wretch- 
 edness to care whither she was removed, provided 
 she was taken from the home from which she had been 
 so ignominiously thrust ; but when Thorne drew up in 
 this secluded spot, she looked up and haughtily asked : 
 
 To whom are you now taking me, Mr. Thorne ? A 
 public house is the only one that should receive me ; 
 and if the landlord of that knew all that is soon to be- 
 fal me, he would not consent to admit beneath his 
 roof one whose fair name you are getting ready to assail 
 before the tribunals of your State. You will get a 
 divorce, under what pretext God alone knows, and I 
 shall hide my face in shame, not for myself, but for the 
 man I have believed among the noblest and best of 
 his kind.” 
 
 ‘‘ Hush — hush. Rose ; we have had enough of that. 
 I have brought you to a relative of mine, who will 
 receive, and succor you in every possible way. Miss 
 Digby w^as my mother’s cousin — she is no longer young, 
 and her character and position are such that no one will 
 dare assail anything she may do. I do not wish our 
 unhappy story to become the theme of public gossip ; 
 therefore I cannot remove you to the hotel. Ada 
 Digby is not over fond of me, but she is a just, and 
 generous woman, and she will do what is best for both 
 of us. You may rely on her advice, for she has a clear 
 head, and warm heart ; lean do her that much justice, 
 through I know I am no great favorite with her.” 
 
310 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Ckiire was thankful to escape from the publicity of 
 the hotel, so she only said in reply : 
 
 ‘‘ It is all the same to me. Shelter fora brief season 
 is rJl 1 ask, and then I will go upon my lonely way to 
 seek what I shall surely find ; the means of bringing to 
 you retribution for your false, and shameful conduct 
 to me.” 
 
 ‘‘ Don’t threaten me, Rose ; you will gain nothing 
 by it.” 
 
 ‘‘ I have already received at your hands all that I am 
 likely to accept from them,” was the haughty response, 
 and she stepped from the carriage refusing his assist- 
 ance. 
 
 Thorne opened the iron gate, and they crossed a 
 yard filled with shrubbery, and evergreens. He rang 
 at the door of the cottage, and after a few moments’ 
 delay, a light flashed into the darkened hall, and a 
 clear, even-toned voice, asked : 
 
 Who is there, asking admittance at this hour of 
 the night ? ” 
 
 It is I, cousin ; Walter Thorne. Pra}^ open your 
 door, for I must speak wdth you to-night.” 
 
 The bolt w^as withdrawn, and a tall, fair woman, 
 with black eyes, and hair of raven darkness, stood be- 
 fore them. 
 
 Miss Digby courteously welcomed her young kins- 
 man, and glanced with some surprise at his compan- 
 ion ; but she hastened to lead the way into the ai:)ai t- 
 ment she had just left, which was fitted up as a kind 
 of laborator}^ 
 
 Claire sunk into the seat offered her, vaguely won- 
 dering by what name her husband Avould introduce 
 l)er. He glanced uneasily at her Avhite face, and 
 drawn brow, and after a moment’s hesitation, said ; 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 311 
 
 Cousin, I have taken the liberty of bringing my 
 wife here to-night, because my father is in one of his 
 worst humors, and has refused to permit her to remain 
 at Thornhill. I entreat that you will receive her, and 
 for the present keep our union a secret from the out- 
 side world.” 
 
 Miss Digby regarded him with unmingled surprise, 
 and she glanced compassionately at the bowed face of 
 the poor girl. She replied to Thorne in a subdued 
 voice : 
 
 ‘‘Your wife, Walter! wedded clandestinely, and 
 you on the eve of marriage with another ? Oh ! false, 
 and fickle nature, who can ever put faith in its pos- 
 sessor ? Wo to this unhappy creature who has placed 
 herself between 5^ou and your ruthless father.” 
 
 Thorne seemed to quail and shiver beneath the re- 
 proach of her words. In the same tone he replied : 
 
 “ Yes, it was a sad hour for her and for me, when 
 we met. I have been mad, that is all. I do not ask 
 you to receive this poor child for my sake, but for her 
 own. You never refuse to do a kind action, and this 
 favor will be the last I shall ask at your hands.” 
 
 “ Of course I will give Mrs. Thorne shelter, and 
 such support in her difficult position as I can ; but 
 how will you answer to the colonel for what you have 
 so imprudentlj^ done ? ” 
 
 “ I have already seen him and Claire was turned 
 from his house. I will leave her with you, and return 
 to make such efforts as are possible to appease his 
 wrath. But you must watch over this poor girl ; the 
 shock of what has happened to-night has made her 
 wild, and unmanageable. Be gentle with her, but 
 keep a ( constant watch on her, I entreat.’’ 
 
312 THE CLANDESTINE MABRIAGE. 
 
 Miss Digby turned to her pallid guest, and remov- 
 ing her bonnet,, kindly said : 
 
 You are very welcome to my quiet home, my dear. 
 You shall find that all of Walter’s relatives are not as 
 harsh and cold, as the father from whom you have 
 met such treatment to-night. You shall stay with me 
 till Col. Thorne has recovered his sense of right, and is 
 ready to receive you with the welcome due to his son’s 
 wife.” 
 
 With a dry, hard glitter in her brilliant eyes, Claire 
 replied : 
 
 Thank you, but my visit would be a very long 
 one, if it only ended when I am received at Thornhill. 
 I shall never go there again, till I enter it in triumph 
 to put my foot on those who have this night so bitterly 
 insulted me. Miss Digby, that man there is my hus- 
 band ; till to-night he was my adoring and obsequious 
 slave. at the command of his brutal father, he 
 
 is ready to throw me off ; to deny even the validity of 
 the vows he has plighted to me. I speak freely to 
 you, an utter stranger, but I cannot accept your hospi- 
 tality without stating my actual position. If you will 
 let me remain with you now, I shall be very grateful 
 for shelter for a few hours.” 
 
 Miss Digby impulsively replied : 
 
 ‘‘ You shall stay with me a year if you choose, my 
 poor, deluded child, and I will help you to sustain 
 your cause. Of course you will not permit yourself to 
 be so fatally wronged without a struggle to retain 
 your position. Oh! Walter, I could not have believed 
 this, even of so reckless a being as you have ever 
 been.” 
 
 Tlionie was about to make some deprecating reply, 
 when Claire passionately broke in : 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 313 
 
 No — they shall not wrong me without a struggle 
 to right myself, which will cover with infamy the man 
 who attempts it. I have friends who will stand by 
 me, and I will summon them to my side. The good 
 priest who united us will come at my bidding to 
 prove that I am a lawful wife. But it is only for 
 my name’s sake that I would defend my cause ; the 
 love I so lately cherished for that false craven, has 
 died a death so violent and sudden, that nothing can 
 ever resuscitate it again.” 
 
 She sank back, exhausted by her own excitement, 
 and seemed on the eve of fainting. Miss Digby has- 
 tened to offer a restorative, which she poured from 
 one of the bottles on her shelves, and Thorne gloomily 
 said : 
 
 “ Our marriage seems to have been a great mistake 
 on both sides, Claire, and the sooner it is dissolved, 
 the better, perhaps, for both of us. I make no effort 
 to deny it, you see, for in the presence of my cousin, I 
 admit that you are my wife. I shall never seek to 
 blacken your fame by denying the fact of the ceremo- 
 li}" having been gone through, but it was informal, and 
 my father believes he can easily have it pronounced a 
 nullity. Since we have so bitterly quarrelled, it will 
 be best so, I suppose. I believed you to be an angel 
 of sweetness, and I find j^ou a perfect shrew. You 
 thought me a demi-god, and you find me a selfish com- 
 monplace mortal. After what has passed to-night, the 
 sooner we are quit of each other, the better for both ot 
 us.*’ 
 
 A faint color came to Claire’s white cheeks, her 
 eyes flashed, and with an attitude of superb disdain, 
 sue pointed to the door, and said : 
 
314 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 ‘‘ In your turn, you are commanded to go, and 1 
 never wish to set my eyes on you again till the hour 
 arrives in which I can bring to you such retribution 
 for the wrong you have done me as will wring your 
 .. heart. You have not broken mine, though you have 
 killed it ; and I shall live to make you as bitterly rue 
 the day we met, as 1 do now.” 
 
 A scornful smile came to Thorne’s lips as he said : 
 
 This is a poor return for the adoring love I have 
 lavished on you. I hoped and believed that my father 
 would relent, and receive you, or I should never have 
 brought you to his house as I did.” 
 
 Love ! is the feeling you dignify with that name 
 worthy of it ? You forged letters assuring me of Col. 
 Thorne’s consent to our union ; you led me to believe 
 that I should be gladly welcomed to his house, and 
 you took me there to meet insult and contumely. 
 You cowered before your imperious father, and made 
 no attempt to sustain me in his cruel presence. I no 
 longer ask, nor will I accept protection from the man 
 who failed me in the hour in which I most .needed it.” 
 
 So be it,” replied Thorne, sullenly. I might 
 have used efforts to bring my father around, but you 
 have rendered that course useless. Farewell, Claire ; 
 T shall not intrude on you again, though I shall take 
 such measures as will ensure you a sufficient support.” 
 
 She haughtily replied : 
 
 You need not trouble yourself about that, sir ; for 
 I would sooner starve than touch a morsel purchased 
 by your money.” 
 
 The door closed on him as her last words were ut- 
 tered, and the overwrought creature fell back into vio- 
 lent hysterics. Miss Digby hastened to afford her such 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 815 
 
 assistance as she needed ; and when the first violence 
 of the paroxysm had subsided into low moans and long 
 sighs, that seemed to rend the poor heart from which 
 they issued, her hostess succeeded in conveying her to 
 an adjoining room, which was daintily fitted up as a 
 sleeping apartment. 
 
 Miss Digby placed Claire upon the bed, and sat 
 down beside her, endeavoring to soothe the lacerated 
 heart, and bring the forlorn creature to speak and think 
 more calmly. She had known Walter Thorne from 
 his infancy, and she had little faith in his stability or 
 principles, though she was attracted, as others were, by 
 his brilliant endowments and handsome person. 
 
 Until this night she had not believed he would have 
 risked the favor of his father by violating his pledges 
 to the betrothed Col. Thorne had chosen for him ; 
 much less did she suppose he would have had the mo- 
 ral courage to bring the rival of Agnes Willard to the 
 paternal mansion, in the mad hope that she would be 
 received as he had led her to expect. Walter had 
 evidently done a foolish thing, in his own estimation ; 
 and he had played a desperate game, in the hope that 
 he might win without a single chance in his favor. 
 
 As Miss Digby looked on the pallid face before herr, 
 she thought if ever man had a fair excuse for such 
 folly this high-strung and most beautiful creature 
 afforded it — yet she pitied her from the depths of her 
 heart. She knew Col. Thorne too well to believe that 
 anything could induce him to accept any other as his 
 daughter-in-law than the girl he had himself selected ; 
 and after what had that night passed between tlie 
 craven husband and outraged wife, she believed a 
 reconciliation would be impossible. 
 
316 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 She asked herself what was to be the fate of this 
 young creature, with her marvellous loveliness and 
 fiery nature, when east into the valley of humiliation, 
 and left to struggle throughout alone ? She was most 
 anxious to learn all the particulars of the marriage, 
 that she might afford such advice and assistance as the 
 unfortunate being thrown on her kindness so sorely 
 needed ; and she ministered to her guest in the hope 
 that with returning composure, she would speak freely 
 to her as to a friend in whom she could confide. 
 
 After a few hours of intense suffering Claire re- 
 covered sufficient self-control to speak composedly. 
 She faintly said : 
 
 I fear that I am giving you too much trouble. Miss 
 Digby ; and I have no claim on you. I hope I shall 
 be better to-morrow, and then I will go away from 
 here, shaking from my feet the dust of this place, which 
 I should never have entered. Ah ! wo is me, that I ever 
 listened to the false tongue that so sweetly beguiled 
 me.” 
 
 My dear,” replied Miss Digby, gently, I cannot 
 think that the heart which prompted the tongue was 
 utterly false. Walter Thorne has great faults, but he 
 has some good in him ; and I am unwilling to believe 
 that he intended to wrong you. He has certainly acted 
 un wiselj" and not very honorably toward his betrothed 
 Ijride, in giving her a rival in yourself, but I think his 
 excuse is that he loves you. Try and compose your 
 mind, and relate to me, as concisely as possible, how 
 all this has come about. I may be able to help you— 
 and I am most anxious to do so.” 
 
 Claire feebly shook her head. 
 
 “ If Walter Thorne had truly loved me he could 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 317 
 
 never have deceived me as he has done. He led me to 
 believe that his father was so anxious to see him mar- 
 ried that want of fortune on the part of his bride would 
 be of no consequence. I did not dream that another 
 woman was in existence who has any claim on him. 
 
 To-night, when I came unbidden into the presence 
 of that harsh old man, Walter suffered him to speak 
 such words to me as I can never forgive, and he made 
 no effort to defend or sustain me. He made no response 
 to my appeal ; and then — then — God help me ! I 
 would have sought oblivion in death. I fled to the 
 stream I had noticed as we passed through the grounds ; 
 and if he had not followed me very quickly, I — I 
 should have thrown myself in. 
 
 Walter forced me away and brought me here. But 
 now there is no danger that I shall attempt suicide. 
 Miss Digby. All the great love I felt for him seemed 
 to die out of my heart, as he held me struggling in his 
 arms, and talked in his old deceitful way ; in its place 
 surged up a feeling of bitter hatred and repulsion ; 
 and in those moments I could have stabbed him fa- 
 tally.” 
 
 My dear, this is terrible. Do not speak thus.” 
 
 Claire imperiously went on : 
 
 “Yes — I could have killed him then: and later, 
 when I sat beside him in the carriage that brought me 
 hither, I felt the same impulse, and nothing saved him 
 but the lack of a weapon. I feel no softer to him now , 
 and the only safety for him is to keep himself as far as 
 possible from me. I am very wicked, I know that ; 
 but till to-night I thought myself good. I have hith- 
 erto known nothing but love and kindness ; and until 
 such bitter wrong came to me, I never suspected whafc 
 
318 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 serpents of wrath lay coiled in my nature, ready to 
 spring into venomous life.” 
 
 Dear child, it is terrible to hear so young a creature 
 speak thus. You are in the gall of bitterness now, but 
 a few hours hence j^ou will feel differently. I possess 
 some influence with Col. Thorne, and I promise to use 
 it to bring about a reconciliation. If he consents to 
 receive you as his son’s wife, you can surely consent to 
 forgive what has passed to-night. Walter has never 
 been able to withstand his father ; and he is entirely 
 dependent upon him. You must remember this in ex- 
 cuse for him.” ^ 
 
 With undiminished bitterness, Claire replied : 
 
 Nothing can excuse him to me. His false and cow- 
 ardly nature came out too clearly to-night, and I saw 
 the idol of my imagination stripped of all the illusions 
 I had thrown around him ; he showed not only the 
 feet of cla}^, but the whole man is of material no less 
 base. Had our positions been reversed, I should have 
 thought only of him ; but he thought only of himself, 
 and what he should lose if he remained true to the 
 vows he had plighted. Col. Thorne must not be asked 
 to receive me, for I will never enter his doors on suf- 
 ferance. In that house I will reign as a sovereign queen 
 when I am accepted as its mistress.” 
 
 “ But,” remonstrated Miss Digby, “ you must con- 
 cede something, if you would not ruin your life. You 
 can win your way to the old man’s heart, and make 
 him proud to acknowledge you as Walter’s wife; and 
 if the chance is afforded you, it is your duty to do 
 this.” 
 
 ‘‘ It may be, but I shall make no such effort. After 
 the indignities of this night, I must be lured back , 
 
ADA DIGB7. 
 
 for I will not bow down to those who have insulted 
 and injured me.” 
 
 Finding how impracticable she was in her present 
 mood, Miss Digby asked: 
 
 Are you calm enough to give me a history of your 
 marriage, and how your friends came to allow so young 
 a creature as you are to bestow her hand upon a stran- 
 ger without inquiring into his antecedents ? ” 
 
 Claire burst into tears — the first she had shed that 
 night. Oh ! they did not — they did not. Mamma 
 would have saved me from this misery, but I was wil- 
 ful and disobedient. I took my fate in m}^ own hands, 
 and consented to marry Walter clandestinely. I was 
 too young and ignorant to know what might hereafter 
 be necessary to prove my marriage ; and until to-night, 
 I never dreamed that its validity could be questioned. 
 I heard that terrible old man say to Walter that he 
 would have it set aside, and he never opened his lips 
 to protest against such indignity.” 
 
 ‘‘ I will never forgive him, never ! For one little 
 month he treated me as a goddess, and made me as 
 happy as any mortal ever was ; and to-night he had the 
 cruelty to say to me that a few brief weeks of perfect 
 joy are more than are vouchsafed to most human crea- 
 tures.” 
 
 My husband surrendered my rights to his father. 
 Miss Digby, and he will let him work his Avill ; but I 
 will repay him. I have vowed within myself to do so, 
 and I shall certainly find means to bring home to him 
 every pang of humiliation and outraged love he has 
 made me suffer.” 
 
 “ But, Mrs. Thorne, it is wrong to cherish such feel- 
 ings. It is contrary to Christian principles, and ” 
 
320 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Claire hastened to interrupt the impending lecture ; 
 
 Don’t call me by that name — call me Claire, for 
 that is my name. They will take from me the right to 
 bear Walter’s, nor do I wish to claim it now. I am 
 Claire Lapierre, and harder than a stone will he find 
 my heart when the day arrives in which he shall appeal 
 to it in the name of the love I once felt for him. Oh ! 
 Miss Digby, pity me, and pardon my violence. My 
 heart is crushed beneath a weight of wo I did not lately 
 believe it could have borne ; but I will try and calm 
 myself, and give you a clear history of what has hap- 
 pened to me during my short life.” 
 
 Miss Digby saw that this was not the time to reason 
 with the wretched and half- distraught creature, who 
 so kneely felt the awful change in her life, which had 
 fallen like a thunderbolt upon her. She thought it 
 natural that Claire should resent the facility with which 
 her weak husband had yielded to the arbitrary will of 
 his father, and she felt the. tenderest sympathy and 
 compassion for her. 
 
 She gently said : 
 
 Tell me all, my child. Let me understand your 
 exact position, that I may seek and find some remedy 
 for all this evil.” 
 
 “ That will be hopeless,” was the gloomy response ; 
 but Claire went on to give the desired relation. At its 
 close, Miss Digbj^ soothingly said : 
 
 “ Thank you, Claire, for so fully confiding in me. 
 I see nothing in the way of a happy ending to all this, 
 except Col. Thorne’s insane desire to make Agnes Wil- 
 lard his son’s wife, in spite of every obstacle to its ac- 
 complishment. In birth and breeding you are quite 
 equal to Walter, and the want of fortune is of tri- 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 321 
 
 fling importance ; there is money enough and to spare, 
 with only one child to inherit it. You must sleep now, 
 and wdien you awake, the bitter resentment you natu- 
 rally feel will be softened, and you will be more in- 
 clined to listen to reason. Hope for the best, my child, 
 for I think I can induce Mr. Thorne to do what is right 
 by you and Walter.” 
 
 A wistful look came into Claire’s eyes, and she im- 
 pulsively said : 
 
 “ Oh ! if you could — if you could, I might consent 
 to forego my vengeance, in spite of all the hard words 
 I have uttered. We might regain a faint shadow of 
 the happiness we have lost, and — and — and I don’t 
 know — I might learn to love Walter a little yet.” 
 
 You will learn to love him a great deal, and to re- 
 gret the bitterness with which you have spoken to- 
 night. There, my dear, take these drops ; they are a 
 strong sedative, and by morning I think you will be 
 calm, and amenable to reason.” 
 
 Claire swallowed the potion, and with a sudden look 
 of pain sank back, moaning : 
 
 “ Oh ! what a difference in my life a few hours have 
 made ! As Ave came hither this afternoon, all the sunny 
 confidence of love and hope were in my heart ; now 
 there is only the night of despair. Leave me alone to 
 wrestle Avith my sorrow, good friend, for I must fight 
 my battle without help.” 
 
 Miss Digby kissed her, turned down the light, and 
 left the room. Several times during the night she 
 came to the door ; but when the sound of her light 
 footfall was heard, the poor sufferer stifled the moans 
 that rose to her lips, and lay with staring eyes and fe« 
 20 
 
322 the clandesttne marriage. 
 
 vercd frame, living over again the brief bright dream 
 of love, ending in such blank despair. 
 
 By morning she was tossing in fever, and raging in 
 the wildest delirium. In this condition was she found 
 by her hostess, when she entered her room to inquire 
 how she had passed the night. 
 
 Miss Digby had devoted much of her lonely life to 
 the study of medicine, though she did not practice it 
 as a profession, nor had she received a diploma from 
 any of the schools. But she possessed the fine instinct 
 and subtle power of judgment which belongs to emi- 
 nently successful physicians, and the first glance she 
 cast on the dilated eyes and flushed face of her j^oung 
 guest, assured her that the terrible shock of the pre- 
 vious night had produced brain fever. 
 
 She lost no time in applying such remedies as she 
 knew were necessary, but the patient grew steadily 
 worse ; and, afraid to trust to her own skill. Miss Dig- 
 by summoned other medical assistance. She had to 
 parry the inquiries of Dr. Brandon as well as she could, 
 as to who this young stranger was, and how she came 
 to be under her roof. She coldly replied to the queries 
 of the inquisitive physician, b}^ saying : 
 
 Thisj'oung lady is a connexion of mine. She came 
 to me only yesterday, and it is unfortunate that she 
 should have fallen ill so soon after her arrival. I hope 
 that you will be able to do more for her, doctor, than I 
 have.” 
 
 Dr. Brandon shook his head. 
 
 Where you fail I shall scarcely hope to be success- 
 ful, for your skill is quite equal to that of the best of 
 us. This young creature is extremely ill ; she must 
 lately have undergone some terrible shock lo bring 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 328 
 
 her to such a pass as this,” and he looked inquiringly 
 at Miss Digby. 
 
 She remembered her promise to Thorne, and with 
 impassive gravity, replied : 
 
 The cause of her illness is not what we have to 
 consider — the means of cure are of more importance 
 just now. Since you approve my course, all I have to 
 do is to persevere in it and bring her through by care- 
 ful nursing.” 
 
 The baffled inquisitor bowed, and stiffly replied : 
 
 ‘‘I can recommend no better course. Miss Digby. 
 I wish you a very good morning, but if you should 
 need me again, of course I shall be at your command.” 
 
 Left alone with the patient, the kind-hearted nurse 
 stood many moments looking down upon the fair face 
 which had already begun to wear a pinched and worn 
 aspect, and the widely opened eyes had in their depths 
 an expression of fathomless wo that was pitiful to be- 
 hold. Her long brown hair was thrown in disorder 
 over the pillow, and mechanically Miss Digby began to 
 wind one of the shining braids around her finger. 
 
 The sick girl jerked her head away and muttered : 
 
 “ They are his curls — he loved to dally with them — 
 and no one else shall touch them. Oh, Walter, Wal- 
 ter, where are you ? why do you not come to me ? Oh, 
 you have killed my heart ! it is dead — dead — dead ! ” 
 
 Many times before had she repeated the last words, 
 and a paroxysm of insane fury always followed them, in 
 which she uttered most appalling threats of future 
 vengeance against the recreant lover who had worked 
 her so much wo. The same result ensued now, and 
 her friend was forced to use every effort to bring her 
 back to calmness. 
 
324 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Miss Digby watched and waited for some communn 
 .nation from Thorne, but the hours of that long day 
 passed on and none came. A second, third and fourth 
 went by with the same result ; and indignant at his 
 neglect of the being he had left on her hands — probably 
 to die — she wrote a few curt lines to him, informing 
 him of the condition in which his wife lay. 
 
 The note was answered by Col. Thorne, in a charac- 
 teristic manner ; 
 
 “ Thornhill, October 11th, 18—. 
 
 “ My Dear Ada : — As my son is not at home, I took 
 the liberty of opening your communication to him and 
 take it on myself to reply to it. 
 
 I have sent Walter away that no further meeting 
 should take place between him and the young person 
 under your charge. Your own good sense must show 
 you that her claims on him can never be allowed — 
 they have both played the fool, and now they must 
 pay the price of their folly. 
 
 I am sorry to hear that the girl takes the affair so 
 much to heart,, as to become seriously ill because her 
 Walter is banished from her presence, but I wish her 
 to be made to understand that another meeting be- 
 tween them will not be permitted. I have sent Wal- 
 ter to pay his devoirs where they are due, and to as- 
 sist his betrothed in watching over her dying father. 
 
 I have already taken the preliminary steps toward 
 dissolving the flimsy tie that binds him to the obscure 
 creature whose beauty so fatally ensnared him. You 
 may well believe that a hard struggle was necessary to 
 win from him his consent to obej^ my commands, but 
 it was won. 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 325 
 
 ‘‘ Of course I conquered, for Walter is one of those 
 men designed only for ornamental uses, and the alter- 
 native of being left to battle alone with life sufficed at 
 last to bring him to reason. I made him see that 1. 
 was in deadly earnest, and his unstable nature gave 
 me the victory. 
 
 ‘‘It was well for him that such was the result, for 
 if he had persisted in his defiance of my wishes, I 
 should have cast him off and never lifted my finger to 
 aid him, though I had seen him brought to the most 
 abject state of destitution. You think me very hard, 
 no doubt, but I have ventured all my hopes in my son, 
 and you best know why I have nothing else to live for. 
 
 “ I have equally set my heart on claiming as my 
 daughter the girl I have selected for his wife, and 
 Walter shall certainly marry her as soon as he is free 
 to do so. As to the young simpleton who thought to 
 win her way to my favor through her beauty, I do not 
 wish to be hard on her. I am ready to provide suita- 
 bly for her ; and as an earnest of my intentions, I en- 
 close two hundred dollars to cover such expenses as 
 may be incurred through her illness. When she is 
 well enough to return to the secluded valley in which 
 Walter unfortunately found her, I will advance what 
 may be necessary for her traveling expenses, and fur- 
 thermore settle on her the sum of four hundred dollars 
 a year, to be paid semi-annually. 
 
 “ I tliink that is acting with great liberality on my 
 part, but I wish you to impress on her that if she at- 
 tempts to follow Walter up, or persecute him in any 
 way on account of his midsummer madness, I will 
 withdraw all assistance from her. 
 
 “ Your kind heart will suggest to you the best ws^y 
 
326 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 of placing before this young person the true state of 
 affairs. 
 
 ‘‘Respectfully, your friend, W. Thorne.” 
 
 Miss Digby read these lines beside the couch of 
 her patient, who was then lying in a death-like sleep, 
 and she knew that on her awakening depended her 
 fate. She might sink into the arms of death, or recov- 
 er to face the blighted existence that lay before her. 
 Miss Digby scarcely thought she would die, for she 
 was young, and her constitution was unbroken — 
 though, as Claire had so pathetically declared through- 
 out her delirium, her heart was dead. 
 
 “ I will wait till her fate is decided, and then, if she 
 lives, go to Col. Thorne myself,” thought the faithful 
 nurse ; “ should she recover, I will use the influence 
 that I alone possess over this hard man, and try to 
 bring him to feel compassion for those two imprudent 
 young creatures. Yet Walter must be the true son of 
 his father to go away even at his command, without 
 coming here to see his wife before parting from her 
 forever.” 
 
 The violence of the fever had impelled Miss Digby 
 to cut off the hair of the sick girl, and the long bronz- 
 ed locks lay on a table beside her. Twilight gathered 
 in the silent room, yet Claire slept on, though her 
 breathing was more regular, and a faint dew began to 
 appear on her fever-parched skin. At intervals Miss 
 Digby moistened the lips of the sleeper with some cool- 
 ing liquid which was at hand, and sat awaiting the 
 crisis that would give her back to life or end in the 
 sombre darkness of the tomb. 
 
 The room was buried in shadow, for the fire had 
 burned low and no light had yet been brought in by the 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 327 
 
 servant. ' he silent watcher was suddenly startled by 
 a deep sigh — almost a sob — that broke the stillness ; and 
 she arose and turned toward the door which opened 
 into the adjoining apartment. Before her stood Walter 
 Thorne, looking wild and haggard ! and, in spite of 
 her warning motion to keep back, he came swiftly for- 
 ward and drew near to the bed on which the wasted 
 shadow of her he had so fatally wooed and won was 
 lying. 
 
 He hoarsely asked : 
 
 “ Is she dead ? Have I killed her by my cruel de- 
 sertion. Oh, Ada, have some pity on me, and say that 
 life is not extinct in the heart I have so basely tor- 
 tured.” 
 
 ‘‘Come with me,” said Miss Digby, in a low tone, 
 but orfe of such authority that Thorne felt forced to 
 obey her. “ She is not dead, but to awake from this 
 saving sleep and find j^-ou beside her will certainly de- 
 stroy her.” 
 
 He followed her into the next room, in which a lamp 
 was burning ; and closing the door behind her. Miss 
 Digby coldly asked : 
 
 “ Why are you here, Walter, when your father be- 
 lieves you to be on your way to Philadelphia ? Since 
 you have pledged your word to him to give up your 
 poor young wife, you have no right to come hither.” 
 
 He almost humbly replied : 
 
 “ I know that, Ada, but I could not keep away. I 
 felt sore and bitter toward my darling, because she 
 spoke such harsh words to me the niglit I brought her 
 hither, and I yielded to my father’s exactions. But 
 when I had gone some distance on my journey, I 
 could no longer hold out against her ; I felt as if I 
 
328 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 must return and obtain her forgiveness for the wrong 1 
 am compelled to do her. Yes, compelled^ Ada, for I 
 cannot bring her down to the depths of poverty — steep 
 myself to the lips in its bitter waters. We must part, 
 but we can at least carry with us a less painful sting 
 than the memory of that last meeting would be if 
 nothing further passed between us.” 
 
 Miss Digby replied with some excitement : 
 
 ‘‘ You are very weak, Walter, and untrue to every 
 pledge you give. For Heaven’s sake, choose a line of 
 action and adhere to it, but do not vacillate in this man- 
 ner. You have elected to give up this unfortunate 
 child, and accept the bride your father has chosen for 
 you, yet you turn upon your journey to her to come 
 back here and arouse a deeper sense of wrong and an- 
 guish in the heart of the girl you have forsaken.^ She 
 cannot endure much more — the sight of you when she 
 awakes from that death-like sleep — if she ever does 
 awake — would be fatal to her. She can bear no emo- 
 tion in her present weak state.” 
 
 “ Oh, Ada, my cousin, pity me and help me, for I am 
 the most wretched of man. I have wrecked that young 
 life, when I meant to make it happy ; I am, as you say, 
 weak as water ; I have no strength to contend with 
 fate — and that is against us.” 
 
 With some scorn, she said : 
 
 It would not be if you possessed the self-respect 
 and energy of a man, but I excuse you thus far that I 
 know how useless you have been reared. You have 
 fine aesthetic tastes that must be gratified at the cost 
 even of honor and happiness. Yau have from your 
 infancy been lapped in the soft delights of life, and 
 therefore you are unfitted to face its stern requirements 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 329 
 
 should your father carry out his threat of disinheri- 
 tauce. I comprehend all this, Walter ; but above all, 
 there is something wanting in yourself. Had there not 
 been, you, in your selfish passion, would never have 
 subjected that unfortunate girl to the wretched ordeal 
 through which she must pass. You were guilty of the 
 crime of forgery to win her consent to a clandestine 
 marriage, and now you give her up at the command of 
 as flinty a heart as ever beat in a human bosom. Go 
 upon your way, and leave her to scorn and hate you, 
 for that will be her only salvation in the years to come. 
 Your self-love may be wounded by the thought that 
 she will do so, but for her it will be better than any 
 tender or kinder feeling toward him who has wrought 
 her so much evil.” 
 
 Thorne shrank beneath her pitiless tones, and de- 
 precatingly said : 
 
 You have little mercy, Ada. You feel only for 
 her — and God knows that I too suffer deeply in giving 
 her up.” 
 
 ‘‘ Your sufferings will be easily forgotten ; you will 
 console yourself with a rich wife ; and surrounded by 
 the luxury you value far above this poor victim of your 
 selfishness, you will soon cease to feel even remorse 
 for her broken life and soiled fame.” 
 
 ‘‘You have no mercy, Ada : yet I swear to you that 
 if it were possible, I would cling to Claire in spite of 
 the bitter words she used to me, ix your presence, when 
 [ brought her hither.” 
 
 “Yet you have permitted your father already to take 
 measures to 1 reak the tie that binds you to her. J 
 have his own assurance that such is the fact. Court is 
 now in session in this town, and before it adjourns 
 
330 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Col. Thorne’s influence and money will secure the de- 
 cree that frees you. There will be no one to speak a 
 word in opposition; no voice will be raised to defend 
 the cause of this friendless and unknown creature. I 
 know with what facility divorces are granted in this 
 State ; and no opposition will be made to this one. 
 You go away to avoid the scandal, and Claire will rise 
 from her sick bed to find herself a blighted outcast. 
 The friend who took her in at her father’s death may 
 refuse again to receive her ; and I ask you what is 
 then to be her fate ? ” 
 
 Thorne eagerly replied : 
 
 ‘‘ She shall never want while I have a dollar. Don’t 
 think me so base as to leave her without a provision : 
 that was stipulated for . when I yielded to my father’s 
 demands.” 
 
 Miss Digby disdainfully replied : 
 
 I know — money, the grand panacea for all ills, in 
 the estimation of such men as you and your father, is 
 to be offered her ; but if I read aright the proud and 
 fiery nature of this young girl, she will never accept it 
 from either of you.” 
 
 What then am I to do ? I have pledged my word 
 to my father to give Claire up ; the petition for a di- 
 vorce has already been presented ; for he lost no time in 
 preparing it ; and you know how skilful a lawyer he 
 is. He will carry it through without delay ; and should 
 I run restive then, he will be more implacable than 
 ever. Claire must accept what is offered her. You 
 must find means to induce her to do so. I should be 
 wretched if I could not force on her some atonement 
 for the suffering I have caused her.” 
 
 ‘‘ There is but one atonement she would accept. If 
 
ADA DIGBY. 
 
 331 
 
 I mediate with your father perhaps he will relent, 
 Should I undertake to do so, would you gladly and 
 willingly take your wife to your heart again, Walter? ” 
 
 I would — I swear it before Heaven. I would try 
 to make her forget the wrong I did her ; I would cher- 
 ish her as the darling of my life. Oh, Ada ? if you 
 can accomplish such a miracle as that, I shall owe you 
 eternal gratitude.’ ’ 
 
 Miss Digby earnestly regarded him, and then said : 
 
 I will then make the attempt. My charge will not 
 awake for at least an hour yet, and I can leave Barbara 
 to watch over her while I am gone.” 
 
 I scarcely know how to thank you, Ada ; but do not 
 call Barbara ; I will sit beside her, and I swear to you 
 that I will make no attempt to disturb her.” 
 
 She hesitated a moment, and then impressively said: 
 
 I will grant your request if you will promise to be 
 perfectly quiet, and should Claire move or show symp- 
 toms of awaking, that you will at once leave the room 
 and send my servant to her. Barbara will know what 
 is to be done for her ; on opening her eyes the shock of 
 finding you near her would defeat all my efforts to save 
 the life that hangs on a hair as slender as that which 
 upheld the sword of Damocles.” 
 
 You may trust me. I pledge you my word to obey 
 your directions implicitly.” 
 
 Miss Digby unclosed the door which gave into the 
 room of the sick girl, and the two passed noiselessly in- 
 to it. The pallid form lay upon the bed in the same 
 position in which they had left it, the lips partially un- 
 closed, and the heavy eye-lids folded in the sleep which 
 might be her last. The faithful nurse bent over her a 
 few moments, and then whispering a few directions to 
 
832 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Thorne, she left the apartment to go on the errand 
 from which she hoped some good might result. 
 
 Walter Thorne sat down in that darkened room to 
 watch for a brief season over the stric)ii»i being who, so 
 short a time before^ had been the radiant embodiment of 
 youth and joy. As he beheld Claire thus, all his pas- 
 sion for her returned, mingled with remorse for his late 
 conduct to her, and for the first time in his life he fer- 
 vently prayed. He petitioned for her restoration and 
 for success to the mission on which Miss Digby had 
 gone ; but even while he prayed he had little faith in 
 her efforts to serve him, however well meant they 
 were. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 COL. THORNE S SECRET. 
 
 S Miss Digby walked rapidly toward Thornhill, 
 
 jL\. the clear autumn air fanned her cheeks and brought 
 to them a faint color, which in some measure relieved 
 the look of lassitude and care that many nights of 
 watching had brought even to her strong and elastic 
 
 frame 
 
 She passed through the town and moved toward the 
 stately pile which crowned an eminence about half a 
 mile distant from it. Years had passed over her head 
 since she last stood beneath the portal of that house, 
 and she had not thought that any inducement could be 
 offered her to enter it again while Col. Thorne re- 
 mained its master. 
 
 Ada Digby was a cousin of the deceased Mrs. Thorne^ 
 
COLON- EL TRORXE’S SECRET. 
 
 333 
 
 and for many years had been an inmate of her family. 
 She was then young, beloved and gay ; and now she 
 was a sad-eyed woman who had drank deeply of the 
 cup of sorrow mixed for her by the hand of the man 
 from whom she was about to solicit a favor. 
 
 Col. Thorne had wrought dissension between herself 
 and the object of her affections, that he might win her 
 himself to fill the place of the wife he buried when Ada 
 Digby had attained her twentieth year. A short time 
 previous to that event she had given her troth to 
 George Balfour, in spite of the opposition of her guar- 
 dian, who refused his consent on the score of inequal- 
 ity of fortune. Miss Digby possessed an estate that 
 yielded her an ample support as a single woman, but 
 her lover had nothing. 
 
 Goaded by the sarcasms of Col. Thorne, Balfour 
 bade his betrothed farewell, and emigrated to a warm 
 and unhealthy climate in the hope that the facilities 
 for making money there would enable him to return in 
 a few 3^ears rich enough to claim his bride. The lovers 
 were to correspond regularly, but not a single letter 
 was allowed to reach its destination. They were care- 
 fully intercepted, and in a moment of outraged pride 
 Balfour offered his hand to the daughter of his part- 
 ner and was accepted. 
 
 The pride of Ada Digby sustained her through this 
 ordeal, and, deceived by her outward calmness. Col. 
 Thorne believed that he might venture to speak of his 
 own hopes. A year had elapsed since the death of his 
 wife, and he considered that quite time enough to conse- 
 crate to the memoiy of the woman who, for years, had 
 not held the first place in his heart. Unconsciously to 
 herself, Ada had won, and held that position, and when 
 
834 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 her guardian spoke of love to her, she shrank from him 
 almost with repulsion, and refused. to become the mis- 
 tress of his splendid home. 
 
 In his fierce anger at her positive rejection of his suit. 
 Colonel Thorne taunted her with the desertion of her 
 lover, and betrayed that to his hand she owed the 
 slight she had received. He was unwise enough to 
 assert that he had withheld the letters, and still had 
 them in his possession. She demanded the proof of his 
 assertions, and it was finally given by producing four 
 letters written by Balfour, and two by herself. 
 
 Grasping in her cold hand these evidences of his base 
 treachery, Ada left the room in which she had received 
 )iim, commanding him never again to appear in her 
 kiuse. After the death of Mrs. Thorne she had taken 
 po^'session of her early home, accompanied by a widow- 
 ed and childless old lady, who had been the friend of 
 her mother, and she found her income quite sufficient 
 for the quiet style of living she preferred. She gave 
 herself up to the studies that fascinated her, and per- 
 mitted no other lover to approach her ; but every year, 
 by letter. Colonel Thorne renewed the offer of his hand 
 in formal terms. 
 
 He had refused to obey her prohibition to seek her 
 presence, and a tacit reconciliation had been effected ; 
 but she steadily refused to receive him in her own 
 home, and vouchsafed no reply to the proposal which 
 annually came. For seven years this singular farce 
 had been enacted with what hope of success it would 
 have beSn difficult to discover; but Colonel Thome 
 was a man who never relinquished any scheme on 
 which he had set his heart, and he always asserted that 
 perseverance would win success in any undertaking. 
 
COLONEL THORNE'S SECRET. 
 
 335 
 
 Now, to this hard, and unscrupulous man, Miss Dig- 
 by was about to appeal to show such mercy to his son 
 as he had never manifested toward any human being. 
 She did not slacken her pace when she had entered 
 the grounds which had once been so familiar to 
 her, for she had an object to attain, and she fear- 
 ed to lose a moment of time lest the invalid should 
 awake in her absence, and some imprudence on tlie 
 part of Waiter betray his presence near her. Her 
 mind was too intently occupied with the intention that 
 brought her there to allow her to think of herself, and 
 she moved toward the house as calmly as if about to 
 make an ordinary call. 
 
 On the lofty portico sat the master of the mansion, 
 enjoying his evening smoke in the open air. Colonel 
 Thorne was a well preserved man of fifty, and in the 
 twilight he seemed scarcely older than his son. His 
 figure was still slender and debonaire ; his hair 
 slightly sprinkled with grey, though it had grown thin 
 on the temples, and across the broad brow. His face 
 was that of an intellectual gladiator ; clearly cut and 
 strongly marked features, with deep self-scintillating 
 eyes, an aqualine nose, and a mocking, sarcastic mouth 
 made up the ensemble which rendered the eminent 
 lawyer a terror to his antagonists in the arena in which 
 their forensic battles are waged. 
 
 He rarely lost a cause, and he boasted that he car- 
 ried more law in his brains than other men found in 
 extensive libraries. To the tenacity of the man as 
 much as to his ability, had his success in life been 
 due ; for it was his chief characteristic that what he 
 had once determined to accomplish should be achieved 
 at any cost. But once had he been baffled, but he 
 
336 thi5 claistdestine marriage. 
 
 had not given up the contest. Ada Digby had lefused 
 CO become his wife, but she should yet be mastered by 
 liis indomitable perseverance, and accept the fate she 
 had disdained in the heyday of her youth and beauty. 
 This conviction was strengthened when Mrs. Hinton, 
 her friend, died the previous year, and left her with- 
 out companionship ; and as he saw Miss Digby’s well-' 
 known figure ascending the winding walk toward the 
 house she had so long refused to enter, Col. Thorne ut- 
 tered a '' )w mocking laugh, and whispered to himself : 
 
 ‘‘At last!'' 
 
 He threw away his cigar, arose from his seat, and 
 mth a grace of manner he could assume at will, moved 
 forward to receive his guest. He cordially said : 
 
 “ My dear Ada, I am sure that my lucky star must 
 be in the ascendant this evening. I have been dream- 
 ing here in this lovely twilight of the happy change in 
 my destiny your presence in this house would make, 
 and lo ! the goddess of my thoughts comes visibly be- 
 fore me, making my visions real.” 
 
 He took her hand, which she did not refuse to 
 him, for she remembered that she had come there 
 to conciliate this fair-spoken tiger, who knew how to 
 veil his ruthless claws under velvet softness when he 
 had a point to gain. But when he would have led her 
 into the house, she quietly said : 
 
 “ I have a few words to say to you. Col. Thorne, 
 wdiich can be better said here than elsewhere. I will 
 sit here, if you please.” 
 
 He drew forward a chair, as he said : 
 
 “ If you prefer it, of course I must yield ; but when 
 I saw you coming, I indulged the hope that you 
 would at last enter once more the home that was once 
 
COLONEL THORNE’S SECRET. 
 
 337 
 
 yours — that I am only too anxious to restore you to as 
 its legitimate mistress.’' 
 
 With chilling, and stately courtesy, she replied : 
 
 I considered that question as finally settled long 
 ago. I did not come hither to listen to speeches that 
 mean nothing, Coh Thorne, but to prefer a petition of 
 my own.” 
 
 Can I refuse anything you may ask, my fair 
 cousin ? ” was the reply uttered in his most suave 
 tones. I shall be only too happy to concede any- 
 thing to you that you can demand, provided your re- 
 quest concerns yourself dXoiiQy 
 
 Why limit it in such a manner? ” she impatiently 
 asked. You well know that your words are equiva- 
 lent to a refusal, for I am not likely to ask anything 
 £i-oni you for myself.” 
 
 And why not, Ada? No one would so gladly serve 
 you as I. Through all these years of lonely turmoil 
 I have steadily looked forward to the day in which I 
 should retire to the otium cum dignitate of my own es > 
 tate, with the only companion who could make retire- 
 ment from active life tolerable to me. Perseverance 
 should win its reward, and mine surely deserves suc- 
 cess.” 
 
 “ Do you think so. Col. Thorne ? In this case, at 
 least, I think it merits something far less agreeable. 
 We will not discuss the past, if you please, nor refer 
 to myself in any way. I come hither as the ambassa- 
 dor of your son ; as the mediator for the unhappy 
 child who is now l3dng in my house almost at death’s 
 door, brought there b^^ your cruelty. Nothing less 
 than a matter of life and death could have brought me 
 as a petitioner to your presence.” 
 
338 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 The deep-set eyes emitted a single flash, but it was 
 ominous of what was to follow, though he spoke as 
 softly as before. 
 
 “ I regret that you should have undertaken to inter- 
 fere in my family affairs, Ada. I am accustomed to 
 manage them without advice from others ; and so far 
 as Walter is concerned, his fate has long been settled. 
 He was well aware of that fact, and he should never 
 have entangled that pretty creature in the web of de- 
 ception which has produced such disagreeable results. 
 If you hope to induce me to accept that obscure young 
 person as my daughter, I shall be reduced to the pain- 
 ful necessity of intimating that such a thing is not 
 within the bounds of possibility, except on — one — con- 
 dition.” 
 
 The last words were spoken with peculiar emphasis, 
 and with a distinct pause between each one, while his 
 glowing eyes were fixed upon her face. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 A STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 ITH a slight eagerness. Miss Digby replied to 
 
 T T Col. Thorne’s suggestion, as made at the close 
 of the last chapter : 
 
 Then there is a chance for these unhappy young 
 people. I do not offer any apology for this appeal, 
 though you seem to consider one necessary. I feel 
 that I am simply doing my duty by two helpless 
 creatures who are entirely in your power. What con- 
 
A STKANGE PKOPOSAL. 
 
 339 
 
 cession can they make which will soften you in their 
 favor ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ The concession will not be demanded of them^ 
 Ada.” 
 
 Miss Digby lifted her face to his, for he was still 
 standing in front of her, and she shivered slightly as 
 she caught the expression of his eyes. Less firmly 
 than she- had hitherto spoken, she asked : 
 
 ‘‘ From whom, then, can it be required ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ From you. Since you have taken it upon yourself 
 to mediate between myself and my disobedient son, I 
 am free to name my own terms. I did not believe 
 that anything could induce me to give up the marriage 
 I have settled for Walter, but I will even do that, and 
 permit him to bring hither that verdant young girl as 
 his wife, if you will consent also to come to Thorn- 
 hill as mine.” 
 
 At these words. Miss Digby arose from her seat, and 
 haughtily said : 
 
 ‘‘You have no right to exact from me the price of 
 your son’s happiness and respectability. It is one I 
 shall not pay, as you knew before you made the pro- 
 posal. In yielding my assent, I should sacrifice my 
 own self-respect, as much as Walter will lose his, in 
 being forced to give up the being he has solemnly 
 promised before Heaven to love, and cherish. I did 
 hope, Col. Thorne, that I could influence you to act 
 rightly, for right’s sake ; since I was mistaken, I have 
 no further business here, and I will bid you good 
 evening.” 
 
 He laid a detaining hand upon her arm. 
 
 “You will not go quite yet, Ada. Since we are at 
 last alone together, xuay indulge me with a few more 
 moments. Let us have this matter out.” 
 
B40 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 She sank back on her seat, coldly replying ; 
 
 ‘‘ As you will, I shall be glad to put an end to the 
 absurd persecution I have so long borne from you.” 
 
 ‘‘There is but one thing that will end it,” he said 
 with provoking calmness, “ and that is your union with 
 myself, or another. Do you know that your ideal 
 of constancy to a man who has a wife and children of 
 his own, is even more absurd to me, than my owm per- 
 skitent pursuit of you is in jonr eyes. I did j^ou a 
 wrong once, but it was because I loved you, and I 
 thought myself better suited to a woman of your sense 
 than Balfour was. .1 believed that I could atone to 
 you for bringing about a separation between you, but 
 you are as umeasonable as the most commonplace of 
 your sex, and you persistently shut your eyes to the 
 advantages of becoming the wife of the man with such 
 endowments of mind and fortune as I possess. You 
 curl your lip at my vanity, I perceive, but that is not 
 the name for it. It is self-appreciation, and who has a 
 better right to it than I ? I have won high profes- 
 sional success : my political Career has been brilliant, 
 for I have served with distinction in Congress. I shall 
 cei tainly be the next Governor of my State, and it is 
 my most earnest wish to see you doing the honors of 
 my home when I attain my new dignity. 
 
 “ Reflect how much better suited to such a woman 
 as you are, is the distinguished future I offer you, than 
 the obscure life you live down yonder ; passing j^our 
 days in concocting messes for those who are too poor 
 to employ a regular phj^sician. Before Heaven ! it is 
 a shame that so rarely endowed a creature as you 
 should be content to bury 3 ^ourself in the dull round 
 of daily duties as you do. Others may think such 
 
A STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 self-abnegation very fine, but to me, it is the supremest 
 folly that ever a human being was guilty of.” 
 
 Miss Digby listened to this long tirade with perfect 
 calmness, and at its close steadily said : 
 
 ‘‘Not such folly as marrying a man who has for- 
 feited my respect, would be. Neither your wealth, 
 nor your, greatness. Col. Thorne, can weigh with me 
 against the memory of that deadly treachery which 
 took all the gladness out of my life, and, for a season, 
 made me unjust to him who was as deeply wronged as 
 myself. Don’t misunderstand me ; my refusal to lis- 
 ten to your proposals does not spring from the love I 
 once bore poor George. That died out when I be- 
 lieved myself deserted by him, and it is not likely that 
 the knowledge of what you have done to separate us, 
 would relume it, When I knew him to be the husband 
 of another woman. I cherish now, onlj^ a tender 
 friendship for my former lover, but to you will never 
 be given the lees of such love as I may still be capable 
 of feeling. I wish earnestly that you could be made 
 to understand this, and cease annoying me with prof- 
 fers of affection that are odious to me.” 
 
 His eyes twinkled maliciously, and he said : 
 
 “Time is going with us, Ada. We are neither of 
 us so young as we once were, though I am many years 
 farther on in the three score and ten allotted to us 
 than 3^ou are. In women of your intellect, the age of 
 ambition dawns when that of romance is past. You 
 must, sooner or later, find the bounds of j^our present 
 life too narrow for you. When that time arrives, and 
 it cannot be veiy far off, you will take the hand that 
 is stretched forth to draw you from the insignificant 
 nothings with which you seek to occupy j^ourself. 1 
 
842 THE CLANDESTINE MAERIAGE. 
 
 am waiting — I can afford to wait, for my reward will 
 come.” 
 
 There was such calm assurance in his tones that she 
 was vexed, and curtly replied : 
 
 Wait on then ; if you choose to deceive yourself in 
 so absurd a manner, I cannot help it, but from me you 
 will gain nothing.” 
 
 ‘‘ Ah, bah ! don’t get excited. I am a man of strong 
 passions, but I don’t flare up without good cause. I 
 ^hall wait, and my will shall conquer yours yet. Don’t 
 you think now, that it may be as well for you to yield 
 the consent I am sure I shall ultimately win, and 
 purchase with it the happiness of these two young 
 fools ? You seem deeply interested in the girl, and 
 you have always been kind to Walter. I leave their 
 fate in your hands. I will forgive him, and accept 
 Mrs. Thorne, Junior, if you will consent to become Mrs. 
 Thorne, Senior, before another week goes over your 
 head.” 
 
 ‘‘ Will nothing else move you in their favor? ” 
 
 ‘‘Nothing, for you I will give up Agnes, though I 
 know how tenderly she is attached to my ungrateful 
 son ; but for nothing less will I make the sacrifice you 
 ask.” 
 
 “ Then my mission is hopeless, for I can never be- 
 come your wife. It is a strange think to ask of me ; 
 but you are a singular man. If Agnes Willard loves 
 Walter, the greater will be her unhappiness in the 
 union you will force on him, for he will never be kind 
 to the woman for whom he is compelled to give up the 
 choice of his own heart. It is wrong, it is cruel to act 
 to win d l iim as 3^011 are doing. You have made him de- 
 pendent on yourself; you have given him no profession 
 
A STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 343 
 
 by which he could earn a living ; and now, with a hand 
 of iron, you crush him into a subjection that is dis- 
 honorable ; jmu dictate to him a course which must 
 destroy both happiness and respectability. I bid you 
 pause, and with your usual acumen, judge of the results 
 likely to follow to him.” 
 
 You plead well, Ada, but Walter is scarcely worth 
 the trouble you take. He is his mother’s son, full of 
 fancies and nonsense, and he never knows two months 
 at a time what he really wishes. It was not my fault 
 that he had no profession. I tried to make of him a 
 lawyer, but his confounded artistic tastes disgusted 
 him with study ; and the pretty meaningless things he 
 daubs on canvass will never give him either fame or 
 money. I let him alone, because I could do no better. 
 He will have enough to enable him to indulge his 
 fancies, without drudging, as I have done to gain it ; 
 that is, if he does my bidding. I selected Agnes Wil- 
 lard for his wife because she has sense and spirit ; she 
 will make him of some account ; but the pretty doll he 
 has lost his head about has nothing to recommend her. 
 The father was a poverty-stricken Frenchman, and she 
 is in no respect a suitable match for him. If I yielded 
 to your wishes, and permitted Walter to bring her 
 hither as his wife, in six months he would be sick of his 
 bargain and be ready to curse his own folly. I know 
 him better than you do, and I tell you there is no 
 stamina in him. Nature has gifted him with fine ar- 
 tistic tastes and gentlemanly instincts, but she has de- 
 nied him genius. His productions always lack that in- 
 describable something which strikes a chord in the 
 common heart of humanity, and makes a man famous 
 for all time. He has neither brains nor persevera7ice 
 
344 the clandestine makriage. 
 
 to accomplish much for himself and he should bless the 
 fate that gave him a rich father. If, like Esau, he 
 throws away his birthright, it will be so much worse 
 for him.” 
 
 ‘‘Then you would really and truly cast him off? 
 He is your only child ; there is no one else to whom 
 your hard-earned wealth can descend.” 
 
 “I shall take care of that,” he quickly replied. 
 “ The day Walter defies me I will make my will be- 
 queathing every cent I possess to the girl he treated 
 so badly. For years he has made Agnes believe that 
 she is to be his future wife, and for a passing fancy he 
 has thrown her by as a worthless flower. He even had 
 the daring to bring the rival he has given her beneath 
 my very roof, in the mad hope that her beauty would 
 fascinate me as it did himself, and induce me to forgive 
 them. She merited no better treatment at my hands 
 than she received, although I did order him to remove 
 her from my house at once.” 
 
 “ Are you aware that this unfortunate girl believed 
 that she was coming hither as your son’s wife with your 
 full consent,” coldly inquired Miss Higby. 
 
 “ So she may have asserted to you, but it is untrue, 
 as many other statements she makes about herself un- 
 doubtedly are. A girl who would run off with a 
 strange young man cannot be trusted in anything she 
 says or does.” 
 
 “ This one can, I am sure. I am no mean judge of 
 character, and the pride of this young girl is so great, 
 that she would never have given herself to Walter 
 without the assurance under your own hand, as she 
 believed, that your anxiety to see your son married 
 was so great that you were willing to accept a portion- 
 less bride for him.” 
 
k STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 345 
 
 Then she must be a very credulous person, or 
 Walter’s powers of persuasion are greater than I sup- 
 posed.” 
 
 ‘‘ She very naturally believed the evidence of her own 
 eyes,” replied Miss Digby drily. A letter purport- 
 ing to have been written hj you, was shown to herself 
 friends, in which you expressed your approbation 
 c i the marriage. The lady who had adopted Claire 
 reiused her consent on account of her protegee’s ex- 
 treme youth, and she eloped with Walter.” 
 
 ‘‘So the young villain has added forgery to other 
 accomplishments, for I never wrote such a letter in my 
 life.” 
 
 “ So Claire believes now ; and that, I think, struck 
 as deadly a blow at her heart as the inhuman treat- 
 ment she met at your hands.” 
 
 “ You are not complimentary. Miss Digby,” he said, 
 with a curt laugh, “ but I forgive you. Knowing that, 
 1 am surprised that your fair patient should be willing 
 to trust such a man as Walter again. Hard as she may 
 think it now, she will be better off without him as he 
 without her. Since I had nothing to do with the 
 manufacture of that letter, I can scarcely be held re- 
 sponsible for what resulted from its false contents.” 
 
 Miss Digby looked at him in the fading twilight, 
 and rightly interpreted the expression of hard mockery 
 that rested on his face ; she arose and said : 
 
 “My intercession is vain, I find; so I will return to 
 the unhappy creatures who await me ; one of them in 
 trembling suspense, the other too ill to know of my 
 errand hither, or to be shocked anew by its failure.” 
 
 A flash of keen anger came from the eyes of CoL 
 Thorne, as he furiously cried out : 
 
346 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 What is that you say ? Has Walter dared to turn 
 back upon his path, and seek the presence of that girl 
 again, when I sent him to make his peace with the 
 other ? ” 
 
 His visitor calmly regarded him as she said : 
 
 Keep your anger within bounds, for little harm will 
 be done. Walter’s deserted wife is insensible to his 
 presence, and it is doubtful if she will ever arise from 
 her sick bed again. He came to bid her a last fare- 
 well ; and moved by his anguish I offered to mediate 
 with you. My errand has been fruitless, and I will 
 return to send Walter on the dishonorable path you 
 have marked out for him. He is too much afraid of 
 poverty to risk sharing it with the one he loves best, 
 so you need have no fears as to his choice of action.” 
 
 With an air of superb disdain Miss Digby swept past 
 him and descended the steps. Col. Thorne called out 
 to her: 
 
 “Be sure to tell him that you could have made 
 peace between us, and you would not. And you may 
 furthermore say to him that if he is not far on his way 
 to Philadelphia before this time to-morrow, I will draw 
 up my will cutting him off with a shilling, which is far 
 more than such a scapegrace deserves from me.” 
 
 His visitor vouchsafed no reply, and she heard his 
 taunting laugh following her as she moved with rapid 
 steps down the avenue. 
 
 But for the anomalous position in which Claire 
 would be placed by the desertion of her husband. Miss 
 Digby thought it as well for her happiness that she 
 was refused recognition in that family, for the Thornes 
 were not agreeable men to live with. From father to 
 son, for generations, they had lived in a turmoil of 
 their own making, both abroad and at home. 
 
A STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 347 
 
 Ada Digby remembered the wife of the man she had 
 just left, as a gay and brilliant girl, when she herself 
 was a young child. Attracted by the rising fame of 
 the young lawyer, Laura Digby had given him her 
 hand, but her light butterflj^ nature found no congeni- 
 ality in his hard and sarcastic one, and the life they 
 lived was one long attempt at resistance on her part 
 and systematic crushing on his. 
 
 Ada had witnessed the protracted struggle, for she 
 was an orphan left to the guardianship of her cousin’s 
 husband, and her only home was Thornhill. Before 
 she attained her thirtieth year, Mrs. Thorne died, pre- 
 maturely old and broken down in spirit ; yet this man, 
 whose harshness to his wife Ada had witnessed, soon 
 made proposals to her, asserting that nature had formed 
 them for each other and he could make her happy, 
 though he had made no effort to render the mother of 
 his son so. She recoiled from him then with all 
 the strength of her nature, and she now shuddered 
 when she recalled the alternative which had so lately 
 been proposed to her. She sighed heavily as she mur- 
 m urcd : 
 
 ‘‘I have done all that I could, and Walter must ac- 
 cept his fate, or battle against fortune. His father will 
 do what he said, for Col. Thorne never threatened evil 
 that he did not make his words good. I am sorry for 
 those unfortunate children, but I can do no more. 
 Walter will give his wife up — nay, he has virtually 
 done it already — and, if she lives, she must accept 
 the dreary fate decreed her. Oh ! this is a weary, 
 weary world I ” 
 
 She regained her own door, and noiselessly entering, 
 laid aside her hat and shawl and went into the sick 
 
348 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 rooin. A faint stream of light from the lamp in the 
 adjoining apartment penetrated into it, and Miss Digby 
 saw that Thorne was sitting motionless beside the bed 
 with the tresses that had been cut from Claire’s head 
 pressed to his lips. 
 
 At the sound of her light footfall he started up and 
 eagerly regarded her. She softly said : 
 
 ‘‘Not here, Walter; no noise must be made near 
 her. Go into the next room, and I will come to y ou im- 
 mediately.” 
 
 There was something in the tone of her voice that 
 struck to his heart, but he silently obeyed her, taking 
 with him the long shining tresses which he had so often 
 caressed when they waved and glittered on the head 
 of his beloved. 
 
 Miss Digby carefully examined the condition of her 
 patient, and found that she still slept calmly, though 
 there were some symptoms of a speedy awakening to 
 \^hat was going on around her. 
 
 “ Life will come back to her,” she thought, as she 
 bent over the white face on which, even in sleep, lay 
 an expression of pain. “Yet what has life to offer her 
 now ? Better, perhaps, it would be for her to die in 
 her sinless youth than to live to suffer,' to grow hard 
 and unforgiving, till the proud nature so sorely 
 crushed may turn and rend the author of her ruin. 
 Who knows what her future may be ? But God is 
 good, and if he suffers not a sparrow to fall to the 
 ground without notice, he will surely extend his loving 
 and saving hand over this unfortunate one.” 
 
 She moistened the pale lips, and then went out to 
 the anxious man in the next room to take from him 
 the faint hope she, herself, had aroused Thorne 
 
A STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 349 
 
 turned eagerly toward her, and in a suppressed voice 
 said : 
 
 You have seen him, and — and, he was inexorable. 
 I read it in your manner — I see it in your face.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes — ^your father was immovable. He will disin- 
 herit you if you refuse implicit obedience to his com- 
 mands. If you have elected to give up your wife, you 
 must leave her at once.” 
 
 ‘‘ And was there no alternative ? Yet why do I ask, 
 for he was plain-spoken enough to myself.” 
 
 ‘‘ There was an alternative offered, but you were not 
 concerned in the sacrifice demanded.” 
 
 Thorne looked at her in some surprise, and then 
 exclaimed : 
 
 “ Did he ask you to purchase immunity for me by 
 giving yourself to him, Ada ? And you — well, of 
 course you refused, for what claim have I on you ? 
 But oh ! if you could ! if you could do it, Ada, I should 
 be the most grateful and affectionate of stepsons to the 
 noble woman who stepped between me and wretched- 
 ness.” 
 
 Miss Digby regarded the speaker with a faint smile 
 in which contempt and pain were blended. She 
 coldl}^ said : 
 
 “ You shrink from suffering the penalty of your own 
 imprudence, Walter, and yet you are willing to accept 
 ii victim in your place. Such are my feelings toward 
 your father, that I would sooner lay my head upon the 
 block than pillow it upon his breast. Judge then if I 
 can accept the position of your mother-in-law. You 
 must fight your own battle now, and decide your own 
 fate, for I have done all that lay in my power, and 
 ha\e gained nothing.” 
 
350 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Thorne paced the floor several moments, and then 
 turning toward her, abruptly said ; 
 
 “ You could have saved me, and you would not. 
 You prefer this poor and common-place life to the 
 brilliant one my father can give you. Are you as 
 mad, Ada, as I was when I risked his displeasure by 
 taking a wife I might have known he would refuse to 
 receive ? Oh, cousin, if you could, if you only would 
 reconsider your rejection ! It is not too late, for my 
 father would grasp your hand over the widest gulf, if 
 it were only extended to him. He thinks you the 
 only woman in the world worthy to share his success.” 
 
 And I think him so harsh and cruel a man, that 
 nothing could induce me to trust myself in his power. 
 Go, Walter; your words prove to me that you will 
 sacrifice the wife that trusted you, sooner than relin- 
 quish fortune. She will live, I now feel assured, so 
 your father may get the divorce as soon as he or you 
 may desire. Make your own fate, but do not break the 
 heart of poor Agnes by avenging on her your own lack 
 of faith to another.” 
 
 After a painful pause, Thorne slowly said : 
 
 “ I will go, for nothing else is left me now. But — 
 but — may I not look once more upon her I may never 
 see again ? ” 
 
 ‘‘No, Walter ; it could do no good to you, and 
 might result in harm to Claire. You have elected to 
 give her up, and you shall see her no more with my 
 consent.” 
 
 He moved forward as if he would enter the next 
 room in spite of this prohibition ; but apprehensive of 
 some violence on his part which might result fatally to 
 the sick girl, Miss Digby placed herself in front of the 
 door and warningly said : 
 
A STRANGE PROPOSAL. 
 
 361 
 
 “ Leave this house without noise, Walter, or you 
 may have a human life to answer for. By this time 
 my patient is beginning to arouse from the lethargy in 
 which she has so long lain, and the sight of yoii would 
 be fatal to her. Do not force me to regret having en- 
 deavored to aid you. Claire is nothing to you now, 
 and you should be man enough to abide by your own 
 decision and accept the alternative you have chosen, 
 without this weak clinging to the being you have 
 made up your mind to desert.” 
 
 You are merciless, Ada ! ” 
 
 “ No — I am only just. Defy your father, or obey 
 him. Both courses are open to you ; decide quickly, 
 for it is time for me to return to my charge. You shall 
 enter this room only as her protector through every 
 chance and change in life, or you shall not again ap- 
 proach her.” 
 
 Thorne sank down upon a chair, seeming utterly 
 unnerved ; after a few moments of gloomy thought 
 he arose and said : 
 
 ‘‘ You are right. No good can come of another 
 sight of that pale creature in there. I will leave her 
 to such a peace as she can find, but I shall never for- 
 get her. I go hence at my father’s bidding, to woo 
 another to my heart, but she will find it ice to her. I 
 shall sell myself into bondage, but it will be a fitting 
 fate for such as I am. Good-bye, Ada. Take care of 
 my poor deserted darling, and don’t let her hate me 
 too deeply. Above all, make her accept the provision 
 my father ha.s promised.” 
 
 He seizea his hat and rushed from the house, and 
 Miss Digby saw no more of him for months. She 
 turned, and sighing heavily, went into the darkened 
 
352 the clandestine markiage. 
 
 room in which Claire lay. A faint voice spoke from 
 the bed : 
 
 Who is that — where am I ? ” 
 
 ‘‘You are with those who will take the best care of 
 you, my poor child,” was the gentle response. “ You 
 have been very ill, and you must not try to think at 
 present. Here are some drops which you must take 
 now.” 
 
 Claire was too we^k to object, and after swallowing 
 the potion, she lay back on her pillows in that dreamy 
 state which is neither life nor death. From that hour 
 the vital powers slowly reacted, but her nurse kept 
 her under the influence of narcotics for many days af- 
 terward, dreading the return of perfect consciousness 
 till the weakened physical powers had regained 
 strength to struggle with the wretched memories that 
 must arise as soon as she was permitted to do without 
 them. 
 
 The result proved that without such precautions all 
 her efforts to save this saddened life would have been 
 vain, for when Claire at last recalled what had pre- 
 ceded her illness, she yielded to such a torrent of 
 despairing anguish that, under less careful treatment, 
 she must have died. 
 
 As it was, she relapsed, and it was late in the win- 
 ter before she was strong enough to move about the 
 house or attempt to occupy her feeble hands with 
 any employment. 
 
CLAIRES RESOLUTION. 
 
 368 
 
 CHAPTER XXIL 
 
 Claire’s resolution. 
 
 ONG before Claire passed through the first stage of 
 
 i J her convalesence, the divorce asked by Colonel 
 Thorne had been granted. There was no voice raised 
 to state the wrong that had been done to the helpless 
 wife of his son. It was sufficient for the packed jury 
 that the heir of a man in high position, and great 
 wealth had been entraped into a misalliance with an 
 unknown and friendless girl ; and the impression was 
 furthermore given them that Walter Thorne was intoxi- 
 cated with something less ethereal than love, when the 
 informal ceremony of marriage was performed. 
 
 Col. Thorne explicitly stated that he considered the 
 union illegal, but to free his son from even the shadow 
 of a claim on the part of the young woman in question, 
 he had thought it best to seek a dissolution of the tie 
 that bound him to her. Wingate, struck with remorse 
 for the part he had acted, made a feeble effort to move 
 Col. Thorne from his purpose, but he was speedily 
 silenced by a threat from him to prosecute him for the 
 letter he had forged in his name — a fact which Walter 
 had been indiscreet enough to allow to be drawn from 
 him by the cross-questioning of the astute old lawyer. 
 
 From that moment. Col. Thorne had Wingate in his 
 power, and the only friend who might have stood up in 
 Claire’s defence, as an atonement for his culpable con- 
 duct, was compelled to consult his own safety by allow- 
 ing the affair to take its course. 
 
364 the clandestine marhiage. 
 
 The result was communicated to Miss Digby by a 
 note from Col. Thorne containing the following lines : 
 
 “ Thornhill, November 27th, 18 — . 
 
 My Dear Ada : — Why did I put at the begin- 
 ning of my address, I wonder — it is the force of habit, 
 I suppose, for I will consider you as in some sort' be- 
 longing to me, though you so persistently refuse to rati- 
 fy my claims, you most obstinate and self-dependent of 
 women. 
 
 I wish you were less so, but then you would not 
 be the Ada I admire and respect so highly. You are 
 as^much superior to the rest of your giddy sex, as I am 
 to the common herd of men — we are kindred spirits, 
 though you will not see it. It is much the worse for 
 both of us. 
 
 ‘‘ I wonder it never occurred to you that a part of 
 your mission on earth is to soften and humanise me. 
 If 1 had you ever at my side I should be a better man, 
 and I scarcely think that my influence on you would 
 make you a worse woman. 
 
 But I did not take up my pen to write another offer 
 of marriage to you — in fact it was to announce to you 
 the dissolution of the one my son has so foolishly 
 contracted. The decree has been gained with very lit- 
 tle difficulty, and Walter is free to obey my command 
 to give his hand to Agnes Willard, as soon as she is 
 ready to bestow it upon him. I have already written 
 to him to have the affair over if possible before the 
 death of her father. 
 
 ‘‘ Your young protegee must bear the fate she has 
 Urnii^'ht on herself with such equanimity as she can 
 command. I have only performed the duty of a care- 
 
CLAIRE’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 355 
 
 ful father toward my and her fate may be a warn- 
 ing to other ambitious young damsels who clandestinely 
 attempt to win a position to which they are not en- 
 titled to aspire. 
 
 If Miss Lapierre is wise she will accept the annuity 
 I am ready to settle on her, and retire to the obscurity 
 of the secluded valley in which Walter was so unlucky 
 as to find her. She has friends there, I believe, and 
 they may be willing to receive her again, if she does 
 not return to them empty-handed. 
 
 “ After all, lack of money is the greatest evil in life, 
 and I am ready to provide for the discarded one as 
 much of that as one reared as she has been is likely to 
 need. Of course she will accept my bounty when she 
 knows that she is likely to gain nothing by refusing it. 
 You will know how to set the case clearly before her, 
 and to make her understand that any further appeal to 
 love or law will be useless. 
 
 I have the honor to be your most devoted servant 
 to command, 
 
 ‘‘W. Thorne.” 
 
 When Miss Digby received this note, she was with 
 Claire, ^vho had been permitted to sit up for that day 
 for the first time. A bright fire burned in the grate ; 
 and in front of it, in a large cushioned chair, reclined 
 ilie shadow of the bright creature who had won the 
 tickle love of Walter Thorne. 
 
 Wasted, pallid, and weary-looking, her large bright 
 eyes, seemed to rest on vacancy, and she sat still and 
 nerveless, except that the restless motions of her thin 
 fingers displayed the disquiet within. It was pain- 
 ful to look on rhat young face and read in it the fierce 
 
856 
 
 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 struggle through which Claire had passed — to behold 
 there the sad record of a life blighted in its opening 
 prime. 
 
 She wrestled fiercely against the tender memories of 
 those halcyon weeks that she had believed only a pre- 
 lude to the life of love and splendor which was open- 
 ing before her. Claire’s love for her deceiver had died 
 a violent death, but her resentment against him only 
 deepened and intensified with every passing hour ; and 
 to find the means of striking him in his turn was now 
 the one thought that had power to keep alive the 
 flame of life which had long burned so feebly. 
 
 When Barbara, the middle-aged servant, came in 
 with Col. Thorne’s note, Claire glanced wistfully at 
 it, and asked : 
 
 ‘‘ Are there no letters for me ? Have none arrived 
 during my illness ? I have not surely been permitted 
 to lie here so long without a single inquiry being made 
 for me by — by ^ome oney 
 
 Miss Digby looked kindly at her, and after a brief 
 hesitation, said : 
 
 There is a letter for you, my dear, but I have not 
 thought you strong enough to bear any emotion. 
 That is why I have withheld it so long. It came soon 
 after you were taken ill.” 
 
 A bright gleam of color flashed into the wasted 
 cheeks, and Claire eagerly exclaimed : 
 
 Oh, give it to me at once, if you please. I am so 
 much better now that I feel strong enough to bear 
 anything but the wretched suspense that is devouring 
 my poor heart.” 
 
 My child, it is not from Am,” said her friend 
 gently. “ It is from your old home.” 
 
CLAIRE^S RESOLUTION. 
 
 367 
 
 ‘‘ So much the better — it is from mamma that I am 
 most anxious to hear. The one who has brought me 
 to this pass can have nothing to say to me to which I 
 would listen till I find the means to oflPer to his lips as 
 bitter a cup as the one he has forced me to drain to 
 the dregs. Dear friend, bring me my letter, and I 
 will read it while you do the same with yours.” 
 
 Miss Digby arose and took from the bureau drawer 
 the letter written by Mrs. Courtnay so many weeks 
 before. Claire looked at the address, shivered, and 
 then broke the seal. She read its contents without 
 shedding a single tear, though she became even paler 
 than before when she learned from it that Father Je- 
 -'"ome was dead. She put her hand to her brow, and 
 sat many moments trying to think what the result to 
 herself would be ; when she looked up again, she saw 
 that Miss Digby was attentively and compassionately 
 regarding her. 
 
 Claire tried to speak with steadiness : 
 
 ‘‘This is from mamma; she is kinder to me than I 
 deserve ; but she communicates to me a piece of news 
 which may have an evil influence on my fate. The 
 priest who united Walter and myself is dead, and there 
 is now no proof of our marriage save the statement 
 made by Father Jerome to Mrs. Courtnay, that he 
 performed the ceremony on the night he was struck 
 with his last illness. I know nothing of law, but will 
 not that suffice to prove that I am the lawfully wed- 
 ded wife of Walter Thorne ? ” 
 
 “Do you wish the tie to be irrevocable, Claire?” 
 asked Miss Digby. “ Would you, after all that has 
 passed, consent to be acknowledged as Walter’s wife ? ’’ 
 “ Yes — to be acknowledged, but not to be claimed 
 
358 the clandestine makria^ge. 
 
 by him. I am not ready to win him back yet, though 
 I mean to do so in my own good time. All I ask now, 
 is to jprove to the world that my honor is untainted — 
 that I am really his wife.” 
 
 Then you will not be wounded by the information 
 this note brings me. Your position as a wife has not 
 been denied. It was thought enough of to be repudia- 
 ted, for Mr. Thorne has obtained a divorce.” 
 
 The eyes of the listener flashed with something of 
 their old fire, and she cried out, in excited tones : 
 
 ‘‘Divorced! By what authority? No secular tri- 
 bunal has power to set aside a marriage that has re- 
 ceived the sanction of the church. Walter became a 
 Catholic before he married me ; and he is as much 
 bound to me as I am to him, in spite of the decree that 
 may have been given against my claims on him. I 
 know it is so. Miss Digby.” 
 
 “ On you, Claire, those vows may be binding ; but 
 not on a man who has evidently entered your church 
 only to enable himself to consummate his treachery to 
 you,” was the reluctant reply. 
 
 Claire half arose from her chair, and then sank 
 down again helpless, and struggling for breath. In 
 hollow tones, she presently asked : 
 
 “ Would he — would Walter dare, with those fetters 
 clinging to him, to act as though they do not exist ? I 
 cannot believe it of him, badly as he has treated me.” 
 
 “ My dear child, do not forget that the sacrifice 
 poor Walter has made, at the command of his imperi- 
 ous father, would be valueless to him unless he obeys 
 the will of Col. Thorne to its utmost limit. lie gave 
 you up to save his inheritance ; but the sacrifice will 
 be incomplete and useless to him, unless he gives his 
 
CLAIRE’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 359 
 
 hand to the girl to whom he was betrothed before he 
 saw you.” 
 
 And he will marry her ! Oh, Heavens ! that is 
 impossible ? It will not be lawful for him to claim 
 another wdfe while I live. She should know this. 
 What is her name "t — where is she to be found ? — for I 
 must .appeal to her to save herself from such a fate.” 
 
 ‘‘ My dear Claire, pray compose yourself, and listen 
 to me. I shall not tell you the name of this young 
 lady, because it is now too late to interpose, and it is 
 doubtful whether she would listen to you, or take the 
 same view of the case that you do. She has for years, 
 been passionately in love with Walter Thorne, and she 
 would not listen to the voice of an angel if it accused 
 him of wrong. She is far away, and the knowledge 
 of what has lately happened here, has been carefully 
 kept from her. It is even possible that she may al- 
 ready have become Mr. Thorne’s wife.” 
 
 ‘‘ And I — I — what am I ? — betrayed, deserted, 
 throyvn as a worthless weed upon the tide of life, to 
 drift to destruction, for all he cares. Yet he seemed 
 to love me — aye, to worship the very ground I walked 
 on. Oh ! Miss Digby, it is well for you that you have 
 not trusted your life to the treacherous hands of any 
 man. Henceforth I live but for one object. Feeble 
 girl that I am, I will yet seek and find the means of 
 returning to him the anguish and bitterness which 
 have broken my life and buried beneath the wreck 
 every merciful or tender feeling. I shall find my re- 
 venge yet, be sure of that.” 
 
 Claire seemed wild with excitement, and her friend 
 was both shocked and alarmed at her words and ap- 
 pearance. She bitterly regretted her own imprudence 
 
860 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 in speaking so freely to her in her weak condition ; 
 but she had thought it best for the unhappy girl to be 
 aroused from the apathy into which she was falling, by 
 the knowledge of the truth, however bitter it might be. 
 
 She took the thin hands of the invalid in her own 
 and solemnly said : 
 
 ‘‘ ‘ Vengeance is mine,’ saith the great ruler of fate. 
 Remember those awful words, Claire, and do not seek 
 to take its burden upon yourself. You are but a child 
 in years ; you are freed from the false man who gave 
 you up sooner than lose the wealth he so highly 
 prizes. Let him go upon his way, and seek not to 
 cross his path again. A useful and contented future 
 may be yours, even if you may not consider yourself 
 at liberty to choose another as the companion of your 
 life.” 
 
 She shuddered, and hastily said : 
 
 I could not do that, even if I believed it no sin. 
 No — Walter Thorne is mine and I am his; and the 
 day shall come in which he shall gladly take me back, 
 r will yet enter that house, from which I was so igno- 
 miniously expelled ; and, as its mistress, become the 
 spirit of evil to him who will then be its master. You 
 shall see — you shall see, if you live so long.” 
 
 Miss Digby gravely said : 
 
 You are too much excited now to understand the 
 meaning of your wild words, Claire. Such a thing as 
 you hint at is impossible, you will find too many ob- 
 stacles in the way of its accomplishment. You must 
 turn yourself into a demon to carry out your evil 
 threats. ” 
 
 “ I am only what that false man has made me,” she 
 panted. I can wait, for my hour will surely come 
 
CLAIRE’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 361 
 
 I feel that it will ; aud then, woe to him who has so 
 ruthlessly wronged me.” 
 
 She sank back half fainting, and Miss Digby hasten- 
 ed to offer her a composing draught, which, with some 
 difficulty, she was induced to accept. Claire lay back 
 in her chair, and after a long silence, said : 
 
 What is to become of me if mamma refuses to for- 
 give me, and receive me again ? I was mad just now. 
 Miss Digby ; pray forgive my hot words and try to 
 forget them. I have been a great trouble to you, and 
 I cannot see how I am ever to repay you, or rid j^ou of 
 the burden you have so kindly assumed. I must begin 
 to think of some plan of life for myself, if Mrs. Court- 
 nay should cast me off as my husband has done. I am 
 her god-child and she may consider it her duty to pro- 
 tect me, but I have really no claim upon her after 
 eloping from her roof as I did. She will be quite jus- 
 tified in refusing to receive me beneath it again.” 
 
 Miss Digby took her hand, and tenderly caressing 
 it, said : 
 
 ‘‘You are quite welcome to remain with me as long 
 as you choose, my dear. You are no burden to me, I 
 assure you, and I would cheerfully do more for you 
 than I have been called on to do. I am alone in the 
 vrorld, with sufficient fortune to render me perfectly 
 independent, and it is my chief pleasure to assist the 
 unfortunate. You will not be left unprovided for, and 
 what is offered you by those who have so badlj^ treated 
 you, is justly yours. I have been anxious to tell you 
 that Walter was not so base as to leave you without a 
 sufficient support. Col. Thorne will settle on you an 
 annuitj", which will enable you to live.” 
 
 The white lips of Claire unc'osed to ask, with pas 
 sionate emphasis: 
 
B 62 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Do they think that I will be trodden in the dust^ 
 and then accept gold from them as a panacea for the 
 heart they have broken — for the pride they have so 
 bitterly humiliated ? No ; if mamma refuses to take 
 me back, I will labor for my bread sooner than de- 
 grade myself by accpting the alms they offer.” 
 
 But, Claire, this provision is legally yours. The 
 law does not grant a divorce, without setting aside an 
 allowance for the repudiated wife.” 
 
 ‘‘ It may be so, but I would sooner die of want than 
 accept the naeans of living from them. I have one 
 other resource that I had almost forgotten. I have a 
 half-brother in France, who, I believe is rich. My fa- 
 ther thought that Armand treated him badly, but, at 
 the last, he was not unwilling that I should make an 
 appeal to him if I found it necessary. Mrs. Courtnay 
 goes to Europe in the spring, and she will hardly re- 
 fuse to let me be the companion of her voyage. I will 
 throw myself on my brother’s compassion, and afford 
 him the chance to atone to me for the neglect with 
 which he treated poor papa.” 
 
 ‘‘ But suppose M. Lapierre should refuse to receive 
 you ? An ungrateful son is not apt to make an affec- 
 tionate brother.” 
 
 “ That may be ; but I have the impression that the 
 fault of the estrangement was not entirely with Ar- 
 mand. I will afford him the opportunity to justify 
 himself at all events. I think I should like to live in 
 France for the next five years. I could acquire accom- 
 plishments, and gain that grace, and distinction of 
 manner which is even more attractive than beauty.’* 
 
 ‘‘ And when that is attained, Claire, what is to fol- 
 low?” asked Miss Digby, gravely. 
 
CLAIRE’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 363 
 
 A flash of bitter sarcasm came over her face, as she 
 replied : 
 
 “ Those who wish to be good, are told to put on the 
 whole armor of righteousness. My armor is to be won, 
 and won for a different purpose. I intend to become 
 bewitching, entrancing, bewildering — everything that 
 is irresistible, and then ” 
 
 A brilliant flame glowed on her cheeks, her eyes 
 blazed with the fierce resentment that burned within 
 her soul, but she suddenly sank back, and burst in tears. 
 
 And then, Claire,” repeated Miss Digby, steadily 
 — What then ? ” 
 
 “Dust and ashes — degradation and desolation,” she 
 faintly murmured. “ I dreamed of the hour in which 
 I should return and win back the recreant heart that 
 lias broken mine ; but he will give me a rival, and 
 unless death kindly steps in and removes the new wife 
 he has taken to his false heart, I should even then have 
 no chances of success.” 
 
 “My dear child, you must lay aside such sinful 
 fancies, or they will blight all that is sweet, and noble 
 in your nature. Go to France if you wish it, seek a 
 re-union with the brother who is your natural pro- 
 tector ; acquire accomplishments, and grace, but dedi- 
 cate them to a better purpose than the one you spoke 
 of just now. AV alter has proved to you that he is not 
 worthy to be regained ; leave him out of your future 
 [)lans altogether and try to forget him. In doing so, 
 lies your only chance of happiness.” 
 
 “ Perhaps so,” replied Claire, listlessly. Then sud- 
 denly raising her dark eyes to the face of her com- 
 panion, she imploringly asked : 
 
 “Will you tell me one thing. Miss Digby? Did 
 
364 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 W alter leave me without seeking to see me again ? 
 Was he so hard of heart that he never once came near 
 me while I lay so ill ? If he had ever really loved me 
 — if I had been more to him than a mere toy, to be cast 
 aside when he ceased to care for it — he must have 
 done so ; yet I have no recollection of seeing him near 
 me while I had the power to recognize him.” 
 
 Miss Digby had heretofore believed it best to with- 
 hold from Claire the knowledge of that last visit, and 
 what resulted from it ; as no good, she thought, could 
 come from letting her know how bitter the struggle 
 between love and self-love, had been in the heart of 
 her faithless husband. But now a straight-forward 
 question was asked, and she could not refuse to reply. 
 She reluctantly replied ; 
 
 When all was settled between himself and his 
 father Walter come hither to bid you a last adieu. You 
 were in that long sleep in which you passed through 
 the crisis of your fever, and I permitted him to enter 
 your room, and take a last look at your face.” 
 
 Claire listened breathlessly, and rapidly asked : 
 
 Was — was he much moved when he saw the con- 
 dition to which his treachery had reduced me ? ” 
 
 Miss Digby coldly replied : 
 
 Walter is a man who always acts from impulse, as 
 you well know. Had you been in a condition to re- 
 cognize him, I do not know what the result might have 
 been, for he was very remorseful. But, Claire, even 
 then, his penitence did not render him unmindful of 
 his own interests. He had the choice open to him to 
 surrender his birthright, and cleave to you, but he 
 preferred obeying his father’s commands, though in 
 doing so he knew that he was setting the seal to the 
 
CLAIKE’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 365 
 
 wretchedness of three persons. He went away to claim 
 a new wife, whom he will never try to make happy.” 
 
 Claire broke in, in an excited manner : 
 
 If you believe that, it is your duty to warn her of 
 what is before her. I entreat that you will tell me the 
 name of this young lad}^ She should be informed of 
 his bad faith to herself, as well as his repudiation of 
 me. It is simple justice to her not to permit her to 
 rush into a union with him, since you believe he will 
 not render her happy.” 
 
 The friend shook her head, and decisively replied : 
 
 ‘‘ The Avarning would produce no result. The 
 young lady I refer to is so deeply infatuated with 
 Walter Thorne that she would turn a deaf ear to all 
 that could be urged against him. Even if she should 
 become aware of Avhat has taken place here, she would 
 listen to his explanations, and be won by his eloquent 
 tongue to forgive his infidelitj^, and act as if she had 
 forgotten it.” 
 
 Claire sighed wearily, and after a pause said : 
 
 ‘‘ We will not talk any more on this subject now, if 
 you please, Miss Digby. I must hot excite myself, 
 and retard my recovery, for I must get well as soon as 
 possible, and go back to mamma. I shall answer her 
 letter in person, and appeal to her for the protection a 
 letter might fail to gain for me. She is the only per- 
 son in this country from whom I am willing to gain 
 assistance, though I can never be grateful enough for 
 the kindness you lavished on me when I so dreadfully 
 needed it.” 
 
 “ Speak no more of that, Claire ; I wish to claim 
 affection from you, not gratitude alone. My life is 
 very solitary, and if you could be contented to give up 
 
B66 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 j^our early friends, and remain with me as the child ol 
 my adoption, I should be very glad. I could afford 
 you the opportunity of acquiring the accomplishments 
 you desire ; nay, I could assist you myself, for my ed- 
 ucation has been very thorough, and I am a fair musi- 
 cian. You seem to me a waif sent expressly to my 
 arms, that I may rescue you from the rough paths of 
 life, show you the safe and narrow one on which you 
 should walk, and teach you resignation to the will ol 
 Providence.” 
 
 Tears sprang into the eyes of Claire as she listened 
 to these kind words. For one. moment she was tempted 
 to throw herself in Miss Digby’s arms, and thankfully 
 receive the sheltered home she offered her. She 
 bowed her head and wept bitterly, but she presently 
 faltered : 
 
 My heart is full of love and thanks, but I can not, 
 I cannot accept you kindness. I must go ; I could 
 never raise my head among these people to whom my 
 painful story is known. I must work out my own fate, 
 i see it dimly shadowed before me, too dark and lurid 
 to be cast with yours. I have no vocation for good- 
 ness now, and I should only weary your patience, and 
 wear out your forbearance. If I remained here I 
 could not even try to forget the past ; but in a strange 
 land, with so much around me that will be new and 
 interesting, I may, in time, lift from my heart the bur- 
 den that has so sorely crushed it.” 
 
 I regret that you should feel thus, my child ; and 
 above all, it pains me to hear you say that you have no 
 vocation for goodness. My dear Claire, no happiness 
 is to be found without it, especially by one of our sex. 
 Men may drown their sense of guilt in dissipation, and 
 
CLAIRE’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 367 
 
 still retain a foothold in society ; but to us, that brings 
 only unmitigated degradation. Keep your heart and 
 life pure, and all else will be well with you. Ah ! if 
 I could only watch over you, and guard you from the 
 evil that I see is gaining ground within you, I should 
 feel far happier than to see you go out into the world, 
 taking with you the sense of wrong that may yet bring 
 forth such bitter fruit. You have great capacity for 
 good or evil in your nature, Claire, and the next few 
 years of your life will decide which shall gain the mas- 
 tery. Remain with me and cultivate the better por- 
 tion of your character ; that is my advice, though I 
 confess it is dictated by the selfish wish to claim you 
 as my companion. You interest me deeply, and for 
 my own sake, as well as yours, I would gladly detain 
 you.” 
 
 For a brief space the unhappy girl wavered in her 
 decision, but the impossibility of living in the same 
 town with Walter Thorne loomed before her, and she 
 tearfully replied : ' 
 
 I have no words to thank you, but I must go. I 
 will never forget what you have this day said to 
 me, and I promise you some time to come back. I 
 will try and not let the evil promptings of my nature 
 destroy all that is good within me, but just now I am 
 afraid they are in the ascendant. Time may blunt my 
 resentment, but the grace of God can alone turn my 
 heart from the purpose that has grown stronger day 
 by day. I will not tell you what that is now. lest you 
 should condemn it as wrong and impracticable. But I 
 shall accomplish it, something assures me that I shall. 
 I am afraid I am so wicked that I would turn away 
 from that which is pure and good if I thought it would 
 
368 the CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 unfit me for what lies before me. Your kindness is 
 appreciated, but fate is strong, and no human being 
 can evade that which is written on its changeless 
 record.” 
 
 ‘‘ Child, this is the worst form of fatalism — it might 
 be made a shield for any crime. If you listen to its 
 promptings it may lead you into an abyss of wrong 
 and wretchedness from which there will be no escape.” 
 
 God help me then, for I have no will to resist the 
 power that drives me on. My destiny is fixed, and I 
 cannot escape it if I would. There! — don’t look so 
 severely at me, my dear friend. If my tempestuous 
 nature could tame itself down to the quiet life you so 
 delight in, I would make the effort to live here ; but 
 I should only become a torment to you, and something 
 more than that to some of your neighbors. Walter 
 will bring his new wife hither, and I leave you to 
 judge if I could remain where I could see and hear 
 from them, without losing my reason. I sometimes 
 think it is tottering even now, and a change from the 
 monotony of my present life is all that can save it. 
 Make me well and strong as soon as possible, and iet 
 me go back to my own valley to find there the friend 
 who will take me far away from this land and all the 
 odious memories connected with it.” 
 
 Poor child I Is it indeed thus with you ? Since 
 such are your feelings, I will no longer urge you to re- 
 main with me ; but, Claire, remember that my house 
 shall always be open to you ; my heart ready to wel- 
 come you whenever you wish to return. You will 
 write to Mrs. Courtnay to relieve her uneasiness, for it 
 is a long time since that letter came, and she must 
 think it strange that she has not before heard from 
 you.” 
 
GLAIKE’S KESOLUTION. 
 
 369 
 
 “ What am I to write ? Can 1 tell her that I am a 
 rejected, heart-broken creature, indebted to an angel 
 for shelter and care ? Could I calmly sit down and 
 write the history of what has befallen me ? Oh, 
 Heavens ! it would madden me at once. I, who felt 
 myself the queen of joy and happiness, in being 
 crowned with Walter’s love, have been suddenly cast 
 down from the height of bliss to the darkness of de- 
 spair ! Can you expect me to tell mamma that? No 
 — no — I can never — never do it ! ” 
 
 “ Then permit me to write a few lines to your friend, 
 informing her as briefly as possible of what has hap- 
 pened to 3^ou, and assuring her of your well-being 
 under my care.” 
 
 ‘‘It will be useless, for I must soon set out for the 
 valley myself. I have money enough to take me back 
 to my old home, and for my father’s sake, mamma will 
 not refuse to do all that I shall ask of her. I will ac- 
 cept nothing from Col. Thorne. He shall not bu}" 
 from me the right to such retribution as I intend to 
 compass. Tell him that I spurn his gold as con- 
 temptuously as he spurned me, when I went to his 
 house, believing I should be gladly welcome as its mis- 
 tress. Ah ! such dreams of grandeur as I had ! — such 
 visions of love and pride ! Was he ever kind to any- 
 thing, Miss Digby ? He looked to me like a man of 
 iron, Avith no tenderness — no sweetness in his nature.” 
 
 “ I estimate Col. Thorne pretty much as you do. 
 The men of his race are all unrelenting and harsh in 
 temper. They trample on all that impedes their pro- 
 gress, and feel little remorse for having done so. Wal- 
 ter proved his descent by his treatment of yourself, 
 though he has in him the vacillating fickleness of bis 
 23 
 
370 the CLAi^DESTlNE MARRIAGE. 
 
 mother, which takes from him the firmness of purpose 
 that is his father’s distinguishing trait. He knew that 
 he could not be happy in poverty, but he will find it 
 equally impossible to be contented in the luxurious 
 lot he has chosen, in preference to an humble life with 
 one who loved and trusted him as you did.” 
 
 “ I am glad you think that. I would not have him 
 contented without me. I would have him remember 
 me in every hour of his future life ; wish him to regret 
 the past till all joy in the present is blotted out. I am 
 revengeful, you will say, but I think that I am only 
 human.” 
 
 Yes, my dear, and you prove the truth of the 
 statement that the human heart is ^ prone to evil, and 
 desperately wicked.’ For your own sake, Claire, I 
 wish you to cast such things aside ; they will only sul- 
 ly the purity of your own soul. You are young 
 enough to outlive even such a blow as you have re- 
 ceived, and in time, recognize the hand of God in its 
 chastening.” 
 
 Claire shook her head and drearily replied : 
 
 That is impossible. So long as a drop of blood 
 flows through my heart, it will bear with its course an 
 indignant protest against the fate that has been award- 
 ed me. God himself has formed me thus, and I can- 
 not be untrue to my nature.” 
 
 In vain did her friend endeavor to combat such a 
 belief. She found a strong-willed and unreasoning 
 creature, where she had hoped to find a plastic and 
 yielding one, and she finally thought it best for Claire 
 to follow the bent of her own inclinations. 
 
 The result of that agitating conversation was a re- 
 lapse, and Claire lingered tlirough the long and dreary 
 
CLAIRE’S RESOLUTION. 
 
 371 
 
 winter, too inert to make an elBfort to regain her 
 spirits — too hopeless to care whether she lived or died. 
 
 Nothing was heard from Walter Thorne, and the 
 weeks rolled by till Spring began to^open. With its 
 first warm breath health began to return to the stricken 
 Claire, for now she had an object to attain. She must 
 regain her strength in time to reach the valley before 
 Mrs. Courtnay’s departure, and with this incentive she 
 began to rally from her deep depression and regain her 
 wasted energies. 
 
 She steadily refused to see any of the visitors that 
 came to the cottage, though more than one felt a warm 
 interest in her fate. They were, however, enemies of 
 Col. Thorne, and would have espoused the cause of any 
 one he had badly treated. 
 
 His political enemies did not fail to make capital out 
 of his domestic trouble, and Claire would have been 
 still more deeply humiliated if she had known the use 
 that was made of her name in the exciting canvass be- 
 fore the election of the new Governor. But Miss Dig- 
 by carefully kept the papers from her sight, and she 
 was spared this crowning shame. 
 
 The vituperations lavished on the popular candidate 
 had little effect, however, for Colonel Thorne was 
 elected by an overwhelming majority, and in the ela- 
 tion of success he again wrote to Ada Digby, offering 
 to share his new state with her. The answer was the 
 same unvarying refusal, and she wondered when her 
 persevering wooer would cease to enact this farce. 
 
 Many times did Claire speak of the necessity of set- 
 ting out on her journey, but her kind friend always 
 found some unanswerable reason for detaining her lon- 
 ger, until she at last grew restive and determined to go 
 without Miss Digby’s knowledge. 
 
372 THE CLANDESTINE M/VRKIAGE. 
 
 Claire quietly collected the few things she wished 
 to take with her, for the trunks containing Waltei 
 Thorne’s lavish presents, which had been sent to the 
 cottage, she resolved to leave behind her. 
 
 One night in April she disappeared^ leaving the fol« 
 lowing note for Miss Digby : 
 
 DEAii AND Kind Friend : — You would not let 
 n:e go if I had warned you of my intention, but I must 
 leave in time to see Mrs. Courtnay before she^embarks 
 for Europe. I have set my heart on going with her, 
 and I think she will not refuse to take me. 
 
 Do not think me ungrateful, for I am not so. 1 
 shall never forget your kindness to the forlorn stran- 
 ger thrown upon your protection, and I will write con- 
 stantly and let you know what happens to me. 
 
 “ I hope some day to see you again, but if I do I 
 shall briifg with me from my foreign exile the power 
 to right my wrongs. If that is denied me I shall never 
 seek my native shore after once leaving it. ‘ 
 
 Beloved friend, adieu ! think kindly of me — pray 
 for me, for I can seldom pray for myself. 
 
 Your affectionate protegee, 
 
 ‘‘Claire Lapierre Thorne.” 
 
 Miss Digby was much annoyed and distressed at this 
 unlooked for escapade, and she reluctantly came to the 
 conclusion that any attempt on her part to reclaim 
 Claire would be useless. The path she marked out 
 for herself she would walk on, lead her whither it might. 
 Her friend knew that the runaway could easily find 
 her way back to the valley, as she had the means of 
 defraying her expenses ; and in this country, even so 
 
THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL. 
 
 373 
 
 young a girl could travel with perfect safety ; so she 
 came to the conclusion to allow Claire to pursue her 
 journey without molestation. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL. 
 
 ALTER THORNE decided that no resource was 
 
 T 7 left him but to obey his father’s commands. 
 After the scene with Miss Digby which has been de- 
 scribed, he returned to the spot on which he had left 
 his horse, inwardly raging at her firmness and cursing 
 ’the fate that drove him from the girl of his choice, to 
 ask another woman to assume the place from which 
 she had been so ignominiously thrust. 
 
 It seemed like a dream to him that, in the space of 
 two short months, he should have been married, parted 
 irrevocably from his wife, and sent upon his way to 
 assume the matrimonial yoke a second time. He had 
 every reason to believe that the divorce which had been 
 applied for would be granted without delay, and he 
 had no hope that his father would consent to defer his 
 second nuptials. 
 
 I was a fool,” he thought, “ to imagine that I 
 could influence my father to act like other men. He 
 cares for nothing so much as his own will, and he 
 would crush me as soon as any other, if I set myself 
 hi opposition to it. 1 feel that I am a miserable caitiff, 
 unworthy of trust, yet I am about to consummate an- 
 other deadly wrong, by claiming the girl who is the 
 
374 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 cause of all my wretchedness. But- for her I should 
 have been permitted to choose my own wife as other 
 men do ; but she, with her infernal sharpness, saw that 
 to win my father over was the true road to success in 
 securing me. And I, like the dollard I am, permitted 
 my fate to be settled for me, never dreaming that I 
 had so inconvenient a thing as a heart about me. Oh, 
 m3" poor darling, it bleeds — it bleeds, though you v/ill 
 never believe it nor forgive me for giving you up to 
 save mj^self from the bitter pangs of Avant and wretch- 
 edness. If I could have earned even a competence, I 
 believe — I hope I should have acted differentl}^ But, 
 God knows, I am very Aveak and wavering — veiy un- 
 willing to give up the easy, idle life I love, even for 
 your dear sake. You had your visions of splendor too, 
 and perhaps you would not have been better contented 
 in obscurity than I should. Heigho ! perhaps it is bet- 
 ter, after all, that we should part. But Agnes must 
 not be too exacting, or I shall be no better husband 
 than my father was before me.” 
 
 Thus musing he mounted and rode swiftly aAvay, 
 intending to take the stage for Philadelphia at the 
 next toAvn on the route — for it was before the day of 
 railroads. 
 
 The keen air of the autumn night allayed the fever 
 in his blood, the image of the pale creature he had so 
 lately seen, almost at the gates of death, faded gradu- 
 ally from his mind, and he occupied his thoughts Avith 
 her he Avas on his Avay to seek. 
 
 Had any busy-bod}^ Avritten to Agnes of the eA-ents 
 of the last few Aveeks, thus making it necessary to 
 have a scene Avith her — perhaps to be refused after all ? 
 But that vieAv of the case did not afford him much an- 
 
THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL. 
 
 375 
 
 m yance ; if Miss Willard asserted the dignity of her 
 sex and withdrew from the engagement, who knew 
 what the result might be ? At any rate, he could re- 
 main free from any other tie, and the day might come 
 in which he could renew the union so violently broken. 
 
 His father was mortal, and his repudiated wife was 
 too rigid a Catholic to consider herself freed fro^ the 
 vows she had taken ; for, with her belief, death alone 
 could sever the ties that united them. If Col. Thorne 
 should die, leaving him master of his fortune, the 
 wrong he had been forced to commit might be atoned 
 for and Claire induced to forgive him. 
 
 Thus dreaming, Walter Thorne reached the small 
 town in which he had hired his horse, and found that 
 he had arrived but a few moments in advance of the 
 stage-coach. The horn soon sounded through the 
 silent streets, and he hurried out to secure his place, 
 mindful of his father’s* last threat and most anxious 
 to conciliate him by prompt obedience to his command 
 to reach his destination as soon as might be. 
 
 With every mile that separated him from Claire, 
 the memory of her pallid face — of her great wrong — 
 grew less oppressive ; and with his usual lightness of 
 nature, Thorne thought that all was for the best — that 
 he had done Avell to grasp the brilliant realities of life 
 sooner than cling to her who must have proved a mill- 
 stone around his neck, sinking him down — down to 
 depths of poverty which he shuddered even to contem- 
 plate. 
 
 The journey was a long and rather tedious one at 
 that season of the year, but his spirits revived with 
 every mile that lengthened between himself and the 
 unfortunate object of his summer pursuit. 
 
876 the cl ANDESTIjq^E MARRIAGE. 
 
 On the second night of traveling, he had settled 
 himself comfortably for a good nap, and was almost in 
 the arms of Morpheus, when there was a crash — a con- 
 fused medley of outcries ; and he found himself lying 
 in the wreck of the shattered vehicle, with the horses 
 plunging violently within a few feet of his head. For- 
 tunately for him, the driver succeeded in cutting the 
 traces before his brains were dashed out, and he was 
 extricated from the ruin with a sprained ankle and a 
 bruised arm. 
 
 The only other passenger beside himself escaped in- 
 jury, and be assisted the driver to remove Thorne to a 
 farm-house which was luckily in sight. He was hos- 
 pitably received and everything done for him that was 
 possible, but he was laid up there a month before he 
 could stand on his foot or venture to use his limb 
 again. 
 
 Thorne wrote to his father and to Agnes, stating the 
 accident that had befallen him ; and from both of 
 them he heard before leaving the place of his deten- 
 tion. Col. Thorne informed him that he was again a 
 free man, and urged him to set out for Philadelphia 
 as soon as possible, as Mr. Willard was sinking from 
 day to day ; and if his son wished to regain his favor, 
 he would have the marriage between himself and 
 Agnes celebrated before her father’s death. 
 
 Thorne had gradually brought himself to believe 
 the late episode in his life had ended in the best man- 
 ner for all concerned, and by this time he was quite 
 ready to obey the mandate of his imperious father. 
 With calm thought had come the conviction that 
 Agues Willard would hold him to his troth, in spite of 
 all that had happened since they l^st parted. He had 
 
THE D E A T H-B ED BRIDAL. 
 
 37 
 
 loathed the thought of meeting her with words of ten- 
 deri^ess upon his lips ; but with the inconsistency of 
 his nature, as he drew near her, the old influence she 
 held over him began to revive, and he looked forward 
 to their re-union almost with pleasure. 
 
 His journey from the place of the accident to Phila- 
 delphia was more fortunate, and by the time he was 
 set down in the Quaker city, Thorne was eager to see 
 Agnes and ascertain from her manner if mischief had 
 been made between them. 
 
 He had never been in love with Miss Willard, but 
 her stronger nature had established over him a power 
 that had alwa3^s moulded him to her will, and, in spite 
 of himself, Thorne felt its influence, even before they 
 again met face to face. 
 
 As he arranged his toilette for his first call on Mr. 
 Willard and his daughter, Thorne ruefully surveyed 
 himself in the mirror, and muttered : 
 
 Agnes will marry me in spite of myself. Even if 
 she has heard all about me and my doings, she’ll keep 
 dark till after the noose is tied, and then — well — then 
 she may look out for breakers, for my temper isn’t 
 proof against everything. If I am weak I can be dan- 
 gerous.” 
 
 With such feelings in his heart, Thorne tried to put 
 on a bright and smiling expression, and he went on 
 his way to the quiet street in which Mr. Willard had 
 found a boarding-house to suit him. He found the 
 number, rang at the door, and sent up his card. 
 
 Thorne was ushered into a small reception room, 
 comfortably furnished, with a bright fire in the grate, 
 and he sat several moments absorbed in reverie before 
 it. He was wondering how Agnes would look ; what 
 
378 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 she would say when they met, and tiying to get up 
 some show of interest in the approaching interview ; 
 but all his thoughts were suddenly put to flight by the 
 sound of a strange voice at his elbow. 
 
 ‘‘Mf. Thorne, I believe. I am glad that you have 
 arrived at this crisis, sir, for Mr. Willard is almost in 
 articulo mortis, I have been affording him the conso- 
 lations of religion, but his anxiety for your arrival was 
 so absorbing, that I fear he was not so much benefitted 
 by my ministrations as a man in his condition should 
 be. But you are here now, and his mind can be set at 
 rest on the score of his daughter’s future.” 
 
 Thorne started up at the commencement of this ad- 
 dress, and saw before him ,a tall, pale man, of grave 
 and stately presence, whom he should at once have 
 identified as a clergyman, even without the clue to his 
 profession afforded by his words. 
 
 ‘‘Is Mr. Willard so bad as that? I am grieved to 
 hear it, for I hoped he was improving.” 
 
 “ There has been little hope from the first ; and for 
 the last few days he has rapidly sunk. I was sent for 
 this morning, and when the priest is summoned to the 
 bedside of a worldly man, you know there is not much 
 hope of life left to him.” 
 
 Thorne bowed, and briefly asked : 
 
 “ Can I see him, sir ? ” 
 
 “ It was to invite you to his room, and to prepare 
 you to comply with his last wishes, that I came hither. 
 I understand from Mr. Willard that you have been 
 long betrothed to his daughter, and it is his most 
 earnest desire to see you united to her before he passes 
 away from earth and all its cares. Every arrange- 
 ment has been made in anticipation of your arrival, as 
 
THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL. 
 
 379 
 
 your father wrote that you would be in this city to- 
 day.” 
 
 The suddenness of the request was a severe blow to 
 Thorne. He had unconsciously hoped that something 
 might interpose to release him from the necessity of 
 making Agnes Willard his wife ; but in this crisis of af- 
 fairs he saw no means of escape. He felt the net narrow- 
 ing around him, and soon he would be bound beyond 
 the possibility of escape. He confusedly said : 
 
 It is quite true that I have long been betrothed to 
 Miss Willard, but — but she may have some objections 
 to so precipitate a marriage. I would not for the 
 world be the cause of making her unhappy in any way, 
 and — and, just at this time, with her father so near 
 death, she may shrink from fulfilling the compact. 
 To tell the truth, I had rather be married myself un- 
 der more cheerful circumstances.” 
 
 The reverend gentleman evidently regarded him with 
 extreme surprise. He coldly said : 
 
 Miss Willard offered no objection to an immediate 
 marriage. On the contrary, she has expressed her wil- 
 lingness to relieve her father’s mind of all uneasiness 
 on her account, by accepting you as her legal protector 
 before his decease. I think, Mr. Thorne, that nothing 
 remains to you but to accede to the wish of both 
 father and daughter.” 
 
 With a sort of reckless despair, Walter replied: 
 
 ‘‘ I am quite ready ; let it be as they wish. But — 
 but should there not be a license ? — or can we dispense 
 with that formality ? ” 
 
 That has already been obtained, in anticipation of 
 your arrival. The most important thing now is, to set 
 the mind of the dying man at rest, and that can only 
 
380 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 be done by making his daughter your wife. The ex- 
 pediency of your marriage will scarcely be disputed by 
 any one, I presume, as all parties have been long agreed 
 concerning it.” 
 
 ‘‘ No — there will be no one to set aside this mar- 
 riage,” said Thorne, with intense bitterness ; but see- 
 ing that the clergyman looked surprised at the em- 
 phasis, he hastened to. add : 
 
 ‘‘ I am quite ready, sir. Pray lead the way to Mr. 
 Willard’s room.” 
 
 Feeling more like a criminal going to execution, 
 than a bridegroom about to meet his betrothed, Walter 
 Thorne ascended the flight of steps that led to the 
 upper chambers, and drew near the apartment of the 
 dying man. The door was softly opened, and he look- 
 ed on the scene within with a stony calmness, which 
 gave him the power to go through with what was be- 
 fore him without too glaringly betraying the reluc- 
 tance with which he played the part required of him. 
 
 Mr. Willard, only the ghastly spectre of his former 
 self, was supported in a sitting position by a number 
 of pillows; and his daughter, wrapped in a crimson 
 shawl, knelt on a cushion beside his bed, holding in 
 her clasp the wasted hands that were already chilling 
 in death. 
 
 The face of Agnes was worn and pale, but her hair 
 w as carefully arranged, and her toilette showed that 
 she liad not forgotten that before the day was over, 
 lier betrothed would arrive. She raised her head as 
 he entered the room, and gave him a single glance, and 
 his inconstant heart smote him as he saw the love- 
 light flash into the eyes from which, an instant before, 
 tears wefe raining. 
 
THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL. 
 
 381 
 
 “ Oh, Walter, you are here at last ! ” she impulsively 
 exclaimed. ‘‘ I have, looked and wearied for your 
 presence — so long — so long.” 
 
 Thorne felt the reproach ; at that moment he pitied 
 her, and he would have spoken some words of affec- 
 tionate interest, but Mr. Willard, in a voice so hollow 
 tliat it sounded as if issuing from a vault, said : 
 
 ‘‘You are in time, Mr. Thorne. We have long 
 watched and waited for your arrival ; but although 
 you have come at the eleventh hour, you are not too 
 late to give me, before I die, the certainty that my 
 child will not be left alone in the world. You are 
 readj^ to give your hand to Agnes, I do not doubt, and 
 she has already assured me that she will afford me this 
 last consolation before I leave her forever.” 
 
 The lips of the young man refused to unclose for a 
 moment, but the effort he made to speak was at last 
 successful. “ I am quite ready, Mr. Willard ; though 
 I regret that our union must take place under such 
 afflicting circumstances. I had no idea that I should 
 find you thus, or I should have made an effort to get 
 here before this time.” 
 
 “ My last earthly journey is almost finished, my dear 
 son, but I hope to see you and Agnes start on a long and 
 happy one before the curtain falls on myself. Doctor, 
 will you ask Mrs. Ralston to step in this room for a few 
 moments ? She, v/ith yourself, will be sufficient to 
 witness what is about to take place here.” 
 
 A small man, in black, came from behind a window 
 curtain, which had hitherto shrouded him from obser* 
 vation, and crossing the floor, opened a door which 
 gave into an adjoining apartment. 
 
 Agnes arose from her kneeling position, lookiBd ear- 
 
382 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 nestly upon the agitated face of Thorne, and extended 
 her hand as she whispered : 
 
 ‘‘Do not be alarmed, Walter. It will soon be over, 
 and we must think more of papa than of ourselves just 
 now.” 
 
 Thus brought back to the reality of the part he was 
 required to play, Thorne took the offered hand, lightly 
 pressed it, and replied in the same subdued tone : 
 
 “ Pardon me, Agnes. I am only bewildered by the 
 suddenness of all this, but I am sure I am not frightened 
 at the thought of claiming you as my own. 
 
 “ And I am happy to become yours, even thus,” she 
 fervently replied, a faint roseate glow coming into her 
 pale cheek, which rendered her infinitely attractive. 
 “ You have been a laggard in love, but when I have 
 only you to cling to, you will atone for all you have 
 made me suffer since we met.” 
 
 “ I will endeavor to do so,” he muttered, wonder- 
 ing if she really knew anything of the events of the 
 last two months, and yet was willing to forgive and 
 accept him again as if nothing had happened to mar 
 the smooth current of their wooing. 
 
 The phj^sician came back, accompanied by a lady in 
 mourning ; the clergyman unclosed his book ; Mr. 
 Willard made a feeble motion to him to commence" the 
 ceremony, and the solemn words of the Episcopal mar- 
 riage service were spoken, the responses being almost 
 mechanically made by the two thus inauspiciously 
 joined together. 
 
 Thorne felt as if he must be dreaming ; that he who 
 had so lately plighted himself, heart and soul to 
 another woman, could not be holding the hand of Ag- 
 nes Willard in his own, vowing to love and cherish her 
 
THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL 
 
 383 
 
 throughout the life they were hencefoth to spend to- 
 gether. It must be a horrid nightmare from which he 
 would presently awake to find himself once more free. 
 
 He looked pale and distraught ; but the girl who 
 stood beside him glowed with exultation that she had 
 secured him at last ; she said to herself : 
 
 Walter does not yet love me with all his heart, 
 and soul, but he shall learn that sweet lesson before we 
 have been married many weeks. My father is leaving 
 me, but another who is even dearer, is taking his place 
 near me, and even beside his death-couch I dar^ to be 
 happy.” 
 
 When the benediction was pronounced, Mr. Willard 
 sunk back with a sigh of satisfaction, and feebly said : 
 
 Now I am ready to go. Be good to my child, 
 Walter, she has long loved you most faithfully.” 
 
 The newly wedded pair knelt beside the bed, the 
 clammy hand of the dying man was laid upon the 
 two that were still clasped together, and Walter felt as 
 if its chilling grasp was upon his very heart. He made 
 an effort to give the assurance the earnest gaze of Mr. 
 Willard seemed to demand, but his parched lips re- 
 fused to utter the words he would have forced from 
 them ; and he could only look intently into the fading 
 eyes that were bent searchingly upon his. 
 
 What the father read there with the clairvoyance of 
 a parting spirit, caused him to utter ,a cry of anguish, 
 and in a stronger voice than he had yet spoken he ex- 
 claimed ; 
 
 It is done, alas I and cannot be undone ; and he 
 fell back as the words seemed rent from his lips, strug- 
 gling as if in the agonies of death. 
 
 Agnes started up, saying : 
 
884 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 “ What do you mean, father ? what would you 
 have undoiffe ? Not my marriage with Walter, I am 
 sure.” 
 
 Mr. Willard extended one of his long, thin fingers, 
 and pointing to his newly made son-in-law with effort 
 said : 
 
 My daughter, you would have it so, but — the — fu- 
 ture — will prove — that — ^you have now — a barren lot, 
 I fear. Kiss me, Agnes, and remember that I have 
 only done what you wished, in the hope that I was se- 
 curing your happiness.” 
 
 ‘‘ I shall remember it, father ^ and I shall always be 
 grateful.” 
 
 A faint convulsion passed over the face of the dying 
 man, and murmuring, I trust in God you wilLliave 
 cause for gratitude, but I fear — I fear for the result of 
 this daj^’s work,” he sank back quite insensible. 
 
 Vain were all the efforts of his physician to restore 
 consciousness, and at the end of an hour he took his 
 leave, saying that he would return again towards even- 
 ing. Before he came back the spirit had passed away, 
 and the room was left to the silent watchers by the 
 dead, while the bereaved daughter wept away her sor- 
 row on the breast of her strangely wedded husband. 
 
 In those hours of affliction Thorne could not refuse 
 to be tender with her, and Agnes deluded herself with 
 tlie belief that he r.eally cared for her ; that her task of 
 winning him to prefer herself above all others, would 
 not be so difficult after all. 
 
 Alas ! if she could have looked into the rebellious 
 heart that beat so near hers, she would have shrunk 
 away and buried her face in the dust of humiliation 
 and despair. It had been her w’ll to bind this man to 
 
THE DEATH-BED BKIDAL. 
 
 385 
 
 herself with bonds he was powerless to break, and she 
 had never dreamed that to herself they might in the 
 future become as intolerable a burden as they were to 
 him in these first hours of their precipitate union. 
 
 There was nothing grand or self sacrificing in the 
 nature of the man Agnes had made the master of her 
 fate, and he was forced to put strong constraint upon 
 himself to conceal his repulsion, and make such efforts 
 as were necessary to soothe the hysterical grief over 
 which she mourned her father’s loss. 
 
 The last words of Mr. Willard, my child you would 
 have it so,” had fatally enlightened him as to whose 
 will had entrapped him into this sudden marriage, and 
 a feeling of bitter resentment and disgust was aroused 
 within him. Even while he held Agnes clasped to his 
 breast he said to himself : 
 
 ‘‘ She knew all, and in defiance of every womanly 
 feeling she has, in a manner, compelled me to become 
 her husband. If she had waited — had given me time 
 to forget that stricken creature I have been forced to 
 desert, her old influence might have brought me back 
 to my allegiance to herself. But she feared the result — 
 her pride shrank from being left to wear the willow, 
 and she has consummated her own wretchedness and 
 mine. Qh, Agnes, if you could only understand what 
 you have done.” 
 
 The long watching beside her father’s sick bed had 
 completely prostrated the strength of the poor bride, 
 and she needed constant care and attention. She 
 turned to Thorne so helplessly ; appealed to him so 
 sweetly and gently for kindness, that he would have 
 felt himself a brute if he had then betrayed what was 
 passing in his heart. 
 
 24 
 
386 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 He soothed and comforted her as far as lay in his 
 power, and in spite of his bitter resentment for the 
 course he believed she had pursued, he was flattered, 
 and at moments attracted by the tenderness with 
 which she clung to him, seeming to find in his jpres- 
 ence consolation for the loss she had sustained. 
 
 He soon found it impossible to remain insensible to 
 the proofs of affection Agnes lavished upon him ; and 
 gradually a self-complacent feeling stole over him. He 
 found it very pleasant to be set up as an idol — to be 
 worshipped by one so superior to himself as his father 
 had made him believe Agnes to be. But for that mis- 
 take on the part of Col. Thorne, Walter might long 
 since have become tenderly attached to the girl his 
 father had chosen for his wife ; but, like all weak men, 
 he recoiled from the thought of claiming as his own a 
 woman who would perpetually throw him in the shade, 
 and probably rule him by the royal right of superior 
 intellect. 
 
 Thorne saw with intense satisfaction that Agnes 
 only sought to win her way to his heart, to place him 
 always in the foreground, and render to him the lov- 
 ing submission due from a tender wdfe to her liege lord. 
 
 The funeral was over. Mr. Willard was laid to rest 
 in Laurel Hill, and still the young pair lingered with 
 Mrs. Ralston. Thorne did not wish to return to 
 
 L quite yet, and Agnes had no desire to make a 
 
 bridal tour so soon after her father’s death. Her tran- 
 quility returned, and she devoted herself to the object 
 she had most at heart — the winning of her husband’s 
 tenderest love. 
 
 As the weeks flowed on, his feelings toward her be- 
 gan to soften, and he almost forgave her for the hur- 
 
THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL. 387 
 
 ried marriage he had been forced to make. With his 
 usual facility Walter Thorne was becoming reconciled 
 to a state of affairs which he had so lately believed to 
 be insupportable to him. 
 
 It was only when he recalled that other honeymoon 
 so like a dream of Heaven, which he had enjoyed with 
 the brilliant being whose cempanionship made the 
 hours fly so quickly, that he felt how faded and com- 
 mon-place was this one beside it. But he resolutely 
 put from him all such memories ; the broken life, the 
 embittered heart of the forsaken one he believed could 
 be condoned by the gift of money, and he silenced the 
 self-accusing spirit which would sometimes make itself 
 heard. It was natural that he should think pecuniary 
 compensation would be a suiBBcient atonement to Claire, 
 for had he not surrendered himself to his father’s will 
 for a price ? And neither from Col. Thorne nor Miss 
 Digby had come any intimation that his forsaken wife 
 had refused the annuity offered her. 
 
 On hearing of the late marriage, his father wrote 
 and invited himself and Agnes to return at once to 
 Thornhill, and take up their abode with him. When 
 Agnes heard of this proposal, she gently ^sked ; 
 
 Would you prefer living with your father to a res- 
 idence at Willow Glen ? ” 
 
 Thorne shrugged his shoulders : 
 
 It is not what I prefer, but what my father wishes, 
 that concerns us. He is tired of living alone ; he 
 might And a wife for himself, if he were not so obsti- 
 nately bent on marrying a woman who will never ac- 
 cept him. I really think his wooing is the most 
 absurd proceeding that a sensible man was ever guilty 
 of. However, let us think what we may about a home 
 
388 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 of our own, the old man has signified his pleasure, and 
 there is nothing for us hut to accept the one he offers. 
 In a few more months he must take possession of the 
 gubernatorial mansion, and we shall have Thornhill to 
 ourselves.” 
 
 Agnes smiled faintly as she replied : 
 
 # ‘‘ Perhaps Miss Digby will lend a more favorabVe ear 
 to Col. Thorne’s proposals when he is Governor of the 
 State.” 
 
 No ; there is no hope of that. What happened 
 this fall set her more completely against him. If Ada 
 would have yielded her consent to marry him, she 
 would have done it to purchase for me ” 
 
 Thorne had spoken thus far without thought, but 
 suddenly the whole import of his words flashed upon 
 him, and he looked curiously at Agnes to see what 
 effect they had produced. She was listening intently, 
 but with no apparent discomposure, and he marvelled 
 
 at her self-command. She asked in the same even 
 
 « 
 
 tone : 
 
 “ What was the bribe offered by Col. Thorne to win 
 her for his wife? I am curious to know — it must 
 have been a strange scene.” 
 
 I dare say : but as I did not witness it, I cannot 
 describe it. Do you really mean what you say, 
 Agnes ? Are you not fully aware of all that occurred 
 in L — ^ — this fall, in which I was implicated ? ” 
 
 She looked up half-startled, and hurriedly asked : 
 
 ‘‘ What was it, Walter. I know nothing of what 
 you refer to. I was too much taken up with the 
 fluctuations of my father’s illness to pay much atten- 
 tion to any thing else, and no one ever wrote to us 
 from L except Col. Thorne. He was ndt like- 
 
THE DEATH-BED BRIDAL. 
 
 389 
 
 ly to tell anything to your disadvantage, Walter, 
 nor could it have been a very serious scrape, since you 
 extricated yourself from it so easily.” 
 
 Thorne looked keenly and doubtfully at the fair face 
 of the speaker, but he saw nothing in its expression to 
 induce him to doubt the truth of her words. He 
 knew now that his suspicions had done her injustice, 
 and the knowledge of that summer folly had yet to be 
 made known to her. He laughed in an embarrassed 
 manner and lightly said : 
 
 “ You don’t catch me telling on myself, my lady. I 
 thought you knew all about it, or I should not have 
 referred to the affair at all.” 
 
 Why not tell me of it now, Walter, for I must 
 sooner or later know all its details. Whatever con- 
 cerns you, I am bound to inquire into, you know.” 
 
 A slight frown crossed his brow, and he almost 
 brusquely said : 
 
 The less you know about this, the better for your- 
 self, Agnes. I would not advise you to make any in- 
 quisition into that foolish affair, if you prize the peace 
 that now exists between us.” 
 
 A vivid flush mantled her cheeks, but she repressed 
 the words tliat arose to her lips, for she possessed a 
 ]iaughty temper, and was little used to rough lan- 
 guage. 
 
 As you please,” she simply said, and turned away 
 without another word ; but she was not the less de- 
 termined to make the inquiries he seemed so nervously 
 to deprecate. 
 
390 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV, 
 
 THE wife’s discovery. 
 
 ONES no sooner found herself alone than she sat 
 
 down to write to the only friend she possessed in 
 L on whom she could rely for a truthful and can- 
 
 did history of what her husband had refused to tell 
 her. She had a vague feeling that both her honor and 
 happiness were in some way concerned in this mystery, 
 and she was resolved to probe it to its depths before 
 she returned to the town in which the event referred to 
 by Thorne had occurred. 
 
 She awaited the arrival of the answer, with a keen 
 anxiety proportioned for her love to the man to whom 
 she had given her hand. When it at last came, she 
 tore open the envelope and read the following lines 
 from Ada Digby : 
 
 L , January 15, 18 — . 
 
 My Dear Agnes : — You have asked of me a very 
 painful service, and my reply to your questions can 
 only give the deepest pain to yourself, yet I cannot re- 
 fuse to answer them. 
 
 ‘‘ I am aware that Walter is now your husband, and 
 if it were possible to keep from you all knowledge of 
 the event which has formed the gossip of this place for 
 the last three months, I would gladly do so. But you 
 are coming hither to take up your abode, I understand, 
 and what must then inevitably become known to you 
 had better be told by a friend before you arrive. 
 
 “ Walter should have made his own confession, and 
 
THE WIFE’S DISCOVERY. 
 
 391 
 
 obtaijied your forgiveness ; perhaps he would have 
 done so, but for the suddenness of your marriage. The 
 facts are these : — 
 
 ^‘During his summer tour, Walter unfortunately 
 met with a very attractive young girl, a child in years, 
 and eloped with her from the home of her adopted 
 mother. A Catholic priest united them, but no wit- 
 nesses were present, and there was nothing to prove 
 the marriage. 
 
 ‘‘ Col. Thorne took advantage of these facts to have 
 it set aside ; he refused to receive the young girl as his 
 son’s wife, and sent her from his house when Walter 
 took her there. He brought her to me, and she is still 
 under my protection, though she insists on leaving in 
 a short time to return to the friend from whom she so 
 imprudently ran away. 
 
 ‘‘ I have stated as briefly as possible what you wish- 
 ed to know, and now my dear Agnes, receive patiently 
 a few words of advice from one so much your senior in 
 years, who is deeply interested in your happiness. 
 
 “ I trust that the great affection you have so long 
 cherished for your husband will enable you to forgive 
 his temporary inconstancy. He is irrevocably separated 
 from the object of his passing fancy, and she is so ut- 
 terly disenchanted with him that I think she has ceased 
 to feel anything but resentment toward him. I think 
 she will, in time, recover from the blow his desertion 
 gave her, and find a happier lot than hers could have 
 been with the man who was willing to give her up at 
 the command of his father. 
 
 ‘‘The adoring love you have so long lavished on 
 Walter, gives me the hope that you can forgive even 
 this wrong, and be happy with him in spite of hia 
 
392 
 
 THE CL ANDESTIISE MARRIAGE. 
 
 ephemeral fancy for another. I would have written to 
 3’ou of Vvdiat was going on here, had I thought that 
 you would listen to any accusation brought against 
 him ; but I believed, that in the blindness of your attach- 
 ment to Walter, you would cling to him in spite of the 
 entanglement from which Col. Thorne was so resolute 
 to free him. I regret now that I did not do so, as 
 you would then at least have had a choice of action. 
 
 ‘‘Now yon are Walter Thorne's wife, and but one 
 course remains to you, to forgive and forget the brief 
 inconstancy of which your husband was guilty. The 
 future is your own, and with your charms of person 
 and mind, you cannot fail to keep the heart you prize 
 so highlj^ true to yourself. 
 
 “Your attached friend, 
 
 “Ada Digby.” 
 
 As Agnes read, every shade of color fled from her 
 features, and when the last line was reached, she fell 
 as if dead. She was alone and how long she lay insen- 
 sible she did not know. When she regained conscious- 
 ness it was several moments before she could recall her 
 scattered senses, or realize the mortal blow that had 
 fallen on her. 
 
 Agnes Thorne was a woman of strong passions, and 
 keen resentments : proud, too, as Lucifer, the son of 
 the morning, and the thought of the humiliation of her 
 position was almost as maddening to her as was the 
 shock to her affections. In those moments all the pas- 
 sionate'^love she had given her husband, seemed turned 
 to bitterness. He had secretly wedded her rival, and 
 even taken her to his father's house in the hope that 
 she would be acknowledged as his wife. 
 
X R WIFE’S DISCOVERY. 393 
 
 And then, like the craven he was, he had given her 
 up because he dared not face the poverty with which 
 she instinctively knew his father had threatened him. 
 To save his inheritance, Walter Thorne had basely 
 sacrificed one woman, and as basely wedded another. 
 He believed her rich too, and the iron entered her soul, 
 at the thought that her supposed fortune had in- 
 fluenced him to make her his wife. The white lips 
 muttered : 
 
 He will be disappointed in that, for the wreck left 
 from my father’s estate is a mere pittance, and it is se- 
 cured to me in such a manner that he cannot touch it. 
 He should not noiv have a penny of it even if that 
 hard old man were to cast him out to beggary. Oh, 
 Walter ! Walter ! to think how kindly, how unselfishly 
 I have loved you, and you could make no return better 
 than this ! ” 
 
 Married — divorced — remarried, all in the space of 
 a few fleeting months ! and I — I to be humiliated, 
 pointed at as the wife accepted at his father’s hands, 
 while the one he preferred to me is remorsely cast out 
 to break her heart, or to harden it, till hate take the 
 place of the wild passion she must have felt for him 
 to forsake her home, her friends, everything for his 
 sake.” 
 
 Her passion of anger and wounded pride unfortu- 
 nately had not time to exhaust itself before Thorne 
 came in looking animated and happy, carrying in his 
 hand a bouquet of hothouse flowers which he had tak- 
 en great pains to select for her himself. 
 
 Agnes heard his step bounding up the stairs ; that 
 step which of late had been the music of her life, but 
 now it only caused her heart to contract painfully, and 
 
394 the clandEvSTine marriage. 
 
 brought a gleam of fire into her Ijght blue eyes that 
 might well have startled him. She .arose white, and 
 defiant, from the seat on which she had cast herself, 
 and stood facing the door, grasping Miss Digby’s letter 
 in her hand. 
 
 As Thorne entered the apartment, he gaily said : 
 
 “ See, Agnes, what lovely flowers I have brought 
 you ; heliotrope, roses, japoriicas, all your favorites are 
 there ; it costs like the deuce to gratify a taste for ex- 
 otics at this season, I can tell you. But I shall not 
 care for that, if they please you.” 
 
 She snatched the bouquet from his hand, threw it 
 upon the floor, and trampled it under her feet. For a 
 moment her husband regarded her with stupefied as- 
 tonishment ; then a hot flush of anger mounted even 
 to his brow, and he spoke between his half-closed 
 teeth ; 
 
 Madam, what does this mean ? Have j^ou lost 
 your senses, that you treat thus the costly flowers 1 
 have selected, thinking they would afford you pleas- 
 ure.” 
 
 In tones of cutting scorn Agnes replied : 
 
 It means that from your hand no gift will ever 
 again be prized by me. It means that henceforth there 
 can be neither love nor trust between us, though we 
 are unfortunately bound together for life. Read that 
 letter, Walter Thorne, and see for yourself what I 
 have learned to-day. Oh ! had I but known of your 
 treachery in time, you would have been spared accept- 
 ing the hand y ou have tainted by your false touch. 
 You would have been free to reclaim the bride you 
 chose in preference to me, yet had not the manhood to 
 stand by when your father bade you give up her, or. 
 
THE WIFE’S DISCOVERY. 395 
 
 * fortune. I know not which is most unfortunate ; the 
 girl who so fatally trusted you, or the iinhappj one 
 who now stands to you in the relation of wife.” 
 
 Overwhelmed by this passionate torrent of words, 
 Thorne stood for a few moments looking amazed and 
 indignant. He then stooped and took up the letter 
 she had disdainfully thrown toward him. He glanced 
 down the page, understood the nature of its contents, 
 and a dangerous glare came into his dark eyes as he 
 lifted them to the pallid face that confronted him. 
 But the steel-blue orbs that met his did not quail be- 
 fore the lurid fire of his glance. Agnes was too indig- 
 nant, and far too deeply outraged at this moment, to 
 think of or care for the consequences of a rupture 
 bet^yeen them. 
 
 ‘‘ I warned you,” he hoarsely said, ‘‘ yet you have 
 iared to pry into that almost forgotten folly. The 
 girl referred to in this precious missive, is nothing to 
 me now^ and we should never have been silly enough 
 to fancy that we could be all in all to each other. 
 Have I not put her aside ? Have I not married you, 
 and does not that assure you that, as Ada says, my 
 love for hgr was but a passing fancy ? Come, Agnes ; 
 be reasonable, you have carried your point ; you would 
 ^ marry me, for your father said as much almost with 
 liis dying breath, and now you are ready to quarrel 
 with me for a thing that has been repented of long 
 ago.” 
 
 With a movement of superb disdain, she haughtily 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘You dare to taunt me with the hurried union in- 
 to which we so unhappily rushed, and I presume you 
 imagine that I insisted on it to secure so precious a pos- 
 
306 the clandestine markiage. 
 
 session as yourself. But you are mistaken. I did sug< 
 gesf. to ni}^ father that our marriage could he solemnized 
 befoi e iiis death, but it was to lift from his heart a 
 weight that pressed heavily upon it. He had lived 
 beyond his income ; he knew that he was ruined, and 
 
 all that was left of .his fortune was our horn ^ in L , 
 
 whicli is deeply mortgaged, and a few thousand dollars 
 he has managed to secure to me. I believed then^ that 
 to yourself and your father, the loss of my fortune 
 would be of little importance : so far as Col. Thorne is 
 concerned I still think so ; but what am I to think of 
 you^ Avhen you surrendered jom first wife at his com- 
 mand because you feared disinheritance ? ” 
 
 The face of Thorne underwent a marked change as 
 Agnes made this unexpected statement. It was cer- 
 tainly a severe blow to him, for he had looked forward 
 to complete independence of his exacting father 
 through the fortune he expected to gain with her hand. 
 Unconsciously to himself this anticipation had enabled 
 liiin to yield to the force brought to bear upon him — 
 with a better grace than he would otherwise have 
 found possible. 
 
 He sullenly replied: ^ ^ 
 
 Your estimate of yourself is but just. ^ would 
 never have married you if I had known this. If I 
 must have taken a dowerless bride, I would at least 
 have clung to the woman I preferred above every other. 
 I loved Claire ; I tolerate you^ 
 
 With a sudden and most expressive motion Agnes 
 clasped her hands over her rapidly beating heart, but 
 she haughtily replied : 
 
 vFor once I hear the truth from your lips, Walter 
 Thorne, and 1 believe it is for the first time. False, 
 
THE WIFE’S DISCOVERY. 397 
 
 craven, and interested in your motives, what is there to 
 admire, or respect in such a man as you ? What is 
 left on which to build a hope of faith, or trust in the 
 future? Yet — yet it is my misfortune to be your 
 wife ! ” 
 
 Thorne threw himself upon a chair and laughed 
 mockingly : 
 
 Upon my word, this is a rare scene with which to 
 treat the man you proposed to win to love you. That 
 was your expectation in marrying me, washrt it ? To 
 that I owe the pretty submission you have hitherto 
 shown me ; the graceful blandishments 3^011 have la- 
 vished upon me ? Come, Madam ? resume the mari- 
 tal yoke, and learn to play the part of the demure 
 Griselda ; it is more becoming to your position than 
 these tragedy queen airs. You have made me your 
 master, and in spite of the intellectual superiority you 
 rissume, I intend to prove to you that I will maintain 
 the authority you have given me as the ruler of your 
 fate.” 
 
 If lightning from the eye would kill, he would have 
 been scathed by the glance that quickly traversed his 
 [)erson. Agnes drew up her stately figure to its ut- 
 most height, and scornfully retorted : 
 
 Before I submit to be ruled hj such a man as you, 
 all the fire of m\" nature will be crushed out, every im- 
 pulse of my soul deadened. No — I will never become 
 the slave of any man ; certainly not of one who has 
 forfeited every claim on my respect or esteem. Go 
 back, and take to your false heart the one for whom 
 you avow a preference. She may bend before you, but 
 I will defy you to the bitter end. I loved you madly, 
 stupidl^^ ; but that phase is over. I will never forgive 
 
398 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 you for the insult you have put upon me. You broke 
 your faith to me ; doubly broke it to her you have so 
 cruelly forsaken. You have placed me in a position I 
 abhor above all others ; that of wife to a man who has 
 another living claimant on that sacred name. Her 
 claims are superior to mine, for the law of Heaven em- 
 phatically says, ‘ whom God hath joined together let 
 no man put asunder.’ ” 
 
 Again Thorne uttered that mocking laugh which 
 grated on her heart, and drove her almost to frenzy. 
 
 “ That law is obsolete, m3’' fair tigress. Men have 
 made better ones for themselves, and the old man was 
 sharp enough to make sure that I was freed from my 
 first bonds before I came hither to assume new ones, 
 in such a d — 1 of a hurr}" that I had no time to remon- 
 strate. The divorce was hurried through the court 
 rather indecorously — but it was given, and you belong 
 to me. Haughty and defiant as you are, you will yet 
 find it your best policy to bend your proud neck and 
 accept the fate you were so eager to make certain. If 
 you had left me a loophole of escape, I would have 
 availed m3"self of it, and left you half broken-hearted 
 at losing my precious self. But you would not — 3’ou 
 hurried me into bondage, under such painful circum- 
 stances, that I was debarred from uttering any protest ; 
 and, in spite of the fury into which you have worked 
 yourself, I am not so sure that the histor}" of the di- 
 vorce had not reached you before our union took place. 
 
 What L rang with for weeks, could hardly escape 
 
 being told to one so deeply interested in it, by some of 
 your correspondents, though vou find' it to your inter- 
 est to sham ignorance now.” 
 
 If anything could have added to the storm of indig- 
 
THE WIFE^S DISCOVERY. 
 
 399 
 
 nation and insult raging in the heart of Agnes, this 
 last taunting assertion was calculated to do so. Thorne 
 had thrown down the gage of battle, and she promptly 
 accepted it. She seemed suddenly to harden into 
 marble, and with the coldest scorn, replied : 
 
 “ It is worthy of you to speak thus — to utter a sus- 
 picion as degrading to me as it is flattering to youi 
 own vanity. I have stated the truth : believe it 
 or not, as you may choose. But if I had been aware 
 of your previous marriage — of the heartless treatment 
 that hapless girl received at your hands, I would have 
 died sooner than assume her rightful place. The law, 
 as you say, binds me to j^ou, but since you have found 
 a divorce so easy of attainment, I can avail myself of 
 the same means to regain the control of my own fate. 
 I shall not hesitate to do so, and you may again figure 
 before the tribunals before many more weeks pass 
 away.” 
 
 Thorne looked at her with a half smile so full of de- 
 fiance, that she felt as if nothing could ever induce her 
 to forgive him. He coolly said : 
 
 ‘‘ I shall not allow such a proceeding on your part. 
 It would ruin me with my father, and render the sac- 
 rifice I have made of no value to me. Without my 
 consent you can never obtain a divorce ; and little as 
 I care for you, I will not be made ridiculous by you. 
 Wg have both put on fetters, and heavy as they may 
 be — deeply as they may cut into our hearts — it is my 
 will that they shall be worn to the end. I have pro- 
 nounced your fate, Mrs. Thorne, so make up your 
 mind to submit to it with a good grace.” 
 
 A leaden weight seemed to fall on the heart of the 
 listener. Her courage gave way, and the woman in 
 
400 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 her nature asserted itself : she burst in tears, and after 
 many moments of convulsive weeping, she found voice 
 to say : 
 
 will reserve my decision till I have seen and 
 talked with your father. He has a genuine affection 
 for me, if you have only counterfeited it. I may con- 
 sent to remain with you, but in the future I can see 
 nothing but wretchedness in a continued union between 
 us. I do not deny that I have loved you above all 
 earthly beings — above even my hopes of Heaven ; but 
 that was when I believed you to be true and honora- 
 ble. I believed that your affection for me, though less 
 earnest than mine for you, would deepen into a tender 
 and lasting regard for the woman who so highly esti- 
 mated you. But you have stripped the ideal being I 
 worshipped of the attributes with which I gifted him, 
 and I see in you but a tyrant to be dreaded — a master 
 whose chain I will not wear. If I am forced to walk 
 through life with you, it will be over a path burning 
 with angry passions, scarred Avith bitter dissensions. 
 My temper is not one to forgive or forget an injury, 
 and j^ou will do well for yourself to allow me to obtain 
 a legal separation from you.” 
 
 Thorne brusquely replied : 
 
 ‘‘ And haA^e a d — 1 of a fuss with the oid man that 
 rules me with a rod of iron. No — thank you — and 
 much as you seem to rely on Col. Thorne’s protection, 
 he will help me to keep you in bounds. We shall 
 not live like turtle doves, as you had sentimentally pic- 
 tured to yourself, but we can at least consent ‘ to dwell 
 in decencies forcA^er.’ Since I have marred iny life to 
 please my father, you can at least take up your cross, 
 with the meekness becoming to one of your sex. He 
 
THE WIFE’S DISCOVERY. 
 
 401 
 
 will no more consent to grant you a divorce than I will. 
 I have made you my wife : you willingly assumed the 
 obligation, and I do not choose to free you from it. 
 Understand that and return to your sober senses. 
 
 If you had gone on as you had commenced I might 
 have loved you in time ; I was beginning to feel ten- 
 derly toward you, but your bitter words have uprooted 
 every gentle feeling. I have done wrong — I freely ad- 
 mit it, but regret, so far as you are concerned, is at an 
 end. You used language to me which the most ardent 
 affection could not survive. The path we must tra- 
 vel on may be hard and arid enough, but it is you who 
 have made it so ; it will be you who will soften or em- 
 bitter my soul still more. A woman must be an angel 
 of peace in such a home as mine will be^ or the demon 
 of discord will rule over it. Choose your own course, 
 for I have said that you shall be its mistress, come what 
 will.” 
 
 Agnes listened to him with shivering anguish — all 
 fire seemed for the time to have died out of her soul, 
 and she could only feel how deeply the iron had en- 
 tered into it. In spite of his cruel harshness — his 
 plain avowal that his own will had not made him her 
 husband, her traitorous heart still clung to him with 
 that tenacious love which alike defies wrong or injury 
 to destroy it. The threat of leaving him, which she 
 liad made in the violence of her passion, she felt that 
 she would be most unwilling to carry out, and it was 
 a feeble consolation to her that Thorne refused to 
 grant her the freedom wliich would have been odious 
 to her, although it was done in so brutal a manner. 
 
 Yet, with her haughty and imperious temper, her 
 bitter sense of slight and humiliation, Agnes knew that 
 25 
 
402 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 she could never again assume the bearing of a tender 
 and submissive wife toward the husband who asserted 
 his prerogative in such terms. There could be no 
 peace in the house in which they would dwell together 
 — no confidence between them, — yet w^ these con- 
 victions in her heart, after a few moments^f reflection, 
 she said : 
 
 Have your will, then ; but remenj^r that you 
 have as fiery a nature as your own toj^eal with, and 
 what I have said I adhere to. I will not be your slave 
 — I am your equal in every respect, and*^ias such I will 
 be treated.” 
 
 He laughed again — the hollow, cynicaft^augh which 
 grates so harshly on the heart of the listener. 
 
 “ It is well, madam, that you have been wrought on 
 to se^ the necessity of coming to such^^ conclu|i6m 
 But should you find my rule a hard o^'fie you ’^i^ld 
 gain nothing by severing yourself from me. Since 
 your fortune is gone, even the hollow state ofi^mis-^ 
 tress of Thornhill will be better than poverty an^ ob- 
 scurity. To evade them, you will remain in the *J)osi- 
 tion I have given you; I think we are quits now.” 
 
 Agnes raised her head with all her native pride^ and 
 fixedly regarded him as she disdainfully replied.^^' 
 
 I had not thought of that, but as you say, it may 
 be as well to retain the material enjoyments of life, even 
 if all else is swept away. I could not endure a sordid 
 home or narrow income, and Thornhill will be some- 
 thing, even if its future master proves a rude and 
 overbearing companion. The little my father left is 
 secured to me, and I shall, in a measure, be independent 
 of you, thougli 1 am your Avife.” 
 
 “ So be it, madam ; yet, if my father had been aware 
 
THE WIFE’S DISCOVERY. 
 
 403 
 
 of the state of Mr. Willard’s affairs, I scarcely think 
 he would have acted with so high a hand as he did. 
 But the past is irrevocable, and you do well to retain 
 what is of more value to sensible people than so un- 
 certain a thing as^ a man’s heart. ‘ Beware of the first 
 quarrel,’ has been uttered as a warning to married 
 pairs, and we would have done well to take heed to it. 
 Our first one has been bitter and hard enough, but I 
 have the presentiment that it is only the beginning 
 of the end. You and I will fight the battle of life lite- 
 rally, 1 can see plainly enough. You will always seek 
 to gain the upper hand of me, and I intend to be mas- 
 ter in my own house.” 
 
 “ It would be better if you could learn to be master 
 of yourself,” was the cold response. 
 
 And Agnes, weary and heart-sore, arose and left the 
 room before he could retort. 
 
 I shall not follow her into the seclusion of her cham- 
 ber to depict the wild struggles that rent her heart, 
 embittered her nature, and prepared her for the reck- 
 less and wretched future that lay before her. 
 
 I have described this first quarrel from which 
 sprang the deadly Upas that overshadowed her home, 
 poisoning its atmosphere, and blighting those that 
 dwelt within it. She made no attempt to conciliate 
 her husband ; she liad conceived for him too bitter a 
 contempt for that, and the love that held her to him 
 only made her despise herself because she could not 
 uproot it.. 
 
 Agnes, in those first moments of suffering, bitterly 
 blamed herself for yielding to the first transjDorts of 
 outraged love and pride ; but for the mutual recrimina- 
 tions which had broken up the very foundations of 
 
404 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 wedded happiness, the cloud in time might have lifted 
 and forgiveness been accorded ; but now, with her 
 husband’s words of insult tingling in her ears, his 
 cruel taunts striking to her heart, she felt that all 
 hope of that was past. True, she had acted and spokeji 
 violently at first, but had she not sufficient provoca- 
 tion ? Could anj^ love less insane than hers condone 
 the wrong that had been done her? Yet Thorne liad 
 thrown on her the blame of their rupture, as if the 
 deadly offence lay not with him. 
 
 It may seem strange that so haughty a woman did 
 not cast forever from herself the chain that so bitterly 
 galled her ; but Agnes had loved Walter Thorne from 
 girlhood, and without him the world looked dark to 
 her, in spite of all he had done to estrange her.. 
 Therefore she clung to him still, and when continued 
 discord widened the gulf between them, till life was 
 scarcely endurable beneath the same roof, she still re- 
 mained in her home, because she was too proud to 
 recall her word, and too sensitive to be willing to al- 
 low the tongue of scandal to busy itself with her 
 ruined life and blighted affections. 
 
 Ada Digby stood by her through all her trials, and 
 many efforts did she make to bring about a better state 
 of affairs in the splendid desert Walter Thorne and 
 his wife called their home. Such influence as she had 
 once possessed over him was lost, and he became hard, 
 reckless, and at times dissipated ; his only aim in life 
 seeming to be to prove to his unhappy wife that in be- 
 ing forced into a union with her, he had lost all respect 
 for himself or for her. 
 
 But I am anticipating ; other events must be related 
 which had a bearing on the fate of husband and wife, 
 before their complete estrangement was accomplished. 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 406 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 
 
 E xhausted with weeping — almost incapable of 
 further suffering, Agnes lay upon the sofa on 
 which she had thrown herself. She was trying to ar- 
 range her thoughts, and prepare for the return of her 
 husband. How should she meet him ? How atone 
 for the bitter words she had uttered, and yet maintain 
 her own dignity. 
 
 The question was set at rest in a most unexpected 
 manner. A note from Thorne was brought to her, in 
 which he briefly informed her that he had joined a 
 party of gay young men on an excursion to New York, 
 as he thought it best to absent himself until she had 
 recovered from her anger, and learned submission to 
 him as her lawful lord and master. It might Jook 
 strange that he had deserted her in the honeymoon, 
 but when all the honey had turned to vinegar it was of 
 little consequence how soon the fact became patent to 
 the world. He should be back before very long, he 
 could not tell exactly* when, but he was not vain 
 enough to suppose she would sigh for his presence, 
 when she had so harshly snubbed him in their last in- 
 terview. 
 
 At the bottom of the page he added : 
 
 Do not be afraid that I have gone back to my 
 pretty love. I have no such intention, for it would 
 embroil me too deeply with the old man. It is to our 
 mutual interest to keep on good terms with him, as he 
 has everything in his power. When I return to Phila- 
 
406 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 delpbia, we will set out at once for Thornhill ; once 
 safely there, we must play the part assigned us in 
 the dreary tra.gi-comedy called life. I scarcely think 
 that we shall brighten it for each other, but we must 
 at least drag the chain that has been fastened upon us ; 
 not with my consent, you know. Yet as I have al- 
 ready told you, I will not have a link loosened — ^you 
 had your way in that, and now, I will have mine.” 
 
 The absence of Thorne wa's a relief to the unhappy 
 Agnes, though she read his flippant letter with a rag- 
 ing sense of bitterness and added indignity that nearly 
 maddened her. 
 
 She paced her room for hours, too restless to remain 
 quiescent — too wretched to occupy herself with any- 
 thing but her own miserable thoughts. She recalled 
 the past, and lived it over again, gleaning little conso- 
 lation from it. She had always known that Walter 
 Thorne’s preference for her was very lukewarm ; that 
 he had submitted to the wishes of his father in engag- 
 ing himself to her, rather than been prompted by any 
 strong feeling on his own part. 
 
 Yet firm in her belief that, as his wife, she could 
 win him to love her, she had not scrupled to hurry 
 their union, though her father had not urged such a 
 course upon her. Mr. Willard knew the state of his 
 afi'airs, and trembling for the future of his daughter, 
 with the small provision he could make for her, he ^ 
 eagerly grasped at the proposal first suggested by 
 Agnes herself, to marry Walter Thorne before his 
 death, and relieve his mind from all dread on her ac- 
 count. Her will had been carried out, yet all that she 
 had gained was thrown away in a moment of ungovern- 
 anger and outraged pride. She had subjected 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 407 
 
 herself to the suspicion of haying secured a rich hus- 
 band before the state of her father’s affairs was known 
 to any one but herself; and for what? To gain the 
 hand of a man who had dishonored himself in her esti- 
 mation ; on whose heart she possessed no claim ; over 
 whose temper there was no control. Yet she loved 
 him ! That was the refrain to all her restless thoughts. 
 
 She would never make him happy ; she did not think 
 she would now even make an effort to do so, yet she 
 could neither release heart nor hand from the fiery 
 bondage in which they were held. 
 
 Fortunately for Agnes she was not in a regular 
 boarding-house, in which her desertion so soon after 
 her marriage must have proved a fruitful theme of 
 gossip. Mrs. Ralston, the mistress of the pleasant 
 house in which her father had taken refuge, was the 
 widow of an old friend of his, who eked out a too 
 narrow income by taking a family into her two spare 
 rooms, and Mr. Willard had been fortunate enough to 
 find them unoccupied on his arrival in Philadelphia. 
 
 Mrs. Ralston was a quiet, undemonstrative woman, 
 who saw all that passed around her, without comment- 
 ing upon it. She was very tender with Agnes, for she 
 saw how unhappy she was, and came to the silent con- 
 viction in her own mind, that the precipitate marriage 
 which had taken place beside the bed of the dying 
 father, was most unfortunate for both parties concerned 
 in it. She read the character of both husband and 
 wife very clearly, and in the early days of their in- 
 aiiSj[)icious union, she saw that all the devotion was 
 on one side, met on the other by a repressed coolness 
 which proved to her that the bridegroom was on his 
 good behavior for the time being. 
 
408 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 But Mrs. Ralston was not prepared for Thorne’s sud« 
 den escapade, and she scarcely knew how to account 
 for it. Here was this young and friendless wife, left a 
 few brief weeks after her marriage, in a strange city 
 entirely alone, while her husband rushed off to New 
 York with a party of gay young men, who would be sure 
 to lead him into every dissipation. 
 
 After that first rude note announcing his departure, 
 Thorne wrote no more to his wife, and week after week 
 rolled by, each day and hour widening the breach be- 
 tween them. The lonely watcher grew wan and list- 
 less ; the fiery agony of her bitter trial burned to ashes, 
 but she still suffered in a dumb, helpless way. 
 
 Christmas came with its festivities. The childreil, 
 of whom Mrs. Ralston had three, made quite a jubilee 
 in the house, and the forlorn Agnes endeavored to in- 
 terest herself in their gleeful sports. She roused her- 
 self from the apathy of grief, to go out and purchase 
 presents for them, in the hope that the sight of their 
 happiness would lift a portion of the leaden weight 
 that lay upon her own heart. 
 
 But nothing could do that ; she smiled on them, lis- 
 tened to their innocent prattle, and replied to it with 
 apparent cheerfulness, but bitter to her was the sound 
 of merry laughter, when her own heart lay like a froz- 
 en thing in her bosom. Six more weeks passed by, 
 and the middle of February had come without bringing 
 any tidings of the absent husband. Unable to endure 
 this neglect any longer, Agnes went into Mrs. Rals- 
 ton’s sitting-room and abruptly asked : 
 
 ‘‘ Do you think it would be difficult to travel to 
 L this week ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Ralston looked up, surprised out of her usual 
 equanimity. 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 409 
 
 ‘‘ My dear Mrs. Thorne, I not only think it would 
 be difficult, almost impossible. Heavy snows have 
 lately fallen, and in many places the roads must be 
 nearly impassable. Besides, how could you go alone ? 
 What would your husband think on his return to find 
 you gone ? ” 
 
 “ It matters very little now what he thinks,” said Ag- 
 nes in a constrained tone. ‘‘ He has been gone two 
 months, and I have not yet heard from him. It would 
 serve him right if I went away, and never allowed him 
 to find me again.” 
 
 ‘‘ My dear young friend, don’t say that. I do not 
 understand what has happened to estrange you and 
 your husband from each other so soon after marriage, 
 but I would strongly advise you to do nothing to 
 alienate him more completely from you. He must be 
 back in a few days more, I think.” 
 
 ‘‘ I do not agree with you. He will stay as long as 
 he is amused ; as long as he thinks he can torture me 
 by his neglect. Oh, Mrs. Ralston ! if my heart had not 
 turned to stone it must have broken long before this 
 time ; ” and with a gasping sob she sat down close to 
 the fire, shivering even in its warmth. 
 
 Mrs. Ralston took her cold hand in both her own, 
 and tenderly caressing it, gently said : 
 
 “ I have seen that you suffered deeply, Mrs. Thorne, 
 but I have refrained from seeking your confidence, for 
 I think that a sense of injury between husband and 
 wife deepens if its cause is discussed with another. 
 When you meet Mr. Thorne again, better feeling may 
 arise between you, and you may yet live together in 
 peace and happiness.” 
 
 “Never! never!” was the passionate response. 
 
410 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 Our home must be a scene of discord, for I am re- 
 sentful and Walter is passionate. He cares nothing 
 for me ; yet — ^yet I was mad enough to exult in the 
 thought of becoming his wife.” 
 
 After a painful pause Mrs. Ralston said : 
 
 ‘‘ Having become such it is your duty to try and 
 smooth the diflBcult path before you. When Mr. 
 Thorne returns, receive him kindly ; act as if nothing 
 had occurred to wound j^ou, and you may yet win the 
 affection you say you do not possess.” 
 
 ‘‘ Too late ! too late,” came brokenly from the pale 
 lips of Agnes. I have angered him beyond forgive- 
 ness, yet I declare to you that mine was not the greatest 
 fault. I cannot explain to you what came between us, 
 for cruelly as Walter has treated me, I do not forget 
 that I am his wife ; that I am bound to shield him from 
 censure if it is in my power to do so.” 
 
 ‘‘You are quite right in that, Mrs. Thorne; and I 
 should be unwilling to listen to any accusation brought 
 by you against your husband. With such right feeling 
 on your part, the estrangement which now causes you 
 so much suffering must come to an end.” 
 
 “ Oh would that it might ! but it never will ! I 
 know that it never will, and if I had strength to tear 
 myself forever from him, it would be better for us both. 
 Tell me, Mrs. Ralston, is it not better for those who 
 know that hope of a perfect reconciliation is impossible, 
 to tear asunder the ties that bind them to each gther, 
 than to drag out life in a weary round of wretched 
 bickering ? Such must be our lot, if we continue to live 
 beneath the same roof.” 
 
 Mrs. Ralston looked shocked ; she gravely said ; 
 
 “ I hope it is not so bad as that, Mrs. Thorne. You 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIKE AND AGNES. 41] 
 
 evidently love your husband very devotedly, whatever 
 may be his feelings toward you ; and so attractive a 
 woman as yourself, should not despair of winning the 
 regard of the man to whom you have plighted your 
 faith. Since you have asked my opinion of a divorce, 
 I will tell you that I consider such a step unjustifiable 
 without extreme ill-usage. Marriage is a contract 
 sanctified by heavenly as well as earthly laws, and the 
 holy book tells us that man shall not sunder those the 
 church has joined. The fate of the woman who sepa- 
 rates herself from her husband is rarely a happy one 
 in the isolation to which she condemns herself; and 
 the voice of the world is always against her. It is 
 often unjust in its condemnation, I know, but that 
 scarcely heals the wounds inflicted by its censures.” 
 
 ‘‘ Then a woman must bear everything and seek no 
 redress. If I could bring myself to tell you why my 
 appeal would be considered just, even by a censorious 
 world, you would reason differently. Tell me this ; if 
 — if the divorced party married again while the hus- 
 band or wife still lives, do you believe the second mar- 
 riage to be valid ? ” 
 
 The law of the land makes it so, but the sacred 
 law is plainly against it. Conscience must be the 
 guide of one placed in such a position. But I should 
 be sorry to think that you would seek freedom from 
 your husband, only to give your hand to another,” re- 
 plied Mrs. Ralston in cold surprise. ‘‘I have not 
 surely been mistaken in believing you ardently at- 
 tached to the man you married.” 
 
 I was ! alas ! I still am in that humiliating bon- 
 dage. I was not thinking of my own course when I 
 asked that question, nor can I explain to what it re- 
 ferred/’ 
 
412 the clandestin-e marriage. 
 
 Mrs. Ralston regarded her compassionately, but said 
 nothing more. After a long pause, Agnes again spoke. 
 
 I must see my husband’s father. Col. Thorne is 
 as much attached to me as he can be to any one. He 
 is a hard man in some respects, but he can, and he will 
 give me such counsel and assistance as I so greatly 
 need. I will no longer wait here for a laggard who 
 never comes. I will brave the snow drifts, and if I 
 perish in them it will be better than living in the icy 
 atmosphere I have lately breathed. I can bear this no 
 longer, and to-morrow I shall set out for L .” 
 
 In vain did Mrs. Ralston combat this resolve. She 
 found too strong a will opposed to hers, and her 
 nephew, a young clerk in the city who boarded with 
 ker, was sent to secure a place in the coach that was 
 to leave the following morning. 
 
 With feverish haste Agnes finished her packing, and 
 sat down to write a few lines to be delivered to 
 Thorne when he returned and found her gone. She 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘ You deserted me in the most shameful and heart- 
 less manner, and not satisfied with that, you sent me a 
 parting blow in the letter you left behind you. 
 
 I have watched, and waited long enough for your 
 return, to satisfy the sense of wifely duty that is in m3? 
 heart, and now, I shall guide my own fate, whethei 
 for weal or woe remains to be seen. I am going to 
 
 L to lay before your father all that has occurred 
 
 between us, and by his decision I will abide. He at 
 least, has feeling enough for me to advise what will be 
 best for me, without reference to you. Agkes. 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 413 
 
 It was a cold, nipping day, with bright sunshine 
 over-head, and a deep snow that had fallen the previ- 
 ous night, upon the earth. But Agnes, wrapped in 
 furs, bade defiance to the severity of the weather, and 
 set out on her long journe}^ 
 
 She felt that the life of weary hopelessness she had 
 lately led, must end in action, or her reason would 
 give way. She took leave of her hostess and the chil- 
 dren, promising to write to Mrs. Ralston, when she had 
 any good news to impart to her, and took her place in 
 the crowded vehicle. Ladies traveling alone, even in 
 winter, is too common an occurrence to attract much 
 notice to any particular one, and Agnes sat silent, and 
 self-absorbed; scarcely noting the progress they made. 
 She had a long journey before her, but that did not 
 daunt her, and the hours passed on, she scarcely knew 
 how. At night, a few hours sleep were obtained, and 
 then on — on they went, over the snow-clad earth. 
 
 A few miles from Philadelphia the coach was ex- 
 changed for a well-appointed sleigh, and the bells on 
 the horses jingled merrily as they dashed over the froz- 
 eri surface- of the snow. Under other circumstances, 
 Agnes would have enjoyed this rapid and exhilarating 
 motion ; even as it was, her spirits began to revive a 
 little, and she looked less like a marble woman than on 
 the day they set out. 
 
 But the long tension on her mind and heart had been 
 too much for her strength to bear, and within a day’s 
 journey of her destination she fell ill, and was com- 
 pelled to stop at a roadside tavern, at which the horses 
 wore changed. 
 
 She was carried in nearly insensible, and the kind- 
 hearted landlady had the best room the house afforded 
 
414 THE CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 prepared for her. Exhausted, both in mind and body, 
 Agnes fell almost immediately into a deep stupor, which 
 lasted so long that Mrs. Jones was alarmed for the re- 
 sult. Fortunately she was a good nurse, and she suc- 
 ceeded in restoring the patient sufficiently to take 
 nourishment, but her mind evidently wandered, and it 
 was many days before she regained control of it. 
 
 For weeks Agnes lay in a state of catalepsy, from 
 which she would arouse to utter wild mutterings, and 
 call upan her husband to come back to her and save 
 her heart from breaking. She always believed that to 
 this state of semi-unconsciousness she owed her life at 
 that time ; her painfully agitated mind relaxed into 
 partial torpor, thus affording time for the physical en- 
 ergies to react and restore the equilibrium which had 
 been so fatally disturbed. 
 
 When Agnes recovered sufficiently to understand 
 where she was, the bright sunshine of early spring was 
 shining in her room and the budding branches of the 
 trees rustled against her window, while the merry 
 chirping of birds greeted her awakening senses. 
 
 She awoke from her long lethargy, and looked won- 
 deringly around the strange room in which she found 
 herself. She attempted to rise, but finding herself too 
 weak to do so, she faintly asked : 
 
 Where am I ? What on earth has happened to 
 bring me to this place ? ” 
 
 A slight figure arose from her seat near the head of 
 the bed, and a young but deeply-saddened face looked 
 down on hers. She hurriedly said : 
 
 You are sane again, thank Heaven ! and I can 
 learn what I wish so earnestly to know. What I hava 
 lingered here so many days to ascertain.’’ 
 
THE MEETITO OF CLAIRE AXD AGNES. 415 
 
 Agnes looked at the speaker with dreamy eyes ; she 
 thought her lovely enough for an angel visitant, though 
 there was little of heavenly peace in those fathomless 
 dark eyes ; little of angelic humility in the curve of 
 the proud lips. 
 
 This being, young as she was, had evidently borne 
 wrong and grief, and they had not softened or improved 
 her nature. Agnes tried to collect her thoughts, and 
 after a pause she asked : 
 
 What is it you wish to know ? I do not remember 
 that I have ever seen you before.” 
 
 ‘‘No, for we never met till four days ago, and in 
 that time j^ou have shown no signs of consciousness till 
 now. I have watched beside you many hours, in the 
 hope that you would revive sufficiently to enlighten me 
 as to what I wish to learn.” 
 
 A sudden light flashed into the dimmed eyes of 
 Agnes, and her numbed heart began to beat violently. 
 She rapidly said : 
 
 “ I understand — who are you ? what do you wish to 
 know of me ? How did you, a stranger, come to watch 
 beside me ? ” 
 
 “It is easily explained. I stopped here for the 
 night, on my way to Virginia. They gave me the next 
 room to this, and through the thin partition I could 
 not avoid hearing your rambling words. The name of 
 Walter Thorne was often on your lips, and — and it 
 possesses also a deep interest for me. I lingered here, 
 and offered my assistance to Mrs. Jones in watching over 
 you, in the hope that you would recover suflSciently to 
 tell me of him. Where is he ? Has he become the 
 Imsband of that young girl his father insisted that he 
 should marry ? Are you another of his broken-hearted 
 victims ? ” 
 
416 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 These words recalled all the bitter past to the un* 
 happy Agnes, and she painfully moaned : 
 
 I am that most unfortunate girl. I am the desert- 
 ed wife of Walter Thorne ; in the first month of our 
 marriage he left me and went to New York. He did 
 not write to me, and after waiting as long as I could 
 for his return, I set out for home alone. I became sud- 
 denly ill, and Heaven knows how long I have lain here. 
 Snow was on the ground ^hen I last remember any- _ 
 thing, and now the leaves are budding on the trees.” 
 
 Claire listened to her with a faint flush stealing to 
 her changed cheek ; the bitter resentment toward the 
 one who had supplanted her died out at this statem'ent, 
 but she fiercely asked : 
 
 ‘‘ Did you not know before you married Walter 
 Thorne that another had been thrust violently from the 
 position you were about to assume? That her heart 
 was broken, her life crushed by the base treachery of 
 which she was the victim ? ” 
 
 As Heaven is my witness, I did not know it. I 
 would have died sooner than give him my hand, if I 
 had been told in time. When I discovered how he 
 had acted, the quarrel that ensued caused the separa- 
 tion between us. He left me in violent anger, and I 
 have not seen him since. I scarcely know now if I 
 ever desire to see him again.” 
 
 Then I have wronged you, and I ask your pardon 
 for it. We are partners in suffering, for you are the 
 deserted wife of that false man and I am his repudiated 
 one. Which is the most unfortunate, it would be diffi- 
 cult to decide. His father will compel him to return 
 to you^ for you were liu choice, though I was Walter’s. 
 With me, he might have become a good man, for he 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 417 
 
 loved me ; with you, he will become a demon of pas- 
 sion, for he is a man to resent bitterly the compulsion 
 which has been used toward him, and he will not be 
 generous enough to forbear toward her who was the 
 
 cause of it. He will breajc your heart, and then 
 
 Well — when you are under the sod, the world shall 
 see how I can avenge the wrongs he has put upon us 
 both.” 
 
 Agnes listened to these words with dilating eyes, and 
 she asked, in faltering tones : 
 
 “ What can you mean ? Are you mad to talk thus ? 
 I wish I had died since I have been lying here. I can- 
 not see why I have been brought back to so wretched 
 a life as mine must henceforth be. Take it, if you will. 
 I have unconsciously injured you, but I have courage 
 to bare my breast to the stroke of your dagger ; the 
 blow from your hand will be less painful than the one 
 he dealt me.” 
 
 Claire shook her head, and a faint but very bitter 
 smile crept to her lips. 
 
 I do not carry a weapon, and if I did, I should not 
 use it on you, though you are my rival. What should 
 I gain by killing you, while the old colonel still lives ? 
 I can wait ; the great reaper. Death, will, in time, re- 
 move you both from my path, for my day must come ; 
 God would not be just if it did not ; and he finds means 
 to punish wrong- doing even in this world. ‘ The mills 
 of the gods gTind slowly,’ but fate consummates all 
 things, if we have patience to wait. I am very young ; 
 I can afford to spend many years in preparing myself 
 for the ordeal that I kuow will come. It is well I 
 stopped here, for I meant to have gone to Philadelphia 
 to find you, and see what sort of rival Walter had giv- 
 26 
 
118 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 eii me. Miss Digby would not tell me your name, nor 
 where you were to be found, but I wiled both out of 
 Barbara. I am afraid that my head is a little flighty 
 yet, for I have been ill, too — ^yes, very, very ill. I 
 liardly think such a wretch as Walter Thorne worth 
 the suffering he has caused to you and me. He t^^ill 
 reclaim you^ and torture you at his leisure ; but take 
 this comfort to your heart, when my turn comes, I will 
 pay him back for all he will inflict on you. My heart 
 he can never again wring with anguish, but I shall find 
 means to reach the very core of his, and inflict on it 
 such pangs as he dreams not of in these gay, and care- 
 less days. He thinks now only of himself and his own 
 enjoyments ; the time shall come, when he shall only 
 realize life through the suffering it brings. But I must 
 bid you adieu ; the coach will soon pass, and I must 
 be ready to take my place in it. I only tarried here to 
 satisfy myself of what you are to Walter Thorne.” 
 
 Before Agnes could repl}’' she flitted from the room, 
 and soon afterward the sound of the stage horn, wind- 
 ing in the distance was l\eard. The coach stopped but 
 for a few moments, and Agnes was glad that her strange 
 visitor was gone. She lay dreamily thinking over the 
 singular interview which had just taken place, till the 
 landlady came in bringing a cup of nourishment in her 
 hand. She saw the new light in the eyes of her 
 patient, and briskly said : 
 
 ‘‘You area deal better to-day, ma’am ; but you’ve 
 been lying in a strange state for the last six weeks. 
 It seemed to me a sort of trance, and I had some diffi- 
 culty in getting you to take nourishment enough to 
 keep you alive. Sometimes you’d get excited, and 
 ^alk about some man you called Walter, but most o’ 
 
^ THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 419 
 
 the time 3^011 lay quiet enough. Drink tliis, ma’am, and 
 jT)u’ll soon come ’round now.” 
 
 Agnes mechanically obej^ed, and soon after fell into 
 a natural and refreshing slumber ; from that daj" her 
 recovery Avas slow, but certain. The interview be- 
 tween herself and Claire had given the fillip her men- 
 tal faculties needed, for her illlness had been more of 
 the mind than the body. But for the long torpor in 
 which her senses had been locked, Agnes always be- 
 lieved that she must have lost her reason ; she suffered 
 3^et, but not so keenly as in those first days of anguish, 
 and a cold sense of wrong had usurped the place of the 
 tender trust she had once placed in Walter Thorne’s 
 native nobleness of character. 
 
 She Avas at length able to sit up beside the window 
 of her room, Avhich looked toAvard the road. Day after 
 day she vaguely watched the passers by, hoping and 
 believing that one familiar form must appear upon it, 
 coming in search of herself. By this time her hus- 
 band must surely have become aAvare of her departure 
 
 from Philadelphia, and followed her to L . Col. 
 
 Thorne himself must have become uneasy at not hearing 
 from her, and inquiries must soon be made for her. II 
 the}^ Avere not, Agnes had half determined to evade 
 them all, and conceal herself for ever from the mau 
 who had so heartlessly treated her. 
 
 Thinldng thus one bright morning toward the end 
 of Aj^ril, she sat Avith dreary eyes looking out upon the 
 sunny landscape, at times wondering AA^hy a broken 
 life could never revive again, as nature does, putting 
 forth neAv blossoms, and concealing old wounds. 
 
 The house stood back from the road with a yard in 
 front, filled Avith grass and fruit trees, and those who 
 
420 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 came to it, could only be seen when they entered the 
 enclosure. The day was unusually warm for the sea- 
 son, and the window was open which looked toward 
 the gate. Agnes, wrapped in a shawl, sat beside it, 
 listlessly, dreaming sweet and bitter fancies, when the 
 «ound of a familiar voice below made her stagnant 
 blood leap in her veins. It said : 
 
 ‘‘We have been baffled thus far, but we may have 
 better luck here. Let us go in and inquire.” 
 
 The latch clicked, and a gray-haired man of stately 
 bearing, came up the brick walk leading to the house, 
 followed by a younger one. The landlord was sitting 
 before the door, smoking, and after the usual saluta- 
 tions Agnes heard Col. Thorne say : 
 
 “We have called here, sir, to inquire if a young 
 friend of ours has been detained by accident or illness 
 in this house ? A lady, traveling alone, set out on this 
 road two months ago, and she has not been heard from 
 since. Is such a person here ? ” 
 
 Mr Jones removed his pipe, and leisurely replied : 
 
 “ Oh — ah — so you’ve got message about her at last, 
 have you ? Me and my old woman has been wonder- 
 ing if nobody belonged to a young critter like that, 
 that would be coming to ask after her. There is a un- 
 common pretty young gal up stairs, that has been in a 
 dazed kind o’ way, but we took good care on her, and 
 she’s coming round again, and will soon be chirk enough 
 I guess.” 
 
 “ It must be Agnes ! ” exclaimed Col. Thorne, “ I 
 shall be glad to see this lady, if she will receive me. 
 Take up this card if you please, and inquire if she 
 will grant a few moments conversation to the person 
 who sent it.” 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 421 
 
 Be you her father ? ” asked Mr. Jones, bluntly ; 
 ‘‘ and this youngster, mebbe, is her brother ? ’’ 
 
 I am her father-m-Zaz4^, and this young gentleman 
 is her husband, provided your guest is the person we 
 are in search of.” 
 
 Pheugh ! — then she’s run away from him, I sup- 
 pose, or you would’nt a had to hunt her up in this way. 
 She’s the right ticket anyhow, for she told my old 
 woman that her name is the same that’s on this bit of 
 pasteboard.” 
 
 In his most stately manner Col. Thorne said : 
 
 ‘^Pray oblige me, sir, by keeping your suppositions 
 to yourself, and taking my message to the young per- 
 son I wish to see.” 
 
 Agnes overheard the whole conversation, and she 
 B tok back shivering with dread and uncertain tj^ as to 
 how the approaching interview might end. In spite of 
 all she had gone through, she yearned to hear the sound 
 of Walter Thorne’s voice again; to behold the face that 
 had so long been to her the dearest on earth. She de- 
 spised herself for thus weakly clinging to the man who 
 had shown himself so unworthy of the love she still 
 bore him, yet all her efforts were powerless to over- 
 come it. 
 
 All her late apathy was gone now ; her heart thrilled 
 and throbbed as if it would burst from her bosom ; her 
 eyes regained their brightness; and when Mrs. Jones 
 came in to inform her that friends were below who 
 wished to see her, she quickly replied : 
 
 ‘‘ I will see Col. Thorne, I know that he is tliere, 
 for I saw him as he came up the yard ; but I wish him 
 to come to me alone.” 
 
 The landlady stared at her as she said : 
 
422 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 It’s him that wants to come up. But it seems 
 mighty strange if the young one is your husband, that 
 you want to see ,the old gentleman first, seeing how 
 long you’ve been away from home.” 
 
 Agnes spoke with all her old stateliness of manner : 
 
 “ You have been very kind to me in my long illness, 
 Mrs. Jones, and I feel very grateful to you ; but that 
 does not give you the right to pry into my affairs. I 
 shall be glad if you will carry my message at once, 
 and bring only the elder gentleman to me. I shall see 
 my husband afterward.” 
 
 “ In course, ma’am ; I did’nt mean nothing to offend 
 you. I has took good care of you, but you has paid 
 your way like a lady, I will say ; and it’s no business 
 o’ mine to be meddling in what don’t concern me any 
 way. But if you, and your young man has quarreled 
 like, you’d better make it up with him. For man and 
 wife to separate is like taking the rivit out’n a pair of 
 shears ; they aint no use arterwards. Mebbe he’ll go 
 to the dogs, and you won’t be no better off for know- 
 ing that ; but leastways you know your own business 
 best.” 
 
 Having given utterance to this piece of wisdom, 
 Mrs. Jones hastily retreated, and Agnes with a bitter 
 smile, muttered : 
 
 The same advice from two of my cwn sex should 
 surely decide me to accept the destiny that binds me 
 to Walter Thorne. Alas ! my own traitorous heart 
 prompts me to the same course, although I am certain 
 that the authority of his father alone has brought him 
 in search of me.” 
 
 The sound of approaching steps was heard, a light 
 tap came to her door, and Col. Thorne, looking 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 423 
 
 harassed, and worn, came into the room. His stern 
 face lighted up as his eyes fell on Agnes, and hasten- 
 ing toward her he clasped her tenderly in his arms, as 
 he said : 
 
 “You have suffered much, my dear child, and we 
 have been very uneasy about you since we learned 
 your departure from Philadelphia. Till lately, I 
 thought you were in New York with Walter, or you 
 would not have been left so long unsought. I heard 
 frorn him regularly, and although your name was 
 briefly mentioned, he gave me no reason to suppose 
 that he had actually left you alone in a strange city so 
 soon after your union.” 
 
 While speaking, he gently replaced her in her chair, 
 and drew forward another for himself in such a posi- 
 tion that he could see her face perfectly, without hav- 
 ing the glare of light from the window thrown upon 
 his own. 
 
 “ Then you do not think I was wrong to try and 
 get to you, that I might be guided by your advice ? ” 
 she tremulously asked. 
 
 “ No, my dear daughter ; I place the blame where 
 it is due, upon Walter’s shoulders and mine own. I 
 should not have insisted on an immediate marriage be- 
 tween you. That scandalous affair in which he was 
 implicated, should have had time to die away — you 
 should have had time to forgive, and forget it; 3^ou 
 would have done it, for I am sure that in his heart 
 Walter prefers you to the unformed creature he be- 
 came so fascinated with for a season. He is now most 
 anxious for a reconciliation, and willing to atone in 
 eveiy possible manner for his late desertion.” 
 
 “ Oh, Col. Thorne,” asked Agnes with emotion, “do 
 
424 tre clandestine marriage. 
 
 you think you treated lue well in keeping the incon- 
 stancy of your son concealed from me ? You should 
 yourself have stated the whole case to me, and given 
 me the option of breaking forever with Walter, or re- 
 ceiving him again with favor. You kept me in the 
 dark, and see what has come of it.” 
 
 ‘‘Well, my dear, what has come of it, but Avhat I 
 anticipated ? ” he asked, in his silkiest manner. “ Few 
 married couples settle down without clearing the do- 
 mestic atmosphere by a rousing quarrel or two. You 
 had good cause to give Walter a good rating, and I am 
 glad you had the spirit to do it.* He will have a 
 wholesome dread of your sharpness from this time for- 
 ward ; after a fight, a truce, you know, and you will 
 keep the peace toward each other more scrupulously 
 than if this flare up llad not occurred.” 
 
 “ But — but. Col. Thorne, I have been so grievously 
 wronged, and insulted, that — that I really think your 
 son and myself had better agree to live apart. I am 
 sure that we shall not keep the peace, as you express 
 it. for neither he nor I are angels of forbearance.” 
 
 “ My dear Agnes, that may be true enough, but 
 what you propose is out of the question. It is not 
 respectable for married people to live apart ; besides, 
 you should have some consideration for me. Here am 
 I, a forlorn old man, who has been looking forward to 
 the, time when I should have a pleasant companion in 
 the person of a certain young lady for whom I have a 
 strong attachment, and now she cooll}^ threatens to 
 throw both father and husband overboard, and go, 
 Heaven knows where, herself! My dear daughter, I 
 cannot consent to give you up. Come liome witli me 
 and give Walter tlie o[ipoi‘lunity to win back the love. 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 425 
 
 you once felt for him. You have both been in the 
 wrong. You were too bitter and he too resentful ; but 
 with myself for mediator between you, I do not de- 
 spair of yet bringing about a good understanding.” 
 
 ‘‘ You are too sanguine, I am afraid,” she gloomily 
 replied. ‘‘ Walter cares nothing for me or he would 
 never have gone away from me^as he did. It is four 
 months since we met, and we had not lived together as 
 many weeks. He went to seek amusement in a gay 
 crowd, leaving me to wear my heart out in lonely 
 struggles and vain regrets. So lately bereaved of my 
 father, he was hard , enough to inflict on me the an- 
 guish of finding myself a forsaken wife. Do you sup- 
 pose that I can ever forget that? No — with our past, 
 it is better to be sundered as widely as the poles. I 
 will go with you to Thornhill, if you wish it, but 
 Walter had better return to the society of the gay 
 companions for which he left me.” 
 
 But, Agnes, you must remember that you spoke 
 very harshly to your husband, and he has not a for- 
 bearing temper any more than yourself. I ask this 
 grace for my son. Let him make the effort to win 
 your forgiveness ; I am sure that your heart is not 
 closed to him, and when you see him daily you will 
 relent, and remain at Thornhill, not only as my daugh- 
 ter, but as Walter’s honored and cherished wife.” 
 
 ‘‘Did he wish this himself? Did he send you to 
 me as his ambassador, in the hope that a reunion might 
 be effected ? ” 
 
 “ He did. Walter has told you himself that he re- ' 
 fuses to grant the separation you demanded in a mo- 
 ment of passion. He thinks, as I do, that Avhen you 
 have seen how deeply he regrets the misunderstanding 
 
426 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 that severed you, your heart must return to its old ah 
 legiance.” 
 
 ‘‘ And Ms heart,” she bitterly asked, “ what of that? 
 Does it still cling to — to the girl he preferred to me ? ” 
 That folly has been repented of, and should be no 
 more referred to. The girl will never cross your path, 
 be assured of that. 3he has already gone back to her 
 friends. That chapter in my son’s life is closed for- 
 ever, so set your jealous fears at rest.” 
 
 Agnes thought of the sad, young face that had bent 
 over her couch two weeks before, and sighed ; but she 
 said nothing of the singular meeting Claire had sought, 
 nor of the threats she had uttered. She considered 
 her temporarily deranged, and gave little weight to 
 them. In truth she was too wretched herself, to give 
 much thought to the sufferings of another. 
 
 She sat silent so long that Col. Thorne, who was 
 attentively regarding her face, at length asked : 
 
 ‘‘ Do you require time to make up your mind to re- 
 ceive the repentant prodigal, m}^ daughter ? ” I will 
 not doubt the result ; for such love as you have felt 
 for Walter is not easily cast aside ; yours must brighten 
 with life again, when he asks you to restore it to him 
 as the most precious boon that can be accorded him.” 
 
 A faint tinge of color came for the first time since 
 her illness into her marble face, and with a sigh she 
 said : 
 
 ‘‘ If I could only believe that, I — I might relent, for 
 my own heart plays the traitor to me, and prompts me 
 to the course you urge ; though alas ! I feel the convic- 
 tion that happiness can never spring from the re-union 
 of your son and myself.” 
 
 ‘‘Let us, at least, make another trial, Agnes,” said ( 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 427 
 
 voice that thrilled through every pulse of her being. 
 With a start she raised her head to find her husband 
 standing beside her, with arms opened to enfold her 
 in his embrace.” 
 
 Acting on the impulse of the moment Agnes sprang 
 up, it seemed to her, without any volition of her own, 
 and fell, weak and trembling, upon his breast. While 
 she wept convulsively, Thorne caressed her tenderly 
 and whispered : 
 
 ‘‘ Forgive me, Agnes, and take^ me back to your 
 heart. I will try to make you contented at least. 
 There is nothing left for either of us now but to make 
 the best of the fate we have embraced. Our lot may 
 not be a cloudless one, but at least we can try to live 
 together in unity and peace.” 
 
 She raised her head and said : 
 
 After such a demonstration as this, I have no right 
 to refuse. I am weak as water where you are con- 
 cerned, Walter, and I concede to you what I lately 
 deemed impossible. You may break my heart as has 
 been foretold, but it must cling to you or perish.” 
 
 Col. Thorne softly left the room, and with a sense 
 of triumph Walter felt that his battle was won. Whe- 
 ther he would come off conqueror in those that still 
 remained to be fought, the future alone could deter- 
 mine. He glossed over his abrupt departure and pro- 
 longed silence as well as was possible, and Agnes, wil- 
 ling to be deceived, listened to his excuses and tried to 
 believe them. 
 
 Thorne did not tell her that his father almost forced 
 him to join in the search for her ; that motives of self- 
 interest swayed him ; for Col. Thorne held the mort- 
 gage on Willow Glen, and upon it had been discovered 
 
428 the clandestine makkiagb. 
 
 a coal mine that was found to be very valuable. The 
 old man had closed the mortgage, taken possession of 
 the property, and offered it to his son as the price of a 
 perfect reconciliation with his wife. 
 
 Agnes was strong enough to travel, and preparations 
 for an immediate departure were made. Col. Thorne 
 and his son had their own carriage, and the pale in- 
 valid well wrapped up, was tenderly placed on the back 
 seat, after taking a kind leave of Mrs. Jones, whose 
 broad face beamed with satisfaction at the result of 
 the interview between the estranged husband and 
 wife. 
 
 She leaned into the carriage and oracularly said ; 
 
 “ It’s all for the best, ma’am. If a married woman 
 can’t find happiness with her good man, she aint 
 likely to find it anywhere else in this vale of tears.” 
 
 I believe you are right, Mrs. Jones, and therefore 
 I return to my duty as a wife, and I shall neyer for- 
 get how good you were to me, and I hope you will re- 
 member me kindly.” 
 
 ‘‘No fear about that, ma’am. I shall not forget 
 how patient you’ve been, nor how liberal with your 
 money. I’m paid three times over what I did for you. 
 Keep a stout heart, and you and your handsome hus- 
 band will get along as well as most married folks do.” 
 
 They shook hands cordially, the gentlemen took 
 their places on the front seat, and Walter took the 
 reins. 
 
 It was a bright and balmy day, and Agnes felt new 
 life and hope revive within her with every passing hour. 
 On the following evening they arrived at Thornhill, 
 over which she was enstalled as mistress, and for a few 
 weeks all went on smoothly enough. Her father-in- 
 
THE MEETING OF CLAIRE AND AGNES. 429 
 
 law 's stay with them was brief, for he had already been 
 inaugurated as governor of the State, and could not 
 linger long in his old home. 
 
 As long as Col. Thorne remained, the conduct of 
 Walter toward his wife was kind and considerate, but 
 as soon as they were left alone, he showed the utmost 
 indifference to her, at times verging almost on con- 
 tempt ; for Thorne could not deny himself the pleas- 
 ure of proving to his wife that he had not forgotten 
 her bitter words, and did not intend to forgive them. 
 
 He considered himself w^ronged of his freedom, and 
 despised Agnes for the very love that brought her back 
 to his arms. When a daughter was given to them, he 
 showed no fondness for the child, and the link that 
 should have bound them more closely together, became 
 an additional cause of bitterness and discord. 
 
 Agnes, with all her natural pride, and fire, resented 
 not only the treatment she received at her husband’s 
 hands, but the utter indifference he manifested to her 
 helpless little one, because it was tier child. 
 
 She looked forward to a long visit to Harrisburg as 
 an agreeable change in the unhappy life they led to- 
 gether, but fate denied her even that. A sudden, and 
 brief illness deprived her of the best friend she had, 
 ^ in the person of the ambitious Governor, and Thorne 
 i)ecame the undisputed possessor of his father’s wealth, 
 and the ruthless master of her life. 
 
 Agnes would not leave him now, for she would never 
 be separated from her child, and she knew that little 
 as Thorne cared for her darling May, he would never 
 permit her to be removed from beneath his roof. 
 
 So the years passed on — she had her nursery — her 
 husband, his studio, and they never sought each other 
 in confidence, or affection. 
 
430 CLANDESTINE MARRIAGE. 
 
 Vv^hen the tedium of his home became too oppress! ve^ 
 Walter Thorne left it for weeks, or months, as the 
 wliim seized him, and his wife soon learned to consider 
 these seasons of absence the only quiet and peaceful 
 ones she enjoyed. She had but one friend. Ada Dig- 
 by pitied the terrible mistake both had made, but her 
 sympathies were given to the woman whose fate had 
 been wrecked through her unappreciated affection for 
 a hard and ungrateful man. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVL 
 
 CLAIR E’S return. 
 
 O N a warm evening in April, Mrs. Courtnay was sit- 
 ting in her own room, looking over papers, and ar- * 
 ranging them before going on the long journey that lay 
 before her. 
 
 The preparations for embarking in the early part of 
 May were nearly completed. Her son was at home^ 
 but he was restless and unhappy, and she feared the 
 disappointment he had met would exert an unfavorable 
 effect upon his future life. On Andrew’s return to the 
 fir range, his first inquiry was after Claire, and when 
 told that she had not been heard from, he declared that 
 he would go in pursuit of the man who had stolen her 
 away, and if he had wronged her in any manner, he 
 would exact a fearful expiation from him. 
 
 His mother used all her influence to detain him near 
 her, and finally extorted from him a promise that he 
 would wait till within two weeks of the time appointed 
 for their embarkation before seeking Claire. Then, if 
 
CLAIRE’S RETURN TO THE VALLEY. 43) 
 
 no news from her came, he might make inquiries in 
 person, and satisfy himself as to the fate she had met. 
 
 As the days and weeks passed on, bringing no letters 
 from Claire, Mrs. Courtnay also became very anxious 
 to ascertain something of her god -child, and she felt 
 as unwilling as Andrew to go so far away without sat- 
 isfying herself as to her actual condition. 
 
 The last evening of the stipulated time arrived ; her 
 son had gone over to the post-office himself, and she 
 was anxiously listening for his return in the hope that 
 he would bring a letter for her from the absent one. 
 
 At length she heard his step upon the piazza, and 
 laying down the paper she had been looking over, she 
 glanced eagerly toward the door. Andrew came in, 
 frowning heavily and throwing his riding- whip upon the 
 floor, angrily said : 
 
 ‘‘ It is the last day of grace, and there is nothing for 
 you. Not a line — not a word to the friends who would 
 have stood by her through everything. Claire is not 
 ungrateful — I maintain that, though she did elope from 
 your protection ; and if she had an3^thing good to tell, 
 she would have written long ago. I know that the 
 wretch she trusted has blasted her life, or broken her 
 heart. For either he shall dearly pay, I swear it. I 
 will go in pursuit of him to-morrow ; it is now more 
 than six months since she left the Grange, and it is 
 high time that somebody interested in her fate should 
 be looking after her. I can act the part of her brother, 
 if a nearer and dearer relationship was denied me.” . 
 
 His mother reluctantly replied : 
 
 I suppose that no other course is now left. I am 
 very anxious about the poor girl myself ; but, Andrew, 
 I am afraid that sending such a fire-brand as you in 
 
432 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 pursuit of her, is not the wisest plan I could adopt. 1 
 
 think it Avill be best for us to travel together to L , 
 
 and if Claire has been badly treated, I can stand her 
 friend better than you. We can go on from there to 
 New York in time to embark on the India. She sails 
 on the eleventh of May, and we have ample time to 
 discover what has become of my poor child.” 
 
 Suppose he has murdered her,” said Andrew, with 
 dilating eyes. ‘‘ I have read of such things, and her 
 incomprehensible silence gives us license to think the 
 worst. Such an unmitigated scoundrel as I believe 
 this Thorne to be, would he capable of anything.” 
 
 ‘‘ Yes — anything short of murder,” said a voice that 
 startled both mother and son. Andrew started from 
 the seat on which be had thrown himself, and rushed 
 toward the open door. 
 
 There, standing in the shadow, was the worn and 
 weary phantom of the bright sylph who had fled from 
 the shelter of that roof a few brief months before. The 
 light of childhood had faded from her brow, its smiles 
 from her lips, and she appeared ten years older than 
 when they had looked upon her. 
 
 Claire came forward with languid steps, knelt before 
 Mrs. Courtnay, and burying her face in her dress, in a 
 voice sharpened by anguish, cried out : 
 
 ‘‘ I have come back, desolate and broken hearted, to 
 the sole friend I can claim on earth, and if you refuse 
 to receive me, there is nothing left for me but to die. 
 Oh, mamma ! I am the most wretched of women ! ” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay lifted her in her arms, caressed her 
 tenderly, and wept some bitter tears over her. She 
 softly said : 
 
 “ You were riglit to come to me in your trouble, 
 
CLAIRE’S RETURN TO THE V'ALLEY. 433 
 
 Claire, and the promise I made your father shall be 
 sacredly fulfilled. But where is your husband ? Why 
 are you alone ? and how is it that I have not been kept 
 informed of what happened to you ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ I had nothing good to tell you — nothing save hu- 
 miliation and anguish worse than death. Look at my 
 face, my hands, do they not show you that I have 
 struggled with illness that brought me almost to the 
 verge of the grave ? The man for whom I forsook you, 
 cast me off, he broke the feeble link that bound him 
 to me, and gave his hand to another girl to whom he 
 had been betrothed before he came hither. His father, 
 a hard, stern man, refused to acknowledge the penni- 
 less bride Walter had found for himself, and I was 
 ignominiously turned from his house. Had my hus- 
 band been true to me, he would have been disinherited. 
 He weighed me in the balance against his father’s 
 gold, and that preponderated.” 
 
 u Wretch ! ” exclaimed Andrew, through his closed 
 teeth. ‘‘ How dared he wreck the life he had prom- 
 ised to cherish and make happy ? Claire, you shall be 
 avenged. The coward thought you had no friend to 
 stand by you, but I, boy as I am, I will bring him to 
 an account for his baseness ! ” 
 
 She turned toward him with an expression of dreary 
 calmness, and said : 
 
 “ No, Andrew, that must not be. I thank you for 
 the interest you manifest in my fate, but it is settled 
 now, and a duel with Mr. Thorne could not do me any 
 good. The day will come — shall come, in which I Avill 
 repay him with interest, for every pang he has made 
 me suffer. I can live on till that time arrives, prepar 
 ing myself for the part I shall have to play.” 
 
 ‘ 27 , 
 
434 the clandestine makriage. 
 
 ‘‘ I consent on one condition,” replied Andrew, 
 gloomily : ‘‘ and that is, that I shall be permitted to 
 aid you in bringing retribution to this man who has so 
 irreparably injured 5"Ou.” 
 
 Claire paused a moment, and then said : 
 
 Perhaps I may need you — if so, I will call on 
 you.” 
 
 Oh, my children, what compact is that you are 
 making ? ” cried Mrs. Courtnay in alarm. ‘‘ Forgive, 
 as you hope to be forgiven, is the Christian law, and 
 you both must learn to abide by it.” 
 
 Claire turned from Andrew, and in tones of pathetic 
 entreat}^ said : 
 
 Oh, mamma, take me in your arms again ; let me 
 feel that I have a shelter on the tender heart that 
 watched over my childhood, and softer feelings' may 
 come to me. I treated you very badly, but I have 
 been bitterly punished — how bitterly, God and my own 
 heart alone know.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay again clasped her to her breast, and 
 tenderly said : 
 
 ‘‘ I forgive you, my child. I receive you back as a 
 gift from Heaven, for I have sadly missed you. We 
 will go far from this country ; in new scenes, you shall 
 forget this sad episode in your life, and yet be happy.” 
 
 Claire shivered, and mournfully replied : 
 
 That is a word that henceforth has no meaning for 
 me. But I can live on without it, cherishing the pur- 
 pose that has given me courage to face the desolation 
 of mj^ lot. Oh, mamma, I am no longer the bright, 
 pure spirit I once was. Fallen — fallen is my nature, 
 and I can make no effort to exorcise the demon which 
 ever whispers that vengeance on that false man may 
 yet be minc^” 
 
CLAIRE’S RETURN TO THE VALLEY. 436 
 
 Husli, hush, my dear Claire ; this is madness. In 
 time, your mind will regain its true tone, and with a 
 return of tranquillity, the evil promptings will cease. 
 No man, and still less woman, should arrogate the 
 right of Deity to punish wrong. Quiet your agita- 
 tion, and try and tell me all that has happened to you 
 since we parted.” 
 
 Claire sat down beside her friend, shook aside the 
 short curls with which her head was covered, and af- 
 ter a pause to collect her thoughts, commenced from 
 the night of the flight from the Grange, and told all 
 she could remember of her painful experience. She 
 ended by saying : 
 
 I should have come back to you as soon as I was 
 strong enough to travel, but the kind friend who re- 
 ceived me, would not permit me to leave her house 
 while the winter lasted. She wished me to remain 
 wdth her altogether, but that was impossible. Only 
 with the friend of my childhood, could I hope for 
 peace. I left Miss Digby’s house at last, without her 
 knowledge, for she always had some excuse for detain- 
 ing me, and I feared you would be gone, if I tarried 
 longer witli her. On the way hither, I stopped at a 
 country tavern, because I was too weak to travel 
 through the night. I there found my rival, deserted 
 like myself, in the first weeks of her marriage. Wal- 
 ter Thorne obeyed his father’s commands to the letter, 
 but broke them in the spirit, for his last wife was 
 
 traveling alone to L , when she fell ill on the way, 
 
 and he was, Heaven knows where, amusing himself. 
 I saw her, spoke with her, and I pitied her, for she 
 loves him, and he, in spite of his conduct to me, I 
 know he loves 
 
436 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 My dear Claire, rid yourself of that idea, for Mr. 
 Thorne loves no one but himself. Without remorse he 
 has sacrificed both you and her, but you are more fortu- 
 nate than she is, you are freed from him. Do not 
 delude yourself with the belief that this man ever 
 truly loved you.” 
 
 Claire almost passionately cried : 
 
 It is no delusion ! He made one little month of 
 mj life a dream of Heaven ! He is hard, unprinci- 
 pled, and as you say, supremely selfish, but such heart 
 as he has, is mine — all mine, and on that certainty I 
 base my hopes of retribution. I will not give it up, 
 for it is all I have to live* for. Take that hope from 
 me, and I shall perish.” 
 
 Her eyes flashed, her pale cheeks flushed, and Mrs. 
 Courtnay soothinglj^ said : 
 
 “We will not speak any more of that at present. 
 Finish your recital, my dear ; who brought you hither 
 to-night, and how came Andrew to miss you, for he 
 has just returned from the post-office.” 
 
 “ I came in the coach to S and walked on here ; 
 
 I saw Andrew as he passed thi'ough the woodland, but 
 I concealed myself, as I wished to meet 3fou before 
 speaking with him.” 
 
 “ You came alone four miles through the forest, and 
 at night too ! You who were once afraid to go through 
 the house after dark.” 
 
 “ It is my lot to go 2^.' ,.ne now. I know that hence- 
 forth I must suffice to myself. I was not afraid in the 
 woodland, because I felt that there the great spirit of 
 nature was around me as a protecting presence. Houses 
 are sometimes haunted by evil spirits, but forests never 
 that I have heard of. The only phantoms that crossed 
 
CLAIRE’S RETURN TO THE VALLEY. 437 
 
 my path to-night, were the memories of that fatal one 
 in which I left the safe shelter of this roof, and went 
 forth with one unworthy of belief or trust. Oh mam- 
 ma ! you are very good to take me back again, but I 
 hope that I shall not long be a burden to you.’’ 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay regarded her with surprise. 
 
 What can you mean, Claire ? I hope you are not 
 already maturing another plan to desert me ? ” 
 
 If I am, it is not to return to my recreant husband, 
 for he is my husband, in spite of the decree that 
 annulled our union. Our church does not sanction 
 divorce, and I am Walter’s lawful wife, though that 
 other poor victim will bear all his harshness and in- 
 difference in the belief that it is her duty to do so. 
 Let me tell you my plans, mamma, and I am sure that 
 you will sanction them. You are aware that my father 
 left a son in France, who is a middle-aged man now. 
 He is rich, though he left us to live in poverty, but I 
 do not think that was altogether Armand’s fault. I 
 shall appeal to him to do a brother’s part by me ; take 
 me to France with you, where I shall probably find 
 one both able and willing to provide for me.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay was silent a few moments ; she then 
 said, Avitli a glance toward her son, who had been an 
 eager listener to this conversation, 
 
 ‘‘ I know something of your brother, and we will 
 settle about this at some future day. But, is it possi- ' 
 ble that Mr. Thorne has been base enough to cast you 
 oflF, without affording the means of living independ- 
 ently of others, to one he has so irreparably injured ? ” 
 Claire drew her slight form up with a movement of 
 superb disdain. 
 
 ‘‘ Compensation in money was offered by his father, 
 
438 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 for Walter has nothing of his own ; but I refused it 
 I would sooner toil for my daily bread, than be in- 
 debted for it to the man who so cruelly insulted me ; 
 who sent me from his house as if I had been a lej^er 
 whose presence infected its atmosphere. When 1 
 enter it again, it will be to put my foot upon the neck 
 of him who permitted me to be so ignominiously thrust 
 from the home of which I should now be mistress.” 
 
 With fiery impulsiveness Andrew here broke in : 
 
 You were right, Claire, to refuse his money. Like 
 faiiy gold, it Avould have brought a curse wdth it. But 
 do not speak or think of ever going back to the house 
 from which you were spurned. You have a better 
 one always open to you, with true hearts in it, who will 
 do their best to render you at least contented. Only 
 let me do something for you. Let me prove by my 
 actions how ready I am to do battle in your cause. I 
 
 will go to L- , find this man, and make him answer 
 
 for his baseness.” 
 
 Claire turned towards him, and grasped his hand. 
 
 ‘‘ Dear Andrew, you are a true cavalier, and I thank 
 and honor you. But for me no risk must be run ; no 
 blood shall be shed on my account, and if you were to 
 seek Walter Thorne, that would surely follow your 
 ^ meeting. Leave me to work out my own plans ; the 
 blood I refuse to allow to flow in expiation of my 
 wrongs, shall yet be wrung from his heart in drops of 
 bitterness^ My hand alone shall strike the blow that 
 shall reach him ; you are but a boy, and I will never 
 consent to embroil you with the wretch who has de- 
 stroyed my youth, and made my life -desolate.” 
 
 Wliile she thus spoke, Claire looked so wild and 
 fierce, that Mrs. Courtnay was firmly impressed with 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 
 
 4S9 
 
 the belief that her mind had not entirely recovered 
 from the shock of her desertion. She gently said : 
 
 ‘‘You need repose, Claire. Come with me to your 
 old room, no one has occupied it since you went away. 
 I will order some refreshments sent up to you, before 
 you retire.” 
 
 “ Yes — I am very iveary, but I do not need food, I 
 
 took supper at S , and by this time it is known 
 
 through the village that I have returned alone. It is 
 well that we are going away, for I could not live here 
 in the future. Good night, Andrew ; I shall not for- 
 get that you would have avenged my broken life, but 
 that species of retribution would not suit my purpose.” 
 
 The ardent youth took the hand she held out to him, 
 and pressed it so fervently to his lips, that she sud- 
 denly withdrew it, and proudly said : 
 
 “Do not be too demonstrative to a wedded wife, 
 Andrew. Remember that, in my own eyes, I am that, 
 though I have permitted my husband to put another 
 in my place. I am helpless now to right myself, but 
 it will not always be so. Good night.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 CLAIREATHOME. 
 
 C LAIRE left the room with her friend, and half an 
 hour later, Mrs. Courtnay returned to find her 
 son pacing the floor like a madman. He turned fiercely 
 upon her, and rapidly said : 
 
 Claire cannot mean it ; she will never be so silly as 
 
440 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 to cling to the absurd idea of bringing retribution to a 
 man who is unworthy of a single thought ! Oh, 
 mother ! to have her back with us on any terms, is 
 happiness to me. We must win her to forget him, and 
 be to us what she formerly was.” 
 
 If you ask for nothing more than that, my son, 1 
 think we may succeed,” replied his mother. “ The 
 poor child has endured more than the bitterness of 
 death ; and knowing how deeply she has suffered, I 
 forgive her for her treatment to myself. I will do all 
 that is possible to restore her to her former brightness 
 of heart ; but to you she can never be more than a 
 sister.” 
 
 Why not ? If I can make her love me, I will 
 marry her, in spite of every argument against it. I am 
 my own master — or, at least I shall, be when I am 
 twenty-one — and I shall then use my freedom as I 
 choose.” 
 
 My dear Andrew, you are cheating yourself with 
 a fatal delusion. Claire will never give up the wild 
 hope of yet compelling Walter Thorne to acknowledge 
 her before the world as his wife. I fully understand 
 that from her strange words. I fear that her mind is 
 warped ; but she has always shown singular tenacity 
 of purpose, and you nor any other man will be able to 
 induce her to abjure the phantom she is bent on pur- 
 suing, and accept in its place the love of an honest 
 heart.” 
 
 We shall see,” he moodily replied. If I thought 
 this Thorne would be always in my path, I would seek 
 him out at once, and slay him with m}’' own hand. He 
 merits such a fate if man ever did.” 
 
 That course would scarcely serve your cause with 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 
 
 441 
 
 Claire/’ said Mrs. Courtnay coldly. You seem very 
 ready to fasten on yourself a life-long remorse, and 
 speak of taking a human life as calmly as if the law of 
 God does not forbid it. I regret to see that all my 
 teachings have produced so little fruit.” 
 
 ‘‘ But this man is unworthy to live ! It would be 
 doing good service to mankind, to blot out from among 
 them such an ingrate as he has proved himself,” cried 
 Andrew impetuously. 
 
 ‘‘ That may be, but it is not you who have the right 
 to sit up in judgment upon him, and then proceed to 
 execute the sentence you have yoursolf pronounced 
 against him. Besides, Claire would never forgive you, 
 if you undertook to redress her wrongs in that way.” 
 
 Andrew angrily exclaimed : 
 
 Then she cares for him still ! If she hates him as 
 her words implied, she would thank and reward the 
 man who took up her cause and avenged it.” 
 
 His mother gently replied : 
 
 The human heart is difficult of comprehension ; 
 but, if T read Claire’s aright, there is beneath all its 
 bitterness a delusive hope that a day of reunion will 
 come between herself and Walter Thorne. That is the 
 only consolation she has now ; judge then how little 
 she would thank you for interfering between them in 
 any way.” 
 
 ‘‘ But she must put aside so wild a notion ; she must 
 forget him, or think of him only with contempt and 
 aversion. How can she cling to a man who has so 
 ruthlessly crushed her? Mother, Claire shall yet 
 turn from him to me ; I swear it, and I will not be 
 baffled.” 
 
 ‘‘ Andrew, you make the path before me a very diffi- 
 
442 the cl andestijte marriage. 
 
 cult one. You will force me to regret having again 
 received Claire under protection. If you were not 
 going to Heidelburg to remain two years, I would not 
 take her to Europe with me at all. As it is, when I 
 ^ get to Paris, I shall either surrender her at once to the 
 care of her brother, or place her in a pension to com- 
 plete her imperfect education.” 
 
 “ You will do the last, mother, for Claire is your god- 
 child, and you are responsible for her. You will never 
 give her up to this brother of hers till you know some- 
 thing of his character. From his treatment of her 
 father, I should say that he is unworthy to be trusted 
 with his sister. Poor Claire seems to be doubly cursed, 
 with a worthless husband and a heartless brother. Did 
 M. Lapierre never explain to you how it was that he 
 had a son in France, the possessor of wealth, while he 
 drudged on here to the last, for the small sum you an- 
 nually paid him.” 
 
 ‘‘ He spoke of him to me, a few days before his death, 
 and I think it must have been some presentiment of his 
 approaching fate that induced him to do so. He Stated 
 that M. Latour and himself had some business diflBcul- 
 ties, which ended in an open rupture : for he had taken 
 his son into partnership in the banking house, of which 
 he was the head.” 
 
 it Why do you call him Latour ? Was not his name 
 the same as his father’s ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ His mother was noble, and he chose to assume her 
 name when he took possession of the estate he inher- 
 ited from her. Such things are of frequent occurrence 
 in Europe.” 
 
 A precious specimen he must be T Yet you are 
 thinking of making him the guardian of his disowned 
 sister.” 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 443 
 
 M. Latour has not disowned Claire, for I scarcely 
 tliink he is aware of her existence. His father held 
 no communication with him for many years before his 
 death ; and I believe it even possible that the son was 
 never informed of his second marriage. He told me 
 tliat if anything happened to himself, he wished me to 
 take Claire with me to Europe, find her brother, and 
 with the assistance of papers he left behind him, estab- 
 lish her claim to the sum of forty thousand francs, with 
 the interest that has accumulated on that sum in the 
 last eighteen years.” 
 
 And with that money due to him, M. Lapierre 
 vegetated here, and never claimed it ! What a queer 
 old creature he must have been ! ” 
 
 ‘‘ My son, do not speak so lightly of so noble and 
 high-toned a man as your old tutor was. I do not un- 
 derstand the details of the case, and I think M. La- 
 pierre was a very resentful man, but he made it tilear 
 to me that Claire had a just claim upon her brother, 
 which I shall certainly put forward.” 
 
 ‘‘But the old man did not tell you to give his daugh- 
 ter up to the tender mercies of this affectionate and du- 
 tiful son ? ” asked Andrew, bitterly. “As to myself, I 
 would sooner see Claire thrown into the arena with 
 wild beasts than surrendered to such a man as this La- 
 tour must be. His own father abandoned his native 
 land sooner than dwell on the same soil with him, and 
 I am sure there must have existed a bitter and irre- 
 coiicileable feud between them, nearly as they were 
 related.” 
 
 “ I have no wish to part from Claire myself, but you 
 may render it necessary for me to do so. If you dread 
 the thought of placing her under the care of her natu- 
 
444 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 ral protector, you must put a curb -upon yourself, and 
 give me no cause of uneasiness on your account. My 
 first duty is to my own children ; after performing: 
 that, I will do the best I can for the unfortunate giri 
 who has again returned to me. If yen are really he^ 
 friend, you will bury this mad passion in oblivion and 
 learn to regard Claire only as a dear and cherished 
 sister.” 
 
 As if that were possible! Preaching is of no use, 
 mother — I shall love Claire to the end, as I have loved 
 her since I could remember anything. But I will try 
 and do nothing to frighten you into throwing her into 
 the power of her brother. I hope that you will not 
 be able to find him, nor do I wish Claire to accept 
 money from him. You are rich enough to give her as 
 much as Latour owes her, and neither Julia nor I 
 would object.” 
 
 ]V(rs. Courtnay smiled faintly. 
 
 I dare say not, but I have a promise to fulfil which 
 was made to the dead. M. Latour will not be difficult 
 to find, for he still has business connections in Paris. 
 He is not an acting partner, but a large portion of his 
 fortune is embarked in the banking-house of Latour & 
 Co.” 
 
 Why, how did you find out all this, mother ? ” 
 
 “ I wrote to a friend in Paris immediately after M. 
 Lapierre’s death, to ascertain what chance there is to 
 obtain justice for Claire. The reply came two months 
 ago, but as she was gone I said nothing about it.” 
 
 '' Is Latour married ? ” 
 
 He has no wife, but when in Paris he keeps up an 
 elegant establishment. He is supposed to be very rich, 
 but he wastes money in various ways, and no one can 
 tell how long his resources last.” 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 
 
 445 
 
 Umph ! a spendthrift — a defaulter — a bad son ! A 
 charming relative to claim, upon my word ! I think it 
 will be better for allconcerned to let this man rest in 
 the shade ; no good can come to any of us from allow- 
 ing him to know in what relation he stands to Claire.” 
 
 It is too late for such a course as that. Claire un- 
 derstands her claim upon him, and from her words to- 
 night I think she intends to enforce it, if necessary. I 
 have no right to ask her to forego it ; and, after all, 
 M. Latour is her brother. We have no power to with- 
 hold her from him, if he asks her to go to him, and she 
 consents.” 
 
 “ She will never do that, after all your kindness to 
 her.” 
 
 She will certainly do it, if you attempt to breathe 
 into her ears a hint of your insane passion for her. 
 Claire is a willful and impulsive creature, and no one 
 can tell what she may do in a moment of excitement. 
 God help you both I for you are alike in some respects 
 and most unfitted to bear the burden of life together, 
 even if she would listen to your warning.” 
 
 She listen to it yet, and give back love for 
 love,” he muttered under his breath ; but he added 
 aloud, ‘‘ Good night, mother ! I think I have listened to 
 enough wisdom for one lesson. You mean kindly, I 
 know ; but I am afraid I am not as grateful as I should 
 be. I will promise to be on my good behavior on our 
 voyage, and I have too much to occupy me before it 
 begins, to waste much time in thinking of Claire.” 
 
 He kissed her forehead lightly, took up his candle 
 and went to his own room. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay sat late over her accounts, but her 
 thoughts were not with them. At length she put them 
 
446 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 away, and slowly moved toward her own apartment. 
 She could not refuse the deepest sympathy to the for- 
 lorn creature who had thrown herself on her compassion, 
 but she had not quite forgotten or forgiven the wilful 
 disobedience which had resulted so fatally to Claire her- 
 self. If she had not followed the bent of her own will, 
 how different a fate might have been hers ! Under the 
 fostering care of her maternal friend she would have de- 
 veloped into sweet and gracious womanhood ; in time 
 the fervent love of Andrew might have won its reward, 
 and the course of her life have been comparatively 
 smooth. 
 
 Andrew had his faults of temperament and character, 
 but they were trifling in comparison with those of the 
 man Claire had so implicitly trusted, only to have her 
 heart broken and her pride trampled in the dust. Mrs. 
 Courtnay shuddered as she thought of what results 
 might follow this too early initiation into the harshest 
 realities of life for one so brilliantly endowed with 
 beauty, intellect and passion. 
 
 That Claire would not remain passive under the hu- 
 miliation and suffering that brought to the surface all 
 that was evil in her nature, she felt assured. Into 
 what it might culminate who could tell ? And her 
 son, the darling of her life, had set his heart upon this 
 wayward, unattainable creature, this young leopardess, 
 who only veiled her claws till the opportunity for a 
 fatal spring upon her enemy should be possible. 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay might be pardoned if in her heart 
 arose the wish that it might be possible to shift the 
 responsibility of such a fire-spirit upon the brother 
 on whom she possessed the strongest claim. 
 
 It was late before she slept, but she was "aroused at 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 
 
 447 
 
 an early hour by the rapturous exclamation of her little 
 girl over the return of her dearest Claire. Julia rushed 
 into her mother’s chamber, crying : 
 
 ‘‘ Ob, mamma — mamma, Claire has come back ; but 
 something is the matter with her ! She don’t laugh 
 and frolic with me as she used to. She took me in her 
 arms and cried over me, but I was glad to see her 
 back for all that. Mammy Betty is here, and I thought 
 she would have gone crazy with joy when she saw 
 Claire again. But where has she been all this time, 
 and where is Mr. Thorne ? I thought he was coming 
 back with her ? ” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay looked down on the eager face of 
 the child. She sadly replied : 
 
 “You must not speak of him, Julia — he is dead to 
 Claire now.” 
 
 “ Dead, mamma ! then no wonder she cried. Oh, I 
 am sorry for her — shan’t I tell her how sorry I am ? ” 
 
 “No, my love; that would only distress her more. 
 You must never mention Mr. Thorne’s name to her.” 
 
 “ But, mamma, you talk of my papa — and even like 
 to do it — and he is dead, too.” 
 
 “ But my dear, Claire and I are not alike. I have 
 been alone many years ; but with her it is a new and 
 very bitter grief. Don’t ask her any questions, Julia. 
 I am sure you will not when I tell you that it will be 
 unkind to do so.” 
 
 “ Well, I’ll be good then, and not teaze her — only I 
 hope she won’t cry over me much. I had much 
 rather she would romp and play with me as she used to 
 before Mr. Thorne came. Oh, mamma, he looked so 
 strong and handsome. Does God take young people 
 like him away, too ? I thought only old people are apt 
 to die ? ” 
 
448 the clandestine marriage. ! 
 
 ‘‘ i\Iy dear, did noi Sally’s baby die when it was but 
 a few months old ? ” 
 
 Y-e-s ; but then it was such a little thing, and I 
 heard you say she let it die because she didn’t attend 
 to it. Claire wouldn’t let Mr. Thorne die that way, I 
 knoAv.” 
 
 Her mother scarcely knew what reply to give to 
 this, but suddenly the voice of Claire spoke through 
 the half-open door ; 
 
 Come with me, Julia, and give mamma time to 
 dress. Let us visit poor old Carlo’s grave — ^you prom- 
 ised to show it to me.” 
 
 The child sprang away, and her mother heard her 
 talking busily as the two crossed the hall and went 
 forth into the yard. 
 
 The faithful old dog had been buried near a clump 
 of shrubbery that stood on a little knoll in the rear of 
 the house, and Julia had induced her brother to carve 
 out a wooden board and place it at the head of his 
 small grave. Andrew had cut the name of ‘‘ Carlo ” 
 in large letters ; and beneath it, in tiny characters, 
 were the words : 
 
 “ A faithful friend — slain by the treacherous hand of one we trusted.” 
 
 As Claire stooped over to read the inscription, An- 
 drew joined them. Before he could utter the saluta- 
 tions of the morning, she raised her head, and with 
 flashing eyes, pointed to his work, as she haughtily 
 asked : 
 
 “ Does that refer to me ? You carved those words, 
 and you knew nothing of him. How dared you sup- 
 pose me capable of hurting poor old Carlo ? ” 
 
 With fire equal to her own, he replied : 
 
 ‘‘ The dog was in your way, and he was poisoned. 
 
CLAIRE* AT HOME. 449 
 
 Was not the inference a just one, that you had, at least, 
 been privy to his destruction ? ” 
 
 ‘‘ Oh, brother, don’t say that,” cried Julia, “ for you 
 know that Claire would never have hurt even a hair on 
 poor old Carlo.” 
 
 Andrew’s ungovernable temper was aroused by the 
 anger glare in Claire’s eyes, as she fixed them upon him, 
 and he defiantly replied : 
 
 I don’t know that at all. She wounded my mother 
 to the heart by eloping with a man she knew little 
 enough about, and she struck a mortal blow at mine by 
 giving herself to him. Yes ; you know what you were 
 to me,” he passionately went on, — ‘‘ You have always 
 known it, yet you forsook those that loved and cared 
 for you, to go off with a man who has rewarded you 
 with a worse fate than was given to the poor old dog.” 
 
 Claire covered her face with her hands, and burst 
 in tears. Julia pulled at her brother’s hand, and whis- 
 pered : 
 
 “ Oh, brother, how could you talk to her of Mr. 
 Thorne. He is dead, you know, and Rosebud is sorry 
 about him.” 
 
 I would to God he were dead,” muttered Andrew, 
 as he approached nearer to Claire, and tried to speak 
 in a gentler tone. 
 
 Don’t mind me, Claire ; you know mj temper al- 
 ways gets the better of me. I don’t believe that ^ou 
 put Carlo out of the way, or that you even knew any- 
 thing about it. The same ruthless hand that has crush- 
 ed you, gave him the deadly drug that killed him. 
 There — forgive me — let us be friends again.” 
 
 She raised her face, pale with the conflict of passions 
 that rent her heart, and said : I 
 
 28 
 
450 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 ‘‘ On two conditions I will forgive you. They are, 
 that you never again refer to my wretched past ; that 
 you respect my position sufficiently to refrain from any 
 allusion to the affection you profess for me. In the 
 church yonder, I plighted the vows that shall be 
 binding on me, if they have been broken by him who 
 pledged his in return. I am a forsaken wife, but still 
 a tvife ; remember that, through all our future inter- 
 course with each other, or we shall cease to be friends.’’ 
 
 She walked away with the proud bearing of an in- 
 sulted queen, and Andrew stood looking darkly after 
 her, internally raging at the words she had just utter- 
 ed. Ho clenched his hands, and muttered : 
 
 ‘‘We shall see. Haughty as you are, you shall bend 
 to me yet, and accept the love I will make necessary to 
 you. I will win 3^ou in spite of yourself.” 
 
 With terrified eyes, Julia looked up in his excited 
 face, and then slowly asked : 
 
 “ Why do you look so angry, brother ? and what did 
 Claire mean ? I don’t know why 3^011 should quarrel 
 with each other, and she just come back too. T think 
 you ought to be ashamed of yourself, to make her cry 
 as she did.” 
 
 “ Babies like you have no right to think about any- 
 thing,” he roughly ansAvered. “ You can’t understand 
 affairs ; but you are not to tell mother of what has hap- 
 pened here. Do you hear that, Julia? ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, I hear plainly enough,” replied the little 
 lady, offended in her turn, and she was moving away, 
 when Andrew caught her by the arm, and bending over 
 her, significantly said : 
 
 “ You had better heed m3^ words, too, Julia. I am 
 not trying to threaten you, child, but mother would 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 451 
 
 only be annoyed to know that Claire and I have had a 
 quarrel, and it will be best not to tell her of it.' ’ 
 
 ‘‘ Then I won’t tell, for I don’t want to trouble her* 
 Let my arm go — I must go to Claire, and try to make 
 up for your crossness.” 
 
 Andrew permitted her to leave him, and half an hour 
 later, the four met at the breakfast table. Claire, whose 
 vivacity and grace had once been its ornaments, sat like’ 
 a sorrowful phantom beside it; she made an. effort to 
 talk, but soon relapsed into vague silence, and the deli- 
 cate viands placed before her seemed to offer no temp- 
 tation to her appetite. 
 
 Andrew lowered like a thunder cloud ready to break 
 into electric flashes, and but for Mrs. Courtnay’s deep 
 compassion for the unhappy girl, she would have bit- 
 terly regretted the necessity that brought Claire again 
 beneath her roof, and threw her in daily contact with 
 her son. She felt her inability to cure Andrew in any 
 way, for his flery will, and headlong temper had, .even 
 in childhood, been beyond her control ; now, it was 
 hopeless to do more than influence him when he was 
 in a tractable mood. 
 
 When the meal was over, he followed his mother to 
 her morning room, and curtly said : 
 
 ‘‘ I am going away to-day, and I will be glad if you 
 will have my things packed. I am not willing to stay 
 any longer in as gloomy a dungeon as this house is, 
 since all the joy and life went out of it with Claire’s 
 brightness. I would as soon eat ‘ funeral baked meats,’ 
 as sit at the table with her again till she becomes more 
 like her old self.” 
 
 Mrs. Courtnay was glad of any respite from his 
 moodiness, and she quickly replied : 
 
452 the cl andestuste marriage. 
 
 ‘‘ It is the best thing you can do, my son. You can 
 make a parting visit to your cousins in Lynchburg, and 
 return here in time to t^scort us to New York. With 
 the assistance of my lawyer and overseer, everything 
 can be settled to my satisfaction, without troubling 
 you at all.” 
 
 So much the better, for I am sick of the monotony 
 of this place, and I need a change. I haveLut one 
 charge to give you, mother, and that is, to impress on 
 Claire that you are the one to protect her, and not this 
 unknown brother of hers.” 
 
 Let the future take care of itself, Andrew,” said 
 his mother, impressively. I shall do the best by 
 Claire that is consistent with the higher duty I owe 
 to you.” 
 
 Oh, bosh ! She’s cut me twice already about her 
 fantastic notion that she’s bound to Thorne, whether 
 he is to her or not ; and I am going away to try and 
 forget all about her. I’ll see if my cousin Emma has 
 grown into as pretty a girl as she promised to become, 
 and maybe, I shall console myself with her.” 
 
 I only hope that you are in earnest, Andrew, for 
 Emma possesses the qualities you wiU need in a wife 
 when you are old enough to take one. She is gentle 
 and yielding, and she would be to you what I was to 
 the father you so strikingly resemble — a spirit of 
 peace.” 
 
 Andrew regarded her a moment in silence, and then 
 more gently said : 
 
 • ‘‘ It is hard on you, mother, to have a second edition 
 of so passionate a man as my father was, to deal with. 
 I remember his fiery and impulsive temper very well, 
 but you bore it all like an angel, and made him happy 
 
CLAIRE AT HOME. 
 
 453 
 
 in spite of his own shortcomings. I will make an ef- 
 fort to do what will please you, but I have many 
 doubts as to my success.” 
 
 “ Only try in good faith, Andrew, and the result 
 will be all that I could wish,” replied Mrs. Courtnay, 
 with a sigh. ‘‘ If I possessed with you the same in- 
 fluence I once wielded over your father, all would be 
 well. But I fear you think it manly to rebel against 
 your mother’s authority, and set her wishes at defiance.” 
 
 He blushed scarlet, and frankly said : 
 
 ‘‘ Perhaps there is some such silly feeling in my 
 heart, but indeed, mother, I have the highest respect 
 for you, and I earnestly wish to remove from you 3^our 
 present cause of uneasiness — therefore I am going 
 away.” 
 
 Thank you for that concession, my son,” and she 
 kissed him tenderly. Put from yourself all thoughts 
 of Claire — regal'd her as utterly beyond your reach, 
 and you will soon gain a victory over your passion for 
 her.” 
 
 Perhaps so,” was the vague response : I can but 
 _ try at all events. I am going now to order my horse, 
 and I shall take Caesar with me to bring him back 
 from S . I shall be sure to be back in time to ac- 
 company you to New York.” * 
 
 Thus it was settled, and Andrew set out on his 
 journey. After he was gone, Mrs. Courtnay pursued 
 her preparations for departure with a lighter heart ; 
 Claire endeavored to render herself useful to her, and 
 in the active occupation of the following daj^s, she 
 grew to be something like her old self. 
 
 Her health became stronger, and her spirits began 
 to revive, though at times she was plunged into the 
 deepest gloom from which nothing could arouse her. 
 
454 the clandestine marriage. 
 
 At such seasons she roamed alone about the place, 
 occasionally extending her rambles as far as the old 
 ruins, in which she and her father had lived together. 
 But these visits made her more gloomy than before, so 
 she gradually confined her walks to the domain around 
 the Grange. 
 
 Yet every spot about the grounds was filled with 
 memories of Thorne, and if she had wished it, she 
 could not have escaped from that enthralling past. 
 But she did not wish it ; to him all her thoughts 
 turned; — to find the means of reaching him, and re- 
 paying him for the ruin of her young life, was her one 
 absorbing dream, and soon it became the master pas- 
 sion of her undisciplined soul. 
 
 The further adventures of the heroine in “ The 
 Clandestine Marriage ” will be found related in 
 the sequel to this work, just published, under the 
 title of ‘‘The Discarded Wife; or, Will Shb 
 Succeed.” 
 
 THX mm. 
 

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